England alone of all the nations stood upright, and fearlessly looked the tyrant in the face. And Great Britain, with all her pluck, had then but a small army, no volunteers, and few fortifications, while her chief defence, the fleet, though splendidly manned, was weak indeed, compared with the mighty armament which she now possesses. Whether the peace should last, or whether it should speedily end, depended mainly on the will of one man, an ambitious and reckless despot, who cared not a jot what rivers of French and English blood he might cause to flow, nor how many thousands of French and English widows might break their hearts, so long only as he could indulge to the full his lust of conquest, and could obtain plenty of what he called "glory." Another and truer name might easily have been found for the commodity in question. Yet it is impossible not to accord admiration to this man's transcendent genius, and even Napoleon was not altogether bad. Perhaps, in the bitterness of incessant war, even he sometimes was more harshly judged than he fully deserved. But if so, he brought the evil upon himself. (_To be continued._) FOOTNOTES: [A] Sir W. Napier. [Illustration] THE MESSAGE OF THE MARGUERITES. (_See Coloured Frontispiece._) This "ladie fayre" ascending the stairway of the old Castle of Blois in France gives us a glimpse of the prevailing fashion of towering head-dress worn in the fifteenth century. Addison satirically remarks that, "Women in all ages have taken more pains than men to adorn the outside of their heads." This adornment surely reached its culmination when ladies adopted these wonderful erections called _fontanges_, which, we are told by an ancient writer, were "like pointed steeples, with loose kerchiefs atop hanging down sometimes as low as the ground." As we look at the cooing doves in the castle window, we see an indication of a weighty matter which rests upon the lady's mind. She is gazing out over the distant woods to catch a glimpse of her lover returning from the chase. She would fain believe that her true knight cares for no one but herself, but how can she be sure? In the castle garden she has culled a bunch of marguerites, and now she is on her way to her own secret bower there to try her fortune. As she pulls to pieces the fateful flowers she will murmur softly, "He loves me a little, he loves me much, he loves me passionately, he loves me not." Let us hope the message will be propitious, and that when she descends the stairs it will be to receive her lover with a smiling trustful face, and that he will prove worthy of one so fair and sweet. ABOUT SOME NORMANDY DAIRIES. BY LADY GEORGINA VERNON.