With the coming of the nineteenth century the political outlook for England had waxed grave. The air was full of wars and rumours of wars. Napoleon, the mighty scourge of the civilised world, was minded to accomplish the downfall of the one Power which still defied his strength. "The channel is but a ditch," he boasted, "and anyone can cross it who has but the courage to try." Boats were in readiness at Boulogne and at most of the French ports, fitted up for the attempt, while the Conqueror of Europe dallied only for the psychological moment to put his project into execution. With bated breath Europe awaited the possible demolition of the sole barrier which yet lay between the Tyrant and universal monarchy, while upon the other side of the "ditch" the little Island expected his arrival in a condition of prolonged tension and stubborn courage. At any moment her blue waters and green fields might be dyed with blood. At any moment a swarm of foreign invaders might trample her pride in the dust, and crush her as other nations had been effectually crushed. But she meant to sell her liberty dear. Out of a population averaging 9,000,000 souls there were 120,000 regular troops, 347,000 volunteers, and 78,000 militia; and still Napoleon paused. Upon the threatened throne still sat good Farmer George and his prim German consort, models of dull domesticity, of narrow convictions, of punctilious etiquette--the epitome of respectable and respected mediocrity, save when, with a profound irony, the recurring blast of insanity transformed the personality of the stolid monarch, and shattered the complacency of the smug little Court. Within its shelter hovered the bevy of amiable Princesses, whose minutest word and glance yet lives for us in the searchlight of Fanny Burney's adoring scrutiny. Afar, the sons pursued their wild careers. The Prince of Wales, the mirror of fashion, diced and drank, coquetted with politics and kingship, and--a very travesty of chivalry--betrayed his friend, broke the heart of the woman who loved him, deserted the woman who had wedded him, and tortured with petty jealousy the sensitive soul of the child who might rule after him. In secret silence Mrs Fitzherbert endured the calumny of the world, and ate out her heart in faith to the faithless. With flippant and undignified frivolity the Princess of Wales strove to support an anomalous position and find balm to her wounded pride and weak brain; while the passionate, all-human child-princess, Charlotte, awakening with pitiful precocity to the realities of an existence which was to deal with her but harshly, pitted her stormy soul against a destiny which decreed that before her the sweets of life were eternally to be flaunted, to be eternally withheld. * * * * *