To vindicate the national honour, and to punish the guilty, as well as to save themselves from utter anarchy, the great majority of the Scotch nation had taken measures against Mary which required explicit justification in the sight of Europe, as Buchanan frankly confesses in the opening of his “De Jure Regni.”  The chief authors of those measures had been summoned, perhaps unwisely and unjustly, to answer for their conduct to the Queen of England.  Queen Elizabeth—­a fact which was notorious enough then, though it has been forgotten till the last few years—­was doing her utmost to shield Mary.  Buchanan was deputed, it seems, to speak out for the people of Scotland; and certainly never people had an abler apologist.  If he spoke fiercely, savagely, it must be remembered that he spoke of a fierce and savage matter; if he used—­and it may be abused—­all the arts of oratory, it must be remembered that he was fighting for the honour, and it may be for the national life, of his country, and striking—­as men in such cases have a right to strike—­as hard as he could.  If he makes no secret of his indignation, and even contempt, it must be remembered that indignation and contempt may well have been real with him, while they were real with the soundest part of his countrymen; with that reforming middle class, comparatively untainted by French profligacy, comparatively undebauched by feudal subservience, which has been the leaven which has leavened the whole Scottish people in the last three centuries with the elements of their greatness.  If, finally, he heaps up against the unhappy Queen charges which Mr. Burton thinks incredible, it must be remembered that, as he well says, these charges give the popular feeling about Queen Mary; and it must be remembered also, that that popular feeling need not have been altogether unfounded.  Stories which are incredible, thank God, in these milder days, were credible enough then, because, alas! they were so often true.  Things more ugly than any related of poor Mary, were possible enough—­as no one knew better than Buchanan—­in that very French court in which Mary had been brought up; things as ugly were possible in Scotland then, and for at least a century later; and while we may hope that Buchanan has overstated his case, we must not blame him too severely for yielding to a temptation common to all men of genius when their creative power is roused to its highest energy by a great cause and a great indignation.

And that the genius was there, no man can doubt; one cannot read that “hideously eloquent” description of Kirk o’ Field, which Mr. Burton has well chosen as a specimen of Buchanan’s style, without seeing that we are face to face with a genius of a very lofty order:  not, indeed, of the loftiest—­for there is always in Buchanan’s work, it seems to me, a want of unconsciousness, and a want of tenderness—­but still a genius worthy to be placed beside those ancient writers from whom he took his manner.  Whether or not we agree