MARY STUART.
It is at once a remarkable fact and a striking exemplification of the vitality of poetic justice in history that, from among modern Scotch Puritans, from the spiritual descendants of John Knox, should have come three of the noblest and most effective modern vindications of Mary Stuart.
We refer to the work by Mr. Hosack noticed in our last number, to that which we make the subject of the present article,[37] and to the poem of Bothwell,[38] one of the finest in the entire range of English literature. Professor Aytoun's poem is accompanied by a body of historical notes, which are in themselves a model of legal argument and dialectic power, covering the entire period of the history of Mary Stuart in Scotland. And yet these three writers are very far from being looked upon by their countrymen as the holders of singular opinions. It may be news to many persons, but it is, nevertheless, the fact that they merely reflect the prevailing feeling in Scotland concerning its unfortunate queen of three centuries agone, murdered in an English prison. The sentiment of the great body of the Scotch people, gentle and simple, Puritan and Catholic, is to this day decidedly in her favor, and the superficial reader who, trusting to a superficial Froude, sneers at Mary Stuart, is safer from reproof in New York than in Edinburgh.
Mr. Caird's work, of which the second edition was published last year, appears to be made up of the material of a series of lectures delivered by him in some of the Scotch cities, and, like Mr. Hosack's work, is marked with evidences of great research, ability, and a thorough knowledge of the country, the people, and the times under discussion.
Like Mr. Hosack, Mr. Caird convicts the late English historian, Froude, of numerous disgraceful blunders, and several—well we can find no term properly to describe the performance but—palpable falsehoods. Mr. Caird does not undertake to write a full and connected history of Mary Stuart or of her reign in Scotland. He seeks mainly to unravel the mystery of the intrigues, plots, and conspirations by which that unfortunate queen was surrounded and pursued from the moment she set foot in her kingdom. And he does it successfully. In all history, there is no record of a band of greater villains than the nobles who surrounded Mary's throne, or of more devilish abettors than their English allies. The time is not far off when, in spite of falsified history, Mary Stuart must be held innocent of the crimes of which her very accusers themselves were alone guilty. Mr. Caird enters gracefully on his subject. Three centuries ago, a French fleet sailed up the Frith of Clyde, and cast anchor at Dumbarton. It took on board a little girl, six years of age—a merry creature who had not a care in the world—hoisted the flag of Scotland, and bore her away to the coast of France. There passed with her in the same ship a stripling of seventeen, her illegitimate brother, (afterward known as the Earl of Murray,) who, though incapable of inheritance, was brought up in the most intimate family intercourse with her; young enough to engage the sisterly affection of her warm heart, old enough to be already her trusted counsellor and guide. His life was to be a continued betrayal of her confidence. But whatever wild thoughts may have passed through his busy brain, neither of them could have dreamed in those early days of the frightful tragedies in which they were to become the chief actors. In the yet distant future he was to usurp her place and power, she to become his miserable prisoner; and it was all to end at last in his being shot down, without law, at the summit of his greatness, and in her being doomed to die, under the forms of law, on an English scaffold. Yet, though their hearts were light on this summer voyage, it was not without its dangers.
Twelve years later, a fleet sailed from sunny France, again bearing the same girl, now budding toward womanhood. It steered for the Frith of Forth. There is no laughter now. Her first great sorrow has come upon her early. She is deeply clothed in mourning—a widow at eighteen. Again an English fleet watched to intercept her. Again she escaped narrowly, losing one of her vessels. She has been queen of France. One blow has deprived her of a husband and a crown. She claims to be queen of England. That claim rests on strong grounds of law. It is to be the dream of her life, and she is never to realize it. She is the acknowledged queen of Scotland; but she lands on her native shore with sad forebodings and a heavy heart. No one has ever charged her with having misconducted herself before that time; yet such was the distracted state of her country, such the weakness of her authority, that she said before she set out on this voyage, "Perhaps it were better for me to die than to live."
Less than six busy years of troubled government and we see her again—on the Frith of Solway. She has been despoiled of her Scottish crown. She is flying for her life in a fishing-boat. "For ninety miles," she writes, "I rode across the country without lighting or drawing bridle; slept on the bare floor; no food but oatmeal; without the company of a female; not daring to travel except by stealth at night." And now the die is cast, and, in spite of many warnings, she this time throws herself on the generosity of England.
Then follow nineteen years of bitter captivity: