no less living voice in the words written by a poet of to-day,
though nearly a century has elapsed, since the hopes of the House of
Stuart went out forever.

"We'll see nae mair the sea-banks fair,
And the sweet, gray, gleaming sky,
And the lordly strand of Northumberland,
And the goodly towers thereby:
And none shall know, but the winds that blow,
The graves wherein we lie."

What was there, what is there, we may well ask, in that same House of
Stuart, in that same Jacobite cause, which still quickens in this
latter day a living passion and pathos, which can still inspire a poet
of to-day with some of the finest verses he has ever written? It may
be some consolation to the lingering adherents of the name, to those
who wear oak-apple on May 29th, and who sigh because there is no "king
over the water" who can come to "enjoy his own again"--it may be some
consolation to them to think that if their cause can no longer stir the
swords in men's hands, it can still guide their pens to as poetic
purpose as it did in the years that followed the fatal Forty-five. It
may console them too, perhaps, with a more ironical consolation, to
know that the greatest enthusiast about {236} all things connected with
the House of Stuart, the most eager collector of all Stuart relics, is
the very sovereign who is the direct descendant of the Hanoverian
electors against whom the clans were hurled at Sheriffmuir and at
Culloden, the lady and queen whom it affords a harmless gratification
to certain eccentric contemporary Jacobites to allude to as "the
Princess Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha."

[Sidenote: 1745--Swift and Stella]

In the wild October of the wild year of the Forty-five a great spirit
passed away under the most tragic conditions. While Scotland and
England were raging for and against rebellion, the greatest mind of the
age went grimly out in Ireland. On October 19, 1745, Jonathan Swift
died. For years he had been but in a living death. Racked with pain,
almost wholly bereft of reason, sometimes raging in fits of madness, he
was a fearful sight to those who watched over him. When the end came
it came quietly. He sank into sleep and did not wake any more. He was
in his seventy-eighth year when he died. A dim stone upon the darkened
wall of St. Patrick's Church in Dublin sums up, in words at once
cruelly bitter and profoundly melancholy, the story of his life. That
mouldering inscription, niched in high