Jonathan Swift had been eleven years Dean of St. Patrick’s before he produced those famous letters which have left their mark so indelibly upon the course of Irish politics.  Swift’s part in this Stygian pool of the eighteenth century is rather a difficult one to explain.  He was not in any sense an Irish champion, indeed, objected to being called an Irishman at all, and regarded his life in Ireland as one of all but unendurable banishment.  He was a vehement High Churchman, and looked upon the existing penal proscription under which the Catholics lay as not merely desirable, but indispensable.  At the same time it would be quite untrue to suppose, as is sometimes done, that he merely made a cat’s-paw of Irish politics in order to bring himself back into public notice.  He was a man of intense and even passionate sense of justice, and the state of affairs in the Ireland of his day, the tyranny and political dishonesty which stalked in high places, the degradation and steadily-increasing misery in which the mass of the people were sunk, were enough to lash far less scathing powers of sarcasm than he possessed to their highest possible pitch of expression.

[Illustration:  DEAN SWIFT. (From an engraving by Fourdinier after Jervis.)]

The cause that drew forth the famous Drapier letters—­why Swift chose to spell the word draper with an i no one has ever explained—­appears at first sight hardly worthy of the occasion.  Ireland wanted a copper coinage, and Walpole, who was then the Prime Minister, had given a patent for the purpose to a person called Wood, part of the profits of which patent were to go to the Duchess of Kendal, the king’s mistress.  There seems no reason to think that the pennies produced by Wood were in any way inferior to the existing English ones, and Sir Isaac Newton—­who was at the time Master of the Mint—­declared that, if anything, they were rather better.  The real wrong, the real insult, was that the patent was granted by the Minister without reference to the Lord-Lieutenant, to the Irish Parliament, or to any single human being in Ireland.  It was a proof the more of that total indifference with which the interests of Ireland were regarded, and it was upon this score that Swift’s wrath exploded like a bomb.

The line he chose to take was to attack the patent, not as a monstrous job—­which undoubtedly it was—­but from the point of view of the value of the pennies.  Assuming the character of a tradesman, he adjured all classes of the community, down to the very beggars, not to be induced to accept them.  Assured them that for the benefit of Mr. Wood, “a mean man, a hardware dealer,” every human being in Ireland was about to be deliberately robbed and ruined.  His logic sounded unanswerable to the ignorant.  His diatribes produced the most extraordinary effect.  A terrific panic set in, and so overwhelming was the sensation that the Ministers in the end found it necessary to cancel the patent, and suspend the issue of Wood’s halfpence.  For the first time in Irish history public opinion, unsupported by arms, had carried its point:  an epoch of vast importance in the history of every country.