The crude ore lies in the mines of the hills all over the earth, potential in its possibilities, yet heavy, dull, inert, awaiting the day when man shall dig it from its hiding place, try it in the fires of the furnace, beat it on the anvil and transform it into the polished rail that ties together the ends of civilization, that will shape it into the massive engine that carries the fruits of industry and commerce to the uttermost parts of the world, that moulds it into the type and press that spreads intelligence and frees the soul, and that fashions it into the sword that frees the slave. And as the ore, so is man; he must be tried in the fires to be re-made for the work he is to do. The elements lie everywhere; circumstances and conditions weld and mould him into nations. He may creep on into the centuries dull, heavy, oppressed, carrying the thrall of the master, content that he shall eat and drink and sleep in the peace of ignorance, content that his master shall do his thinking and fighting, heedless who the master is, for the hands of all are heavy; taking his religion and his lot from him who rules and starves him. Others there are who have lived for centuries watching the tide of civilization and the higher life sweep by them, too hotly engaged in the struggle of life and death to snatch the prizes as they go by. Such a land for the long centuries has been Ireland. Seven hundred years has Ireland felt the edge of the sword, and for seven centuries she has shown the naked breast and empty hand to the oppressor, beaten but unsubdued. Into the fires of hate and oppression, into the hell of battle and persecution, into the _inferno_ of famine, misgovernment, robbery, torture, and all the evils that cold, deliberate malice and wickedness could invent, Celt and Saxon, Norman and French, Dane and Norse, Englishman and Scotchman were thrown, to be fused and mingled, that, in the cooling, God might draw from the ashes the Irishman. In all those long dark centuries his courage never failed, his hope never dimmed, his faith in God never faltered; he never acknowledged the right of might; he accepted nothing from the man who boasted himself the conqueror of him who is to-day unconquered; he believed the day would come, and it is coming, when the forces of evil would sink beneath the scorn of the world. In this terrible school the Irishman was made; here was learned the infinite patience of his kind; here was bred that mental alertness, that wit and humor, tinged with the melancholy the world calls typical; here he drank into his blood the courage and flame and battle, that marches him to death with a song and a laugh; here every fiber and tissue of his elemental parts were made over, and upon the green sod, that blood-soaked soil, he preserved the virtues of the man who lives with God and nature. THIS IS THE IRISHMAN.