iar with
American doctrine alone, with patriotic oratory, with perorations that
dwelt upon the wrongs and woes of Ireland--part of our national
propaganda--all day long that edifice rang with strange, exotic speech,
sometimes guttural, often musical, but always impassioned, weirdly
cadenced and intoned. From the raised platform, in place of the shrewd,
matter-of-fact New England politician alive to the vote--getting powers
of Fourth of July patriotism, in place of the vehement but fun-loving son
of Erin, men with wild, dark faces, with burning black eyes and unkempt
hair, unshaven, flannel skirted--made more alien, paradoxically, by their
conventional, ready-made American clothes--gave tongue to the
inarticulate aspirations of the peasant drudge of Europe. From lands long
steeped in blood they came, from low countries by misty northern seas,
from fair and ancient plains of Lombardy, from Guelph and Ghibelline
hamlets in the Apennines, from vine-covered slopes in Sicily and Greece;
from the Balkans, from Caucasus and Carpathia, from the mountains of
Lebanon, whose cedars lined the palaces of kings; and from villages
beside swollen rivers that cross the dreary steppes. Each peasant
listened to a recital in his own tongue--the tongue in which the
folklore, the cradle sayings of his race had been preserved--of the
common wrongs of all, of misery still present, of happiness still
unachieved in this land of liberty and opportunity they had found a
mockery; to appeals to endure and suffer for a common cause. But who was
to weld together this medley of races and traditions, to give them the
creed for which their passions were prepared, to lead into battle these
ignorant and unskilled from whom organized labour held aloof? Even as
dusk was falling, even as the Mayor, the Hon. Michael McGrath, was making
from the platform an eloquent plea for order and peace, promising a
Committee of Arbitration and thinking about soldiers, the leader and the
philosophy were landing in Hampton.

The "five o'clock" edition of the Banner announced him, Antonio
Antonelli, of the Industrial Workers of the World! An ominous name, an
ominous title,--compared by a well-known publicist to the sound of a
fire-bell in the night. The Industrial Workers, not of America, but of
the World! No wonder it sent shivers down the spine of Hampton! The
writer of the article in the Banner was unfamiliar with the words
"syndicalism" and "sabotage," or the phrase "direc