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 “direct action,” he was too young to know the history of the Knights, he had never heard of a philosophy of labour, or of Sorel or Pouget, but the West he had heard of,—­the home of lawlessness, of bloodshed, rape, and murder.  For obvious reasons he did not betray this opinion, but for him the I.W.W. was born in the West, where it had ravaged and wrecked communities.  His article was guardedly respectful, but he ventured to remind his readers that Mr. Antonelli had been a leader in some of these titanic struggles between crude labour and capital—­catastrophes that hitherto had seemed to the citizens of Hampton as remote as Kansas cyclones....