For a quarter of a century past our standard of the misery of a prison life has been more or less definitely set by a record of a convict existence in Siberia. It may be that for those of us who read the new "Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist" a new high-water mark will be reached in our understanding of prison wretchedness. In the book of his experience Berkman has given us a record of horrors that comes near being unsurpassed. We have here a picture of a hideous existence, hideous in its physical conditions, hideous in its moral degradation, hideous most of all in its madness. It is not in Siberia; it is in Pittsburgh. —The N. Y. Times.
d presently the car grows quiet.
I have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back into reverie. I must form a definite plan of action. My purpose is quite clear to me. A tremendous struggle is taking place at Homestead: the People are manifesting the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. My heart exults. This is, at last, what I have always hoped for from the American workingman: once aroused, he will brook no interference; he will fight all obstacles, and conquer even more than his original demands. It is the spirit of the heroic past reincarnated in the steel-workers of Homestead, Pennsylvania. What supreme joy to aid in this work! That is my natural mission. I feel the strength of a great undertaking. No shadow of doubt crosses my mind. The People--the toilers of the world, the producers--comprise, to me, the universe. They alone count. The rest are parasites, who have no right to exist. But to the People belongs the earth--by right, if not in fact. To make it so in fact, all means ar