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The Cynosure

  Michael Bakunin
  William Godwin
  Emma Goldman
  Peter Kropotkin
  Errico Malatesta
  Pierre-Joseph Proudhon
  Max Stirner
  Elisée Reclus
  Murray Bookchin
  Noam Chomsky
  Bright but Lesser Lights
  Cold Off The Presses
  Anarchist History
  Worldwide Movements
  First International
  Paris Commune
  Haymarket Massacre
  Spanish Civil War
  Art and Anarchy

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who had for me a maternal feeling since the death of my mother. I found her on the threshold of her home, together with the young wife of her son.

"Ah, though hast come," she said, "I expected to see thee. Go, and may the love of God follow thee. Never have I seen a son for a mother what thou hast done; blessing upon thee, my son."

We kissed. Then the young daughter-in-law spoke.

"Kiss me, too. I like you so much, you are so good," she said swallowing her tears.

I kissed her and fled, and could hear them weeping behind me.

Two days later I left Turin for the frontier-town Modena. While the train carried me towards the border, some tears fell from my eyes, so little used to crying. Thus I left my native land, a wanderer without a country! Thus have blossomed the benedictions of those simple souls, those noble hearts.


After a two-day railway ride across France and more than seven days on the ocean, I arrived in the Promised Land. New York loomed on the horizon in all its grandness and illusion of happiness. I strained my eyes from the steerage deck, trying to see through this mass of masonry that was at once inviting and threatening the huddled men and women in the third class.

In the immigration station I had my first great surprise. I saw the steerage passengers handled by the officials like so many animals. Not a word of kindness, of encouragement, to lighten the burden of fears that rests heavily upon the newly arrived on American shores. Hope, which lured these immigrants to the new land, withers under the tough of harsh officials. Little children who should be alert with expectancy, cling instead to their mothers' skirts, weeping with fright. Such is the unfriendly spirit that exists in the immigration barracks.

How well I remember standing at the Battery, in lower

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