One evening I went to hear Emma Goldman, out of curiosity. She was an emotional speaker, but not nearly so dangerous looking as she had been pictured by the newspapers. Her talk was a bit bookish, and she looked like a hausfrau, and more maternal in appearance and manner than destructive. She carried her audience along with her like a mother hen followed by a brood of chicks. Sometimes, however, she rose to heights of flaming anger as she cited crimes of the police against workers or the use of federal or state troops to break strikes.