When they got through cheering, he gave them the words of a song he had written to "Marching through Georgia." He had trained the Männer Chor of the Arbeiter Studenten Verein to sing it. It caught on like wildfire. I am sure that if the meeting had broken up then, and they could have marched out singing that song, Lipsky would have been elected overwhelmingly. But Lipsky spoke. "Der Socialismus ruht auf einer fasten ekonomischen grundlage...." For twenty minutes in deadly German sentences he lectured on the economic interpretation of history. Then for twenty minutes he analyzed capitalism. Then he drank a glass of water and took a fresh start. He referred to Klein’s speech and pointed out how the election of one or a hundred officials could not bring about Socialism; the only hope lay in a patient, widespread, universal organization of the working class. Then in detail he discussed the difference between reform and revolution, how this red light business was only one by-product of the great injustice of exploitation by surplus value. When he had been talking a little over an hour, he said "Lastly." He began on a history of the International Socialist Party from its humble beginning in Marx’ Communist League to its present gigantic proportions. On and on he drawled. Many got up and left—he did not notice. Someone in the gallery yelled, "Cheese it! Cut it out! We want Benson!" He went right on through the tumult, and at last discouraged the disturbers. The recent International Socialist Congress had discussed the following nine problems: (1) The Agrarian Question, (2) The Relation of the Political Party to Trade Unions.... It was hopeless. The audience melted. And they did not sing as they left. At last he was through. I remember the sudden transformation. The set, dogged expression left his face, as he looked up from his notes. His back straightened, his eyes flashed—a light came to them which somehow explained how this dry-as-dust professor of economics had suddenly left his class-room and thrown his weak gauntlet at the Tsar of all the Russias. It was the hope which had sustained him all the weary years in Arctic Siberia. "Working-men of all lands—Unite!" he shouted it out to the almost empty house—his arms wide thrown in his only gesture—"You have nothing to lose but your chains! You have a world to gain!" There was a brave attempt at a cheer from the few devoted Socialists who remained. The exultation left him as suddenly as it had come, and he sat down, a tired, worn old man. Klein rushed at him, with tears in his eyes. "You’ve spoiled it all!" he wailed. The old man straightened up once more. "I did my duty," he said solemnly.