In the long rectangular square in Naples, a crowd which fills the place solidly from wall to wall has been waiting for hours. In spite of the burning sun, the enthusiasm has never abated, and the low hum of the densely packed mob is steadily increasing in volume. There is a stir on the small balcony of the building at the extreme end of the plaza, a short, black-shirted, uniformed figure steps briskly to the balustrade, and the low hum swells instantly to a tumultuous roar which becomes ever louder as the minutes wear by. On the balcony the little man throws back his head, swings himself to and fro with both hands on the rail, rolls his eyes, and makes frightening grimaces. Gradually 1the tumult subsides, and Mussolini begins to speak.

In sharp staccato phrase she tells his countrymen of his accomplishments, of the growth of Italy, and, as he mentions each aspect of the Facist regime, the camera swings off to the drone of Lowell Thomas' voice, to show the actual scenes of these achievements. There are great liners plowing across the ocean, droves of airplanes in faultless formation, spotless dams thrown across huge canyons, and smoke-stacks that dwindle away into the sky. But it in not these sights which arouse wonder; it is the fact that this Mussolini, whose powerful voice keeps coming back, a little hoarser to be sure each time, has accomplished these feats alone. To watch the way in which Mussolini rose to prominence, to see him at work, at weddings, and at countless reviews in as many different uniforms, and finally to realize the hold he possesses not only over his audience, but over his people, is an education in itself.