In 1898 appeared his _Fields, Factories and Workshops_. This highly excellent work is the splendid outcome of several essays which were written a decade previous for the _Nineteenth Century_ (1880-1890), and one for the Forum, (_Possibilities of Agriculture_, August 1890). If nations would follow this book, how great would be their gain in prosperity and happiness![49] This book is a plea for intensive agriculture, and in view of the great cry, "Back to the land!" which is sweeping over the nations, it is a fulfilled prophecy. It is the remedy for social ills--the solution of the labor problem. Kropotkin shows that by the new method of scientific farming, a man can make a living from an acre of ground,[50] and as soon as the workingman realizes this fact--and can get a bit of land--he will be able to discharge his employer and bounce his boss. By all means read the chapters on _The Possibilities of Agriculture_: no fairy-tale is more miraculous.[51] In 1899 appeared in book form the _Memoirs of a Revolutionist_ which had first run serially in the _Atlantic Monthly_, (September 1898 to September 1899), under the title, _Autobiography of a Revolutionist_. In the magazine, the introduction is by Robert Erskine Ely, who was Kropotkin's host when the Russian traveled in America. In the book, however, the preface is by Brandes. Neither of these forewords is brilliant, but the latter is the worse. When we think of Norway, we think of only one man--Ibsen. When we think of Denmark, we think of only one man--Brandes. But in this case his preface was a fizzle. In fact, it is almost as bad as the erudite Lavrov's preface to Stepniak's splendid _Underground Russia_. No better and nobler book than these _Memoirs_ has been written; nothing higher and purer could be written. Only one thing is lacking; indeed, it is the chief omission in the cosmos of Kropotkin--the poetic note. He is good and great, but the passionate fire is denied him. His soul is not aflame with poesy's burning brand. He could never cry out like the student Ivan Kalayev, "My soul is burning with stormy passion; my heart is full of battle-boldness. O, if I could only see the coming of liberty! O, to pull the mask of falsehood from the face of the murderer, to strike the tyrant with the steel-arm! Enuf tears! Let the glorious, victorious struggle arise! The people are calling us! It is a shame, it is a crime to wait longer! Fall upon the enemy, my honest hereditary sword! I am thine, altogether thine, O my country, my mother!" But leaving divine enthusiasm aside, this volume is perfection. He who peruses its loving pages, gains a tender brother whose body is unseen, but whose memory becomes imperishable. When you read it, you cry a little, because the man who wrote it was so kind. Across the miles you seem to hear his fraternal voice, and you know if you write to him, he will answer you thus: "Dear Comrade."--If you have time to read but a single volume a year, and desire one by a Russian,