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 A not uncertain test of a book's worth is the interval that elapses between its publication and its relegation to the second-hand bookstall. Hardly had the world been startled by the announcement of the appearance of "The Superstition called Socialism,” when I observed a copy in a dealer’s box. Taking advantage of the proprietor's amiability, I sampled at random the choice pearls of thought that are scattered throughout the work. Curious at seeing Kropotkin's name in the index of a book dealing with Socialism, I turned to page 108 and read :

       “With that glorious revolutionary enthusiasm which inflamed the souls of our ancestors, let them wish to stab all tyrants there and then.”

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