Recently a man called on Edwin Markham, author of “The Man with the Hoe,” we are told by Success, and introduced himself as the writer of a book on which, he said, he had spent twenty-five years of study and research. Mr. Markham, who is unusually kind in listening to and counseling with amateur authors, immediately felt that one who has spent a quarter of a century on his work is rare, and he invited him to his study without delay.
“What is the nature of your work?” asked Mr. Markham.
“I have written the greatest book of the ages,” began the new author; “I have solved the mystery of the world. I know all about it. I am prepared to prove my statements. I know just why the world was made, who really made it, and I have laid bare the mysteries of creation. I—”
“My good man,” said Mr. Markham, interrupting him, “if you have come to me for advice, let me tell you to take your manuscript at once and burn it. If you have solved the mystery of this world, you are its greatest enemy. Why,” continued the poet, “if you have solved the mystery of the world you have robbed men of their greatest joy. You have left us nothing to work for, you have destroyed our ambition, you have reduced us to mere animals. It is the mysteries of the world that have made it great, and I, for one, don’t want to have them solved.”
Mr Markham’s visitor sat dumfounded for a moment. The vision of his twenty-five years of labor flitted before him as he said:
“I guess you’re right—I guess you’re right.” (Text.)
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N
Name, A Good—See [Reputation].
Nameless Pioneers—See [Unknown Workers].