y encounter, or what opposition
they may meet, you can tell almost to a certainty where they will come
out. They may be delayed by head winds and counter currents, but they
will _always head for the port_ and will steer straight towards the
harbor. You know to a certainty that whatever else they may lose, they
will not lose their compass or rudder.

Whatever may happen to a man of this stamp, even though his sails may
be swept away and his mast stripped to the deck, though he may be
wrecked by the storms of life, the needle of his compass will still
point to the North Star of his hope. Whatever comes, his life will not
be purposeless. Even a wreck that makes its port is a greater success
than a full-rigged ship with all its sails flying, with every mast and
rope intact; which merely drifts into an accidental harbor.

To fix a wandering life and give it direction is not an easy task, but
a life which has no definite aim is sure to be frittered away in empty
and purposeless dreams. "Listless triflers," "busy idlers,"
"purposeless busybodies," are seen everywhere. A healthy, definite
purpose is a remedy for a thousand ills which attend aimless lives.
Discontent, dissatisfaction, flee before a definite purpose. An aim
takes the drudgery out of life, scatters doubts to the winds, and
clears up the gloomiest creeds. What we do without a purpose
begrudgingly, with a purpose becomes a delight, and no work is well
done nor healthily done which is not enthusiastically done. It is just
that added element which makes work immortal.

Mere energy is not enough, it must be concentrated on some steady,
unwavering aim. What is more common than "unsuccessful geniuses," or
failures with "commanding talents"? Indeed, "unrewarded genius" has
become a proverb. Every town has unsuccessful educated and talented
men. But education is of no value, talent is worthless, unless it can
do something, achieve something. Men who can do something at
everything, and a very little at anything, are not wanted in this age.
In Paris, a certain Monsieur Kenard announced himself as a "public
scribe, who digests accounts, explains the language of flowers, and
sells fried potatoes." Jacks-at-all-trades are at war with the genius
of the times.

What this age wants is young men and women who can do one thing without
losing their identity or individuality, or becoming narrow, cramped, or
dwarfed. Nothing can take the place of an all-absorbing pu