ONE UNWAVERING AIM
Life is an arrow--therefore you must know
What mark to aim at, how to use the bow--
Then draw it to the head and let it go.
HENRY VAN DYKE.
The important thing in life is to have a great aim, and to possess the
aptitude and perseverance to attain it.--GOETHE.
"A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways."
Let every one ascertain his special business and calling, and then
stick to it if he would be successful.--FRANKLIN.
"Why do you lead such a solitary life?" asked a friend of Michael
Angelo. "Art is a jealous mistress," replied the artist; "she requires
the whole man." During his labors at the Sistine Chapel, according to
Disraeli, he refused to meet any one, even at his own house.
"This day we sailed westward, which was our course," were the simple
but grand words which Columbus wrote in his journal day after day.
Hope might rise and fall, terror and dismay might seize upon the crew
at the mysterious variations of the compass, but Columbus, unappalled,
pushed due west and nightly added to his record the above words.
"Cut an inch deeper," said a member of the Old Guard to the surgeon
probing his wound, "and you will find the Emperor,"--meaning his heart.
By the marvelous power of concentrated purpose Napoleon had left his
name on the very stones of the capital, had burned it indelibly into
the heart of every Frenchman, and had left it written in living letters
all over Europe. France to-day has not shaken off the spell of that
name. In the fair city on the Seine the mystic "N" confronts you
everywhere.
Oh, the power of a great purpose to work miracles! It has changed the
face of the world. Napoleon knew that there were plenty of great men
in France, but they did not know the might of the unwavering aim by
which he was changing the destinies of Europe. He saw that what was
called the "balance of power" was only an idle dream; that, unless some
master-mind could be found which was a match for events, the millions
would rule in anarchy. His iron will grasped the situation; and like
William Pitt, he did not loiter around balancing the probabilities of
failure or success, or dally with his purpose. There was no turning to
the right nor to the left; no dreaming away time, nor building
air-castles; but one look and purpose, forward, upward and onward,
straight to his goal. His great success in war was due largely to his
definiteness of aim. He always hit the bull's-eye. He was like a
great burning-glass, concentrating the rays of the sun upon a single
spot; he burned a hole wherever he went. After finding the weak place
in the enemy's ranks, he would mass his men and hurl them like an
avalanche upon the critical point, crowding volley upon volley, charge
upon charge, till he made a breach. What a lesson of the power
concentration there is in this man's life!
To succeed to-day a man must concentrate all the faculties of his mind
upon one unwavering aim, and have a tenacity of purpose which means
death or victory. Every other inclination which tempts him from his
aim must be suppressed.
A man may starve on a dozen half-learned trades or occupations; he may
grow rich and famous upon one trade thoroughly mastered, even though it
be the humblest.
Even Gladstone, with his ponderous yet active brain, said he could not
do two things at once; he threw his entire strength upon whatever he
did. The intensest energy characterized everything he undertook, even
his recreation. If such concentration of energy is necessary for the
success of a Gladstone, what can we common mortals hope to accomplish
by "scatteration"?
All great men have been noted for their power of concentration which
makes them oblivious of everything outside their aim. Victor Hugo
wrote his "Notre Dame" during the revolution of 1830, while the bullets
were whistling across his garden. He shut himself up in one room,
locking his clothes up in another, lest they should tempt him to go out
into the street, and spent most of that winter wrapped in a big gray
comforter, pouring his very life into his work.
Abraham Lincoln possessed such power of concentration that he could
repeat quite correctly a sermon to which he had listened in his boyhood.
A New York sportsman, in answer to an advertisement, sent twenty-five
cents for a sure receipt to prevent a shotgun from scattering, and
received the following: "Dear Sir: To keep a gun from scattering put in
but a single shot."
It is the men who do one thing in this world who come to the front.
Who is the favorite actor? It is a Jefferson, who devotes a lifetime
to a "Rip Van Winkle," a Booth, an Irving, a Kean, who plays one
character until he can play it better than any other man living, and
not the shallow players who impersonate all parts. The great man is
the one who never steps outside of his specialty or dissipates his
individuality. It is an Edison, a Morse, a Bell, a Howe, a Stephenson,
a Watt. It is an Adam Smith, spending ten years on the "Wealth of
Nations." It is a Gibbon, giving twenty years to his "Decline and Fall
of the Roman Empire." It is a Hume, writing thirteen hours a day on
his "History of England." It is a Webster, spending thirty-six years
on his dictionary. It is a Bancroft, working twenty-six years on his
"History of the United States." It is a Field, crossing the ocean
fifty times to lay a cable, while the world ridicules. It is a Newton,
writing his "Chronology of Ancient Nations" sixteen times.
A one-talent man who decides upon a definite object accomplishes more
than a ten-talent man who scatters his energies and never knows exactly
what he will do. The weakest living creature, by concentrating his
powers upon one thing, can accomplish something; the strongest, by
dispersing his over many, may fail to accomplish anything.
A great purpose is cumulative; and, like a great magnet, it attracts
all that is kindred along the stream of life.
[Illustration: Joseph Jefferson]
A Yankee can splice a rope in many different ways; an English sailor
only knows one way, but that is the best one. It is the one-sided man,
the sharp-eyed man, the man of single and intense purpose, the man of
one idea, who cuts his way through obstacles and forges to the front.
The time has gone forever when a Bacon can span universal knowledge; or
when, absorbing all the knowledge of the times, a Dante can sustain
arguments against fourteen disputants in the University of Paris, and
conquer in them all. The day when a man can successfully drive a dozen
callings abreast is a thing of the past. Concentration is the keynote
of the century.
Scientists estimate that there is energy enough in less than fifty
acres of sunshine to run all the machinery in the world, if it could be
concentrated. But the sun might blaze out upon the earth forever
without setting anything on fire; although these rays focused by a
burning-glass would melt solid granite, or even change a diamond into
vapor. There are plenty of men who have ability enough; the rays of
their faculties, taken separately, are all right, but they are
powerless to collect them, to bring them all to bear upon a single
spot. Versatile men, universal geniuses, are usually weak, because
they have no power to concentrate their talents upon one point, and
this makes all the difference between success and failure.
Chiseled upon the tomb of a disappointed, heart-broken king, Joseph II.
of Austria, in the Royal Cemetery at Vienna, a traveler tells us, is
this epitaph: "Here lies a monarch who, with the best of intentions,
never carried out a single plan."
Sir James Mackintosh was a man of remarkable ability. He excited in
every one who knew him the greatest expectations. Many watched his
career with much interest, expecting that he would dazzle the world;
but there was no purpose in his life. He had intermittent attacks of
enthusiasm for doing great things, but his zeal all evaporated before
he could decide what to do. This fatal defect in his character kept
him balancing between conflicting motives; and his whole life was
almost thrown away. He lacked power to choose one object and persevere
with a single aim, sacrificing every interfering inclination. He, for
instance, vacillated for weeks trying to determine whether to use
"usefulness" or "utility" in a composition.
One talent utilized in a single direction will do infinitely more than
ten talents scattered. A thimbleful of powder behind a ball in a rifle
will do more execution than a carload of powder unconfined. The
rifle-barrel is the purpose that gives direct aim to the powder, which
otherwise, no matter how good it might be, would be powerless. The
poorest scholar in school or college often, in practical life, far
outstrips the class leader or senior wrangler, simply because what
little ability he has he employs for a definite object, while the
other, depending upon his general ability and brilliant prospects,
never concentrates his powers.
It is fashionable to ridicule the man of one idea, but the men who have
changed the front of the world have been men of a single aim. No man
can make his mark on this age of specialties who is not a man of one
idea, one supreme air, one master passion. The man who would make
himself felt on this bustling planet, who would make a breach in the
compact conservatism of our civilization, must play all his guns on one
point. A wavering aim, a faltering purpose, has no place in the
twentieth century. "Mental shiftlessness" is the cause of many a
failure. The world is full of unsuccessful men who spend their lives
letting empty buckets down into empty wells.
"Mr. A. often laughs at me," said a young American chemist, "because I
have but one idea. He talks about everything, aims to excel in many
things; but I have learned that, if I ever wish to make a breach, I
must play my guns continually upon one point." This great chemist,
when an obscure schoolmaster, used to study by the light of a pine knot
in a log cabin. Not many years later he was performing experiments in
electro-magnetism before English earls, and subsequently he was at the
head of one of the largest scientific institutes of this country. He
was the late Professor Henry, of the Smithsonian Institution,
Washington.
We should guard against a talent which we can not hope to practise in
perfection, says Goethe. Improve it as we may, we shall always, in the
end, when the merit of the matter has become apparent to us, painfully
lament the loss of time and strength devoted to such botching. An old
proverb says: "The master of one trade will support a wife and seven
children, and the master of seven will not support himself."
_It is the single aim that wins_. Men with monopolizing ambitions
rarely live in history. They do not focus their powers long enough to
burn their names indelibly into the roll of honor. Edward Everett,
even with his magnificent powers, disappointed the expectations of his
friends. He spread himself over the whole field of knowledge and
elegant culture; but the mention of the name of Everett does not call
up any one great achievement as does that of names like Garrison and
Phillips. Voltaire called the Frenchman La Harpe an oven which was
always heating, but which never cooked anything. Hartley Coleridge was
splendidly endowed with talent, but there was one fatal lack in his
character--he had no definite purpose, and his life was a failure.
Unstable as water, he could not excel. Southey, the uncle of
Coleridge, says of him: "Coleridge has two left hands." He was so
morbidly shy from living alone in his dreamland that he could not open
a letter without trembling. He would often rally from his purposeless
life, and resolve to redeem himself from the oblivion he saw staring
him in the face; but, like Sir James Mackintosh, he remained a man of
promise merely to the end of his life.
The man who succeeds has a program. He fires his course and adheres to
it. He lays his plans and executes them. He goes straight to his
goal. He is not pushed this way and that every time a difficulty is
thrown in his path; if he can not get over it he goes through it.
Constant and steady use of the faculties under a central purpose gives
strength and power, while the use of faculties without an aim or end
only weakens them. The mind must be focused on a definite end, or,
like machinery without a balance-wheel, it will rack itself to pieces.
This age of concentration calls, not for educated men merely, not for
talented men, not for geniuses, not for jacks-of-all-trades, but for
men who are trained to do one thing as well as it can be done.
Napoleon could go through the drill of his soldiers better than any one
of his men.
_Stick to your aim_. The constant changing of one's occupation is
fatal to all success. After a young man has spent five or six years in
a dry goods store, he concludes that he would rather sell groceries,
thereby throwing away five years of valuable experience which will be
of very little use to him in the grocery business; and so he spends a
large part of his life drifting around from one kind of employment to
another, learning part of each but all of none, forgetting that
experience is worth more to him than money and that the years devoted
to learning his trade or occupation are the most valuable.
Half-learned trades, no matter if a man has twenty, will never give him
a good living, much less a competency, while wealth is absolutely out
of the question.
How many young men fail to reach the point of efficiency in one line of
work before they get discouraged and venture into something else! How
easy to see the thorns in one's own profession or vocation, and only
the roses in that of another! A young man in business, for instance,
seeing a physician riding about town in his carriage, visiting his
patients, imagines that a doctor must have an easy, ideal life, and
wonders that he himself should have embarked in an occupation so full
of disagreeable drudgery and hardships. He does not know of the years
of dry, tedious study which the physician has consumed, the months and
perhaps years of waiting for patients, the dry detail of anatomy, the
endless names of drugs and technical terms.
There is a sense of great power in a vocation after a man has reached
the point of efficiency in it, the point of productiveness, the point
where his skill begins to tell and brings in returns. Up to this point
of efficiency, while he is learning his trade, the time seems to have
been almost thrown away. But he has been storing up a vast reserve of
knowledge of detail, laying foundations, forming his acquaintances,
gaining his reputation for truthfulness, trustworthiness, and
integrity, and in establishing his credit. When he reaches this point
of efficiency, all the knowledge and skill, character, influence, and
credit thus gained come to his aid, and he soon finds that in what
seemed almost thrown away lies the secret of his prosperity. The
credit he established as a clerk, the confidence, the integrity, the
friendships formed, he finds equal to a large capital when he starts
out for himself and takes the highway to fortune; while the young man
who half learned several trades, got discouraged and stopped just short
of the point of efficiency, just this side of success, is a failure
because he didn't go far enough; he did not press on to the point at
which his acquisition would have been profitable.
In spite of the fact that nearly all very successful men have made a
life-work of one thing, we see on every hand hundreds of young men and
women flitting about from occupation to occupation, trade to trade, in
one thing to-day and another to-morrow,--just as though they could go
from one thing to another by turning a switch, as though they could run
as well on another track as on the one they have left, regardless of
the fact that no two careers have the same gage, that every man builds
his own road upon which another man's engine can not run either with
speed or safety. This fickleness, this disposition to shift about from
one occupation to another, seems to be peculiar to American life, so
much so that, when a young man meets a friend whom he has not seen for
some time, the commonest question to ask is, "What are you doing now?"
showing the improbability or uncertainty that he is doing to-day what
he was doing when they last met.
Some people think that if they "keep everlastingly at it" they will
succeed, but this is not always so. Working without a plan is as
foolish as going to sea without a compass.
A ship which has broken its rudder in mid-ocean may "keep everlastingly
at it," may keep on a full head of steam, driving about all the time,
but it never arrives anywhere, it never reaches any port unless by
accident; and if it does find a haven, its cargo may not be suited to
the people, the climate, or conditions. The ship must be directed to a
definite port, for which its cargo is adapted, and where there is a
demand for it, and it must aim steadily for that port through sunshine
and storm, through tempest and fog. So a man who would succeed must
not drift about rudderless on the ocean of life. He must not only
steer straight toward his destined port when the ocean is smooth, when
the currents and winds serve, but he must keep his course in the very
teeth of the wind and the tempest, and even when enveloped in the fogs
of disappointment and mists of opposition. Atlantic liners do not stop
for fogs or storms; they plow straight through the rough seas with only
one thing in view, their destined port, and no matter what the weather
is, no matter what obstacles they encounter, their arrival in port can
be predicted to within a few hours.
On the prairies of South America there grows a flower that always
inclines in the same direction. If a traveler loses his way and has
neither compass nor chart, by turning to this flower he will find a
guide on which he can implicitly rely; for no matter how the rains
descend or the winds blow, its leaves point to the north. So there are
many men whose purposes are so well known, whose aims are so constant,
that no matter what difficulties they may 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
every rope intact, which merely drifts along 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 busy-bodies," are seen everywhere. A healthy, definite
purpose is a remedy for a thousand ills which attend aimless lives.
Discontent and dissatisfaction flee before a definite purpose. What we
do begrudgingly without a purpose becomes a delight with one, and no
work is well done nor healthily done which is not enthusiastically done.
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, the term "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.
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 purpose;
education can not, genius can not, talent can not, industry can not,
will-power can not. The purposeless life must ever be a failure. What
good are powers, faculties, unless we can use them for a purpose? What
good would a chest of tools do a carpenter unless he could use them? A
college education, a head full of knowledge, are worth little to the
men who cannot use them to some definite end.
The man without a purpose never leaves his mark upon the world. He has
no individuality; he is absorbed in the mass, lost in the crowd, weak,
wavering, and incompetent.
"Consider, my lord," said Rowland Hill to the Prime Minister of
England, "that a letter to Ireland and the answer back would cost
thousands upon thousands of my affectionate countrymen more than a
fifth of their week's wages. If you shut the post-office to them,
which you do now, you shut out warm hearts and generous affections from
home, kindred, and friends." The lad learned that it cost to carry a
letter from London to Edinburgh, four hundred and four miles, one
eighteenth of a cent, while the government charged for a simple folded
sheet of paper twenty-eight cents, and twice as much if there was the
smallest inclosure. Against the opposition and contempt of the
post-office department he at length carried his point, and on January
10, 1840, penny postage was established throughout Great Britain. Mr.
Hill was chosen to introduce the system, at a salary of fifteen hundred
pounds a year. His success was most encouraging, but at the end of two
years a Tory minister dismissed him without paying for his services, as
agreed. The public was indignant, and at once contributed sixty-five
thousand dollars; and, at the request of Queen Victoria, Parliament
voted him one hundred thousand dollars cash, together with ten thousand
dollars a year for life.
It is a great purpose which gives meaning to life; it unifies all our
powers, binds them together in one cable and makes strong and united
what was weak, separated, scattered.
"Smatterers" are weak and superficial. Of what use is a man who knows
a little of everything and not much of anything? It is the momentum of
constantly repeated acts that tells the story. "Let thine eyes look
straight before thee. Ponder the path of thy feet and let all thy ways
be established. Turn not to the right hand nor to the left." One
great secret of St. Paul's power lay in his strong purpose. Nothing
could daunt, nothing intimidate him. The Roman Emperor could not
muzzle him, the dungeon could not appall him, no prison suppress him,
obstacles could not discourage him. "This one thing I do" was written
all over his work. The quenchless zeal of his mighty purpose burned
its way down through the centuries, and its contagion will never cease
to fire the hearts of men.
"Try and come home somebody," said his mother to Gambetta as she sent
him off to Paris to school. Poverty pinched this lad hard in his
little garret study and his clothes were shabby, but what of that? He
had made up his mind to get on in the world. For years he was chained
to his desk and worked like a hero. At last his opportunity came.
Jules Favre was to plead a great cause on a certain day; but, being
ill, he chose this young man, absolutely unknown, rough and uncouth, to
take his place. For many years Gambetta had been preparing for such an
opportunity, and he was equal to it. He made one of the greatest
speeches that up to that time had ever been made in France. That night
all the papers in Paris were sounding the praises of this ragged,
uncouth Bohemian, and soon all France recognized him as the Republican
leader. This sudden rise was not due to luck or accident. He had been
steadfastly working and fighting his way up against oppositions and
poverty for just such an occasion. Had he not been equal to it, it
would only have made him ridiculous. What a stride; yesterday, poor
and unknown, living in a garret; today, deputy-elect, in the city of
Marseilles, and the great Republican leader!
When Louis Napoleon had been defeated at Sedan and had delivered his
sword to William of Prussia, and when the Prussian army was marching on
Paris, the brave Gambetta went out of the besieged city in a balloon
barely grazed by the Prussian guns, landed in Amiens, and by almost
superhuman skill raised three armies of 800,000 men, provided for their
maintenance, and directed their military operations. A German officer
said: "This colossal energy is the most remarkable event of modern
history, and will carry down Gambetta's name to remote posterity."
This youth who was poring over his books in an attic while other youths
were promenading the Champs Elysées, although but thirty-two years old,
was now virtually dictator of France, and the greatest orator in the
Republic. What a striking example of the great reserve of personal
power, which, even in dissolute lives, is sometimes called out by a
great emergency or sudden sorrow, and ever after leads the life to
victory! When Gambetta found that his first speech had electrified all
France, his great reserve rushed to the front; he was suddenly weaned
from dissipation, and resolved to make his mark in the world. Nor did
he lose his head in his quick leap into fame. He still lived in the
upper room in the musty Latin Quarter, and remained a poor man, without
stain of dishonor, though he might easily have made himself a
millionaire. When he died the "Figaro" said, "The Republic has lost
its greatest man." American boys should study this great man, for he
loved our country, and took our Republic as the pattern for France.
There is no grander sight in the world than that of a young man fired
with a great purpose, dominated by one unwavering aim. He is bound to
win; the world stands to one side and lets him pass; it always makes
way for the man with a will in him. He does not have one-half the
opposition to overcome that the undecided, purposeless man has who,
like driftwood, runs against all sorts of snags to which he must yield
simply because he has no momentum to force them out of his way. What a
sublime spectacle it is to see a youth going straight to his goal,
cutting his way through difficulties, and surmounting obstacles which
dishearten others, as though they were but stepping-stones! Defeat,
like a gymnasium, only gives him new power; opposition only doubles his
exertions; dangers only increase his courage. No matter what comes to
him, sickness, poverty, disaster, he never turns his eye from his goal.
"_Duos qui sequitur lepores, neutrum capit._"