These are the bouquets that give new life to the living, new hope to
the despondent, new inspiration to the writer who has often doubted the
value of his work. For any one who treads on new paths and leaves the old
beaten tracks where the thoughtless millions have trod for centuries, is
so likely to be misunderstood. When the independent thinker finds himself
away from the old ruts where the heavy chariots of plodding thought
have left deep gutters for the millions to follow, he feels that he is
traveling alone, and is ever reaching out to grasp some friendly hand and
feel the warmth of a congenial living body and a progressive mind.
Some day Mr. Hill will carry a bouquet to a dead friend, but the flowers
will not be able to bring new hope and new inspiration and new courage,
like his letter has brought to me. And yet, I have never met Mr. Hill,
to touch his hand and look into his face and express pleasure in meeting
him. Our bodies are total strangers to each other, but out on the sea of
thought we met and touched each other’s boat, and now go floating down
the storm-tossed stream toward the land of God knows where—out beyond
these shadows that hide our faces and our motives from our neighbors and
cause us to misjudge our fellow man, and to throw him thorns and thistles
instead of the sacred flower of human love.
If you are out on the sea of thought, drifting before the winds that
are ever blowing us away from the land of knowledge, and making life
an endless pull against wind and current—and you meet others out there
in the shadow—don’t go off quietly and hide until they are past. Hail
them—call to them in friendly tones and tell them you are going the same
way and would enjoy their companionship. Don’t wait until the storms of
life have wrecked their boat and you find their dead body on the shore,
beyond the reach of your flowers and love and appreciation.
After all is said, the religion of humanity comes nearest to our hearts.
We need no towering church spires, nor cold stone walls to make our
place of worship a secluded spot. The world is our book, and humanity
our altar, on which we may lay our white rose of love and our pale lily
of charity, and reach out to the Great Jehovah, through the responsive
heart-throbs of our friends and neighbors.