nature,—this solemn sun, rising with such unchanging regularity to his daily task, and these perpetual twinkling stars that shine on from age to age, glittering in the still depths of heaven,—Oh! these awe me by their very majesty: they are too grave and silent. Why will they not speak out, and tell whence they came and what they are doing, and who made them, and put them in their places? If there be a God, a great Creator, an intelligent and sentient Being,—why will He not speak, and let me hear His voice—tell me in a kind, familiar way, that He does indeed exist, and where He is, and what He is? Or, if that be impossible,—if He be too great to be thus approached by a weak mortal,—if His voice would burst my ear, or the sight of Him would dazzle and blind my eyes, and His presence consume and dissipate me, like the burning Sun approaching the earth—O, then, let Him but write—let him inscribe it on rock, or bark, or book, or where He pleases, (so that it be in legible characters which I may read and understand),—that He does exist, that He is good and wise, that He made all these things, and moreover that He still watches over and takes care of them,—and of me, too,—and that He will make and keep me happy if I will look to Him and do His commands."
This wish, so natural to man's heart, has been complied with,—this longing has been gratified,—this prayer has been answered. Such a writing does exist in the world. It was given to man many ages ago, and the manner in which it was given, and the persons to whom, is related with great exactness in the writing itself. And that we might have double testimony to its authenticity, we have the direct descendants of the
