MARK TWAIN

compliments, praises, prayers; it is impossible that he
should value them, impossible that he should listen to
them, these mouthings of microbes. He is not ignorant,
He does not mistake His myriad great suns, swimming
in the measureless ocean of space for tallow candles hung
in the roof to light this forgotten potato which we call the
Earth, and name His footstool. He cannot see it except
under His microscope. The shadow does not go back on
His dial—it is against His law; His sun does not stand
still on Gibeon to accommodate a worm out on a raid
against other worms—it is against His law. His real char-
acter is written in plain words in His real Bible, which is
Nature and her history; we read it every day, and we
could understand it and trust in it if we would burn the
spurious one and dig the remains of our insignificant rea-
soning faculties out of the grave where that and other
man-made Bibles have buried them for 2000 years and
more.

The Bible of Nature tells us no word about any future
life, but only about this present one. It does not promise
a future life; it does not even vaguely indicate one. It is
not intended as a message to us, any more than the
scientist intends a message to surviving microbes when
he boils the life out of a billion of them in a thimble.
The microbes discover a message in it; this is certain—
if they have a pulpit.

The Book of Nature tells us distinctly that God cares
not a rap for us—nor for any living creature. It tells us
that His laws inflict pain and suffering and sorrow, but
it does not say that this is done in order that He may get
pleasure out of this misery. We do not know what the
object is, for the Book is not able to tell us. It may be
mere indifference. Without a doubt He had an object, but
we have no way of discovering what it was. The scientist
has an object, but it is not the joy of inflicting pain upon
the microbe.

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