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When coming from the St Gervais side, and passing by the Needles and the Dome du Goute, the road of Chamouny must be taken before arriving at the slope which betrayed us when we thought we were past all danger. One runs the risk then, whether they come from one side or the other, after having, as I had done, escaped the formidable stones of the Needle of Gouté, and crossed the gulfs of the glacier of Bossons, to be, near the summit, swallowed up by a soil apparently firm, but which gives way all at once under the feet,- a kind of danger against which it will be very difficult to find a preservative.

ON THE PROOF OF MIRACLES.
MR EDITOR,

I SEND you, in addition to my former papers on the Evidences of Religious Truth, a few short remarks which have been long lying by me, on the Proof of Miracles from Testimony. They will serve as a recapitulation of the principles which I have already endeavoured to establish,-applied, too, to a different question. It was, indeed, in the examination of Mr Hume's Essay on Miracles, that they were first suggested to me; and the more I turn them in my mind, the more I am persuaded of their importance both in philosophy and religion.

I. Truths are either known, believed, or probable.

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Known truths are such as the mind

which thus sustained a great part of our weight, and if it had broken we should infallibly have gone to the bottoni. But I thought not of danger; my mind was made up to go forwards as far as my strength permitted; and I had no other idea but that of stepping firmly and advancing." Afterwards § 1986, he continues: "At last, in a walk of two hours and a-half, reckoning from the place where we had slept, we attained the rock which is called the left shoulder, or the second stair of Mont Blanc. There opening my eyes on an immense horizon, altogether new to me nothing concealed from our view, (for the summit was on our right,) the whole range of the Alps on the Italian side, which I had never seen from such a height; and there I had the satisfaction of being certain of attaining the summit, since the ascent which remained was neither steep nor dangerous."

VOL. VII.

perceives to be true when it examinés them. Of this sort are mathematical, and, perhaps, some metaphysical and moral truths. We know that two and two are equal to four, &c.

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Consciousness is knowledge. know that we exist, that we think, feel, perceive, &c.

Is the existence of the material world a known truth? We undoubtedly perceive something which we call matter. This we know. But do we know that the material world exists independently of our perceiving it? Perhaps, in strict language, this is a truth which we can be said only to believe.

Knowledge alone implies certainty, or that concerning which doubt would be positively absurd. Whenever we can attain this kind of evidence, therefore, we ought to look for it, but where it is not to be had, we must be satisfied with belief or probability.

Knowledge and belief are commonly confounded, though very different things. Whatever we really know, certainly is; what we merely believe, may possibly not be. It is impossible that two and two should not be equal to four; it is possible that there may never have been such a man as Cæsar, or that the sun may not rise to-morrow.

What is belief? From what principle of our nature do we acquire a kind of knowledge at second-hand? Whence do we make positive assertions about things of which in fact we know nothing?

Belief is another word for faith, or, what is the same thing, trust or confidence. It is in truth, then, a moral sentiment, and refers in all cases to some being in whom we trust or confide.

Try by this rule belief in testimony. Can there be a doubt that there is implanted in the human heart a sentiment of trust or confidence in man? The smiles of an infant express it before he is able to understand a word that is said, and the belief which he afterwards gives to every thing he is told, is only a particular direction of this principle.

Belief concerning the operations of nature must, in like manner, have a secret reference to some being in whom we have confidence.

Take the extreme case, that we have no direct knowledge of the existence

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of matter as a thing independent of our perceptions. What is our ground for believing that it is a separate existence? Our perceptions and sensations are regular, uniform, steady; not like dreams and reveries. This we perceive. Now, the perception of regularity and order is a perception that mind is operating, and conveys a direct knowledge to us that there is mind in nature. We, in fact, perceive that there is some one without us, ordering and arranging: hence, we believe, or have confidence, that there is something without us ordered and arranged. On the supposition, then, that our perceptions do not convey to us direct knowledge of the existence of matter as a distinct substance, it is a curious, yet apparently a just conclusion, that before we could believe a truth so necessary to our condition here, we must actually have perceived or known the existence of mind or Deity.'

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But, be this as it may, on what principle can our belief concerning the future rest, except on such a perception? The laws of nature, the order established, are in truth a silent language in which God speaks to man, a language which the merest child understands. It is" These things I have established, these things will continue. The sun has risen to-day, trust, believe that he will rise to-mor

row.

It may appear very extraordinary that we should say, the existence of mind, as the regulating principle of the universe, is a truth which every child knows, and that all rational belief respecting the operations of nature is, in fact, founded upon the knowledge of this truth; but the assertion is by no means extravagant. We do not suppose that a child has formed to itself the idea which we call God; neither has it formed to itself the idea which we call a mind; yet it knows that its parents and the people about it have minds, so far as to trust and rely on them; and in the same manner it perceives that there is mind in nature.

Belief being thus explained, we shall easily understand what is meant by probability, with respect to natural events. Concerning those parts of the plan of nature which seem fixed, the mind predicts with assurance or belief;-concerning those

parts which do not seem fixed, it, however, collects whether they are more fixed than others. Whatever seems to coincide with the plan of nature better than something else, will more probably happen than that other thing. The mind has no ground for belief or assurance here, but it has a ground for conjecture.

II. Mr Hume's argument against miracles proceeds on the supposition, that all belief is the production solely of experience. Now, as we have constant experience that the laws of nature are regularly observed, and by no means constant experience that men speak truth, the rule of reason, according to this philosopher, is always, in the case of miracles, to reject the testimony, and to hold fast our belief of the unvaried regularity of nature.

But belief cannot spring from experience, any more than love or hatred. It is another word for the sentiment of trust or confidence, which, when placed in Man, arises from an instinctive perception that he possesses a common nature with ourselves; and, when placed in Nature, arises from a similar perception that there is Mind in the universe, and that we are dependent beings.

Belief in testimony amounts to this The thing told must be true, if the person who tells it has veracity. If we believe the man, we must believe that the thing happened. No matter what it is; if a man could see it he can tell it.

Belief in the regularity of Nature &mounts to this-There is a plan established; we trust it will continue. But, suppose it should be changed in some respects, the author of the plan does not tell a lie; he never promised that it would, in every instance, be invariable. A man sends me a pension for twenty years-I expect it next year; but, suppose it should not come, the man has not therefore broke his word. Belief in testimony, even to the extent of a miracle, and confidence in the continued regularity of Nature, are, therefore, quite consistent.

Take an example-Suppose a man who is my friend, a person of a serious character, of whose judgment and veracity I could have no doubt, comes and tells me that he saw a man raised from the dead, I should certainly be much confounded; I should

suppose, at first, that he was amusing himself with me, or that he was under a temporary derangement. But he perseveres in the assertion, his judgment and veracity are evidently the same as formerly, he dies attest ing the fact-Should I not believe the fact? Should I then believe it if I had myself see it?

This may be called direct testimony; but, perhaps, most testimony deserves only the appellation of probable. We cannot, in general, have a very perfect conviction of the veracity of witnesses; yet this conviction we may often obtain in a great degree, even with respect to very old stories. There is a simplicity and nature in some old books, which command immediate assent.

But, where testimony rests solely on the ground of probability, such as a number of witnesses attesting the same fact, with, perhaps, collateral circumstances supporting it, where we have no opportunity of becoming acquainted with the veracity of any one of the witnesses, it may be doubted how far such testimony will prove a miracle, because the testimony in this case is merely probable, or what in the course of Nature we should not expect would prove false; while a miracle is not only an improbable fact, or something which we should not look for in the course of Nature, but is totally contrary to the course of Nature, or is an incredible fact.

It is to this instance alone that Mr Hume's dilemma will apply with any force.

In opposition to this case, however, there is à ground on which even weak evidence, or very little stronger than we require for common facts, will be sufficient to establish the truth of a miracle, viz. the probability of the miracle.

Considered merely as a fact, a miracle is the most improbable of all facts; considered as a miracle, it may be very probable. Here, indeed, we must take in the principles of natural religion, which will surely be the more easily admitted, if, as has been shown, their truth is implied in all rational belief concerning natural events.

One might wonder why an atheist should object to miracles. The great er irregularity there is in Nature, the more totally it should seem to want design, the greater reason would there

be in his argument. It would make for his cause, that all the Metamorphoses of Ovid, and all the Arabian Tales, should be true. The first principles of common sense, however, force him to acknowledge, that there is something fixed, settled, and established. This is, in fact, Deism; but, in order to avoid that conclusion, he supposes things more fixed than even rational Deism will warrant. Displacing the Deity, by whom the two ends of the chain are held, he supposes them linked together by the indissoluble padlock of necessity. A miracle, accordingly, appears to him, not merely improbable, but absolutely impossible.

A Deist, however, may admit, that it is not quite improbable a suspension of natural laws may, on some occasions, enter into the Divine councils; and, if it should be presumption a priori to say, that, in any given circumstances, there probably would be a suspension of this kind; yet if, on probable testimony, we have been informed, that, in such and such circumstances, miracles did take place, we may, at the same time, perceive the probability of their happening in such circumstances.

Thus, considering Christianity merely as a scheme, it may seem a probable supplement to natural religion, suited to the condition of man, and such as might be looked for from the goodness and wisdom of God. We shall, therefore, be satisfied with less evidence of its truth, than if it had a contrary character. We shall, at least, not close our eyes to that cloud of evidence by which it is supported. PHILOTHEUS,

APPARITIONS OF THE DEVIL.

Be not surprised, Mr Editor, at the title I have given my paper, nor imagine for a moment that your corre spondent is on any terms of undue familiarity with the Prince of Darkness. Assuredly I have never seen him personally, to my knowledge, though, in dark nights, and lonely glens, and church-yards, I have anxiously been on the look-out for him. The anec dotes, however, that I am going to relate of him will show you that he has, at sundry times, and in divers manners, made himself known in a visible

shape to some of the godly forefathers
of this unbelieving generation. The
banks of Crawick, in particular,
seem to have been inhabited with de
vils in former ages, if we may place
any reliance on the traditions still cur-
rent among its hoary-headed chroni-
clers. One good reason assigned for
their being so numerous in this place
is, that the people then dwelling by
the streams of Crawick were so rigid-
ly religious, so proof against all the
temptations of the evil one, that it was
quite a hopeless attempt for
any one
devil to keep his credit among them.
The prince of the power of the air
had, therefore, seen it absolutely ne-
cessary, in the profundity of his dia-
bolical wisdom, to establish a colony
in the place; and, even after this
goodly reinforcement had been brought
in, sorely afflicted the poor devils were
to keep their ground. The people
were so armed at all points with wea-
pons of spiritual warfare, furnished by
the godly divines who flourished after
the reformation from Popery, they
had got so many prayers, and psalms,
and texts of Scripture, and knew so
well how to use them, that it was a
perfect tempting of Providence for a
devil to set up his head among them.
He was not certain of his life for five
minutes, unless he could act his part
with the most unblushing audacity
and determined bravery. The idea of
a devil losing his life may, perhaps,
sound oddly in the ears of some of
my less-learned readers; but I can as-
sure them, upon the authority of the
original documents from whence I de-
rive my information, that, in conse-
quence of the frequent skirmishes that
took place, not a few lives were lost on
both sides.

I myself have been at the grave of one of these devils in the church-yard of Say-na-quhair. He lies buried at the west end of the church, I think, if I recollect rightly. Over the grave is a flat stone. The inscription, on account of its age, being overgrown with moss, I never could make out. But to a zealous and learned antiquarian, I have no doubt that it would prove a source of curious and original information. The Devil's Epitaph would, in my opinion, be worth all

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risen

the inscriptions in Melrose Abbey put
together, if it could be decyphered
satisfactorily. I would earnestly re-
commend it to the study of some of
Dr Grose's disciples without delay, for
I have some hopes that an additional
light might be thrown, not only on
the state of parties at the time, but
also on the character of him who lies
below; for I am led to suspect that he
was a great coward. I never heard that
he durst make his appearance boldly.
except to women and children. It
was customary for him at nightfall,
when the milk-maids were returning
with their pails of milk on their heads,
to assume the appearance of a certain
notorious character, then lately buri-
ed, and grin ingloriously at them over
the kirk-yard dike. The consequence
was, that the poor frightened maidens,
imagining that it was Auld
from the grave to seize upon them
and devour them bodily, ran home
with such precipitation, that they
spilled all their milk, and left their
unearthly enemy in possession of the
field, and not unfrequently of the.
milk-pails. Encouraged by this sig-
nal success in grinning in the inside..
of the kirk-yard dike, where he knew
he was in perfect safety; he one night
thought he would boldly adventure
his precious person on the outside of
it, and try, if possible, to catch one of
the skirling maidens. When they
came past at the usual hour, he im-
mediately started the pursuit, like a
grey-hound, after a parcel of maukins.
He ran and they ran, and it was lite-
rally, "Deil tak the hindermost,"
but fortunately for the terrified milk-
maids, in spite of all his efforts to over-
take them, they got safe on the other
side of the running stream, or ever
he could lay hold of them. Vexed
and mortified with his ill success, he
was under the necessity of returning
to his dwelling in the kirk-yard.
This pursuing of the milk-maids
turned out to be a most unadvised
proceeding in him, for they alarmed
the whole town of Say-na-quhair with
the report, that the dead man was
risen from the grave, and that he
would not let them pass the kirk-
yard in peace one single night; be-
sides, the loss of their milk and milk-
pails was insufferable, it could no
longer be borne with. Measures were,

A mountain stream in the uplands of therefore, to be adopted, and that Dumfries-shire.

instantly, for taking account of this

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mischievous inhabitant of the kirkyard. A consultation of the minister and elders was immediately held, to take into consideration what was best to be done. At last it was agreed upon, that the minister, who was famous for working miracles, along with some more good men, should attend in the kirk-yard, at twelve o'clock at night, and endeavour, if possible, to speak with it. The minister, accordingly, with his sword and his Bible, accompanied by some of the elders, and the son of the dead man, whose appearance it assumed, attended at the grave at midnight. He instantly drew a circle with his sword around himself and his companions, over which it was impossible for all the powers of darkness to set one unhallowed footstep. Having imposed profound silence on the company, and said a prayer, he then opened the Bible, and reading aloud in the name of his Maker, the awful text of conjeration, immediately the mouth of the grave was unclosed, and the evil spirit, from his dwelling of darkness, stood in a bodily shape before them. There was no evasion for him now, here he stood in fear and trembling, reduced to the dire necessity of repeating his catechism before the minister and elders of Say-na-quhair. Unfortunately for the poor Devil, he could give no proper account of himself; all the answer that he gave to the different questions that were put to him was, that he wanted to shake hands with that young man whom he called his son, and if he were only allowed that trifling request, he would give his word of honour never to trouble them any more. This the minister positively denied him, as it would have been at the expence of the young man's salvation to grant this request. But making use of another conjuration, and a text of Scripture written on the blade of his sword, accompanying the whole with fervent prayer, he fought mightily and prevailed. The spirit descended into the grave, and has never since made its appearance. In order to make him more secure, and to prevent the possibility of his making his escape, they have chained down the flat stone which lies over his grave with a strang band of iron. The minister is said to have preached a sermon exultingly, over the Devil's grave, the succeeding Sunday after his

"How art

victory, from the text, thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning?"

It would be endless to enumerate all the victories that the good people of Crawick obtained over the enemy of mankind and his emissaries in those days. And it would be as endless to enumerate the variety of appearances and fearful shapes he assumed, to frighten them out of the ways of righteousness. One Sunday night of a short winter day, a sober religious godly farmer was returning from sermon along the banks of the Crawick. The dark stormy clouds and still darker night were lowering gloomily over the green hills of Carco and Craignorth, and Knock-na-hair. The yellow ray of the wintry moon was unable to penetrate the thick veil of clouds that overshadowed her; and when the breath of the coming storm blew aside for a moment her cloudy covering, the yellow glare that fell upon the leafless woods served only to make the scene more dismal and dreary. There was not a voice to disturb the solitary meditations of the benighted traveller, saving the howling blast heard at intervals among the hills, which were then covered with trees and copsewood almost to their summits, and the lonely murmur of the waters lamenting the decayed beauty of the woods, and the desolation of the stormy winter. With a mind deeply impressed with the darkness and solitude of the surrounding seenery, the solemnity of a Sabbath evening, and the thoughts of death and eternity and another world, Auld Gairland, for that is the desig nation of our traveller, plodded his pathless way homeward amidst the gloom and stillness of midnight. He at length arrived at the deep haunted ravine, now known by the name of Carcoside Cleuch, where the appearance of white women have been seen so often walking in the moonlight, arrayed in winding-sheets; and the wailing of infants heard by benighted wanderers deep in the hollow glen, at the side of a black pool. He was now descending into the bottom of the Cleuch, the blasted branches were mingling darker over his head, when his ears were struck with frightful howlings in the hollow of the linn, sometimes resembling the growling of a huge mastiff, at other times the groans

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