which are observed from Chamouny. The sky seen from the sides of these white masses of ice appeared of a very dark blue, almost black. After having ascended another steep slope, we arrived at half-past eight at the last great platform, bounded on the right by the most elevated part of the Dome du Gouté, on the left by the last rocks we met with on this side, and on the south by an almost perpendicular slope, at the top of which, but a little higher, was the summit of Mont Blanc. Here our guides wished us joy, saying that now all our difficulties were surmounted. Never, they said, had an ascent more happily succeeded; and never had it been done more quickly or with so little difficulty. In truth, the snow had acquired the solidity which made walking on it easy; our footsteps did not sink too deep, and it was not too hard. None of the party felt indisposed, although we had experienced for some time the effects of the rarity of the air. My pulse was 128, and I was very thirsty. Our guides reminded us to breakfast here, as higher up, they said, the appetite for eating is lost. A cloth was spread upon the snow at the commencement of the great platform, which served us for chairs and table. Each eat heartily his half chicken; and I arranged many things for the observations and experiments which I intended to make when we got up. I wrote two notes to announce our arrival at the summit, leaving a blank for the hour to be afterwards filled up. I meant to tie them to a pigeon which I had with me, and which I wished to unloose on the top of the mountain, to see how it flew in air so rare, and to know afterwards if it could find its way back to Sallenches, where its companion was. We kept also a bottle of our best wine to drink upon the summit to the memory of Saussure.

At nine o'clock we set out to reach the top, which now rose before us. "Would you take a thousand pounds to go down in place of going up?" said one of my companions to his countryman." I would not now return for any money," replied he. We were all full of hope and joy to see ourselves so near the end of our journey. The favourable weather, the calm which reigned around us, the celestial air which we had respired during our reposc, gave birth in our

minds to impressions which are not felt in lower regions. I fancied myself already on the topmost ridge; in idea I broke off specimens of the most elevated rock in Europe to place in the cabinet of the Imperial Mineralogical Society of St Petersburgh, the Museum of Genoa, and other collections.

We traversed the great platform of snow, at the entrance of which we had breakfasted. During this passage I had occasion to remain a little behind, and it was not till near the angle on the right that I rejoined our company. We ascended nearly to the half of its height the great slope of snow, which, occupying all the breadth of the platform, rose to the summit of Mont Blanc. But as between this plane and the top there were ridges of ice almost vertical, we were obliged to cross the slope horizontally towards the left, to gain the last great rocks, (2300 toises,) from whence we already saw Italy, and from which, on turning to the right, we should mount to the summit, which was not more than 150 toises above us. We walked singly, the one after the other; for it was found convenient to put our feet in the footsteps made by the first guides, who were changed at intervals on account of the great fatigue.

We thus advanced in a line nearly horizontal, crossing the plane at the middle of its height; that is to say, at an almost equal distance from the ridges on our right, and the platform of snow on our left. Nobody spoke, for at this height speaking fatigued, and the air conveyed the sound but feebly. I was still the last of the party, and I walked only about twelve paces at once, when leaning upon my stick I stopped to make fifteen inspirations. I found that in this manner I could advance without exhausting myself. Furnished with green spectacles and a crape before my face, my eyes were fixed upon my steps, which I counted, when all at once I felt the snow recede from my feet. Think ing I only slipped, I struck in my stick on my left, but in vain; the snow which was accumulating on my right overturned me, covered me, and I felt myself drawn downwards with an irresistible force. I fancied at first that I was the only one of the party to whom this accident had occurred,

but feeling the snow accumulate upon me so as to hinder me from breathing, I imagined that a great avalanche had descended from the top of Mont Blanc, and pushed the snow before it. Every moment I expected to be crushed to pieces by this mass; in my descent I turned constantly round, and employed all my strength to divide with my arms the snow in which I was buried. At last I got out my head, and I saw a great part of the slope in motion; but as I happened to be near the edge of this moving portion, I used every exertion to get upon the firm snow, and at last succeeded. It was then only I was aware of my danger, for I found I was very near a chasm which terminated the slope, and separated it from the platform. At the same instant I saw still nearer this abyss the head of Mr Henderson appear above the snow, and I discovered at a greater distance Mr Dornford and three guides-but the five others appeared not. Still I hoped to see them come out of the snow when it stopped; but Mathieu Balmat cried "that all were lost in the chasm." I am unable to describe what then passed in my mind. I saw Mr Dornford throw himself on the snow in despair; and Mr Henderson was in a state which alarmed me for the consequences. But judge of our satisfaction when we saw, some minutes after, one of the guides come out of the chasm; our hurrah redoubled at the appearance of the second; and we now hoped that the other three might also appear, but, alas! we saw them

no more.

and ly

stick to the top in the snow, ing down, and applying my teeth to its end, I called the men by their names, listening afterwards with profound attention if I heard any noise. But all was in vain. The guides forced us to depart from the place; declared that our search was useless; and refused even the money which we offered if they would remain. They carried away Messrs Dornford and Henderson; and while I was yet sounding in the snow, which had passed the hollow to a great distance, they had gone a considerable way, so that I had to descend alone with Coutet, who had not even a stick ; but, absorbed in the horror of the event, I had become insensible to the sentiment of danger, and I cleared, without reflection, all the crevices. I rejoined my two companions at the Grand-Mulet only, from whence we departed for the glacier of Bossons, † and at half-past eight P. M. we were on our return to the Union Hotel at Chamouny without experiencing much fatigue. I was the more surprised at this, as after the accident I had, for upwards of an hour, made great exertions, at a height where the slight est movement exhausted our strength.

*

I shall add here a few words in explanation of our unhappy accident. It appears the upper bed of the snow on the slope lay on another bed, the surface of which was hardened and smooth; and as our track along the first bed had, in a manner, cut it across, the part above us began to slide over the other, forming, what they call in Oberland of Berne, Suoggischnee, or Rutschlavine. place where the first of our file walked, the slope was much steeper than near me, as I had measured it some

At the

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.

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 bottom. 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 examines them. Of this sort are mathematical, and, perhaps, some metaphysical and moral truths. We know that two and two are equal to four, &c.

Consciousness is knowledge. We 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

U u

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 inind or Deity.

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 sen timent 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 amounts 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 pen sion 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 cer tainly be much confounded; I should