THE INSPIRATION OF THE HOLY

SCRIPTURES.**

We have been far more pleased with the interesting little tract mentioned below, than with any production of the same size None of which we happen to have seen. the larger treatises, Dr. Henderson's for instance, much less Dr. Carson's, have met our own views of the subject so nearly; and we do strongly recommend Mr. Gotch's discourse to such of our readers as feel any interest in the present controversies on Inspiration. We saw it asserted in a contemporary last month, that Mr. Gotch had "conceded" too much. Probably Mr. Gotch, like ourselves, had nothing to concede, having never been able to accept those extravagant views of Inspiration, which endanger, rather than strengthen, the faith of reflecting and intelligent christians.

It is very important to bear in mind what is the real nature and importance of the question of Inspiration, as amongst sincere christians. It is not whether there be such a thing as Inspiration, nor whether the Scriptures are inspired or not, but how Inspiration takes place. All men "who have the spirit of Christ," who are "born of God," have the "witness in themselves;" they recognize the divinity of God's word by the Spirit of God dwelling within them. Their faith in its being a divine communication does not rest on external evidences merely or chiefly. Like the men of Samaria, although their first interest may have been attracted by miracles or other evidences, they have heard the Lord himself, and know that this is indeed "the Messiah, the Saviour of the world." Religion, as revealed in the Scriptures, is to every believer as manifestly the moral work of God as the starry firmament or the wonders of animated creation are his natural work. It is deeply to be regretted, therefore, when good men, like Dr. Carson, so far forget their fallibility as almost to anathematize any other theory of Inspiration than their own. They contend for the Inspiration of the very letter of Scripture, and verily in their hands the letter killeth; for their de

nunciations breathe the wrath and assump. tion of infallibility which in other times have persecuted even unto death. Nor is it much better, when every variation from the opinions of Wesley, Booth, Gill, or Fuller, is regarded as a movement towards latitudinarianism or infidelity. That the bible is the word of God, that is, in opposition to ancient Fathers or modern sectfounders, the only authority to which a christian ought to bow, this is heartily, joyfully recognised by every true disciple of Christ. But that any disciple is permitted to say to his fellow-disciple, you must believe Inspiration to be "verbal," or "dictation," or "possession by the Divine Spirit;" or that messages about "cloaks," and genealogical tables, are equally inspired with doctrinal teachings or predictions of the Messiah; otherwise you are an infidel in heart,-every christian who really believes in the duty of private judgment, will at once indignantly deny. How Inspiration took place is not recorded. We may gather some dim conceptions from casual hints; we may feel it of interest to discuss these hints; but while the result, viz., that the bible is the word of God, is a proper object of faith, how God brought about that result cannot be an object of faith, for it is never required of us to believe either one theory or another.

Indeed, a great part of the question is purely metaphysical. It turns on the means by which God can communicate knowledge to the human mind. Some conceive he cannot do it except by language, and that to describe accurately Divine ideas, men must be supplied with words by the Divine Being himself. Others think it more natural to suppose, that except it be explicitly recorded that certain words were delivered by God himself to the sacred writer, that the ideas were presented to the mind of the latter, and that he was left to clothe them in his own language. It is clear that the difference between these conceptions does not at all affect the result. The latter view, however, has the advantage of explaining naturally the exceeding variety of style and language in the sacred writers. "Holy

men of old spoke," not as they were dictated to, but "as they were moved by the Holy Ghost." The impetus was divine and controlling, but the words were those of the man. To account for the unquestionable fact that the language of the books of the bible is as various as the number of the authors, and is not, as it ought to be on the dictation theory, of the same character throughout (the one Holy Spirit dictating, of course, in the same style by all his agents), Dr. Carson and others affirm that those words were dictated by the Holy Spirit which the writers themselves would have used! But thus God is made to deceive us. He presents to us every reasonable evidence, that whoever supplied the thoughts, the writer ordinarily supplied the words, that while the treasures were divine, the vessels were earthen; while the only proof that God herein deludes us is a most unnatural straining of two or three passages. We once heard a Professor of Theology affirm that the fossil skeletons and remains of animals which prove that there was death in the animal world before the introduction of sin, indeed before Adam's creation, were created as they are to beguile infidels; his only reason being, that he chose to believe that even animals did not die before the Fall! Divines should beware of all such violent and unnatural attempts to sustain old or favourite interpretations of the Divine Word. It is the certain way to generate scepticism in the minds of the enquiring. It surely should never be forgotten, that though the word of God be infallible, men's interpretations of it, and theories about it, are as fallible as the men themselves.

Mr. Gotch's chief position is, that Inspiration belonged to the writers, properly speaking, and not to the words; that it was not, however, a mere subjective brightening or strengthening of the ordinary faculties of the writer, but a communication of objective knowledge; in all this we fully agree. We would add, that we cannot conceive that knowledge having been once fully communicated, did not abide as a constant possession, as well as the mental and moral fitness to be vehicles for imparting divine knowledge to men. Hence it appears to us that" Paul was as much inspired in his speech at Athens, and in all his religious teachings, as in writing the Epistle to the Romans." Indeed to us it appears to involve much more unsettling consequences, to deny the permanent inspiration of the apostles, than to deny the mechanical, dictation, or verbal theories on the subject.

Let not, however, the faith of good men be shaken by subtle discussions. Let the grand fact to which the apostles, as mere men, were amply competent to bear witness, and for which above all they contended, the Resurrection of Christ, be but cordially believed, and all the rest will inevitably follow: his divine mission, his expiatory sufferings, his competency to inspire his servants, the evidence in what they wrote that he did so, the verisimilitude of every important fact and doctrine in the New Testament, and by implication in the Old, too, all naturally follow from faith in him as a RISEN Saviour. The foundation of God standeth sure. The theories of divines prove too often but a house built upon the sand.

SANDY WRIGHT AND THE POOR

ORPHAN.

Early in the month of April, 1734, three Cromarty boatmen, connected with the Custom-house, were journeying along the miserable road which at this period winded between the capital of the Highlands and that of the kingdom. They had already traveled since morning, more than thirty miles through the wild Highlands of Inverness-shire, and were now toiling along the steep side of an uninhabited valley of Bade

noch. A dark sluggish morass, with a surface as level as a sheet of water, occupied the bottom of the valley; a few scattered tufts of withered grass were mottled over it, but the unsolid, sooty-coloured spaces between were as bare of vegetation as banks of sea-weed left by the receding tide. On either hand, a series of dreary mountains thrust up their jagged and naked summits into the middle sky. A scanty covering of heath was thrown over their bases, except where the frequent streams of loose debris

which had fallen from above were spread over them; but higher up, the heath altogether disappeared, and the eye rested on what seemed an endless fall of bare gloomy cliffs, partially covered with snow.

The evening-for day was fast drawing to a close was as melancholy as the scene. A dense volume of grey cloud hung over the valley like a ceiling, and seemed descending along the cliffs. There was scarcely any wind, but at times a wreath of vapour would come rolling into a lower region of the valley, as if shot out from the volume above; and the chill bleak air was filled with small specks of snow, so light and fleecy that they seemed scarcely to descend, but, when caught by the half-perceptible breeze, went sailing past the boatmen in long horizontal lines. It was evident there impended over them one of those terrible snow-storms, which sometimes overwhelm the hapless traveller in these solitudes; and the house in which they were to pass the night was still nearly ten miles away.

The gloom of evening, deepened by the coming storm, was closing around them as they entered one of the wildest recesses of the valley,-an immense precipitous hollow scooped out of the side of one of the hills; the wind began to howl through the cliffs; and the thickening flakes of snow to beat against their faces. "It will be a terrible night, lads, in the Moray Frith," said the foremost traveller, a broad-shouldered, deepchested, strong-looking man, of about five feet eight; "I would ill like to hae to beat up through the drift along the rough shores o' Cadboll. It was in just such a night as this, ten years ago, that old Walter Hogg went down in the Red Sally."—"It will be as terrible a night, I'm feared, just where we are, in the black strath o' Badenoch," said one of the men behind, who seemed much fatigued; "I wish we were a' safe i' the clachan."-"Hoot, man," said Sandy Wright, the first speaker, "it canna now be muckle mair than sax miles afore us, an' we'll hae the tail of the gloamin' for half an hour yet. But, what's that?" he exclaimed, pointing to a little figure that seemed sitting by the side of the road, about twenty yards before him; it's surely a fairy!" The figure rose from its seat, and came up, staggering apparently from extreme weakness, to meet them. It was a boy, scarcely more than ten years of age. "Oh, my puir boy," said Sandy Wright, "what can hae

ta'en ye here in a night like this ?"" [ was going to Edinburgh, to my friends," replied the boy," for my mother died and left me among the freines; but I'm tired, and canna walk farther; and i'll be lost, I'm feared, in the yown drift." "That ye winna, my puir bairn," said the boatman, "if I can help it; gi'es a hand o' your han’” grasping, as he spoke, the extended hand of the boy; "dinna tine heart, an' lean on me as muckle's ye can." But the poor little fellow was already exhausted, and after a vain attempt to proceed, the boatman bad to carry him on his back.

The storm burst out in all its fury, and the travelers, half suffocated, and more than half blinded, had to grope onwards along the rough road, still more roughened by the snow-wreaths that were gathering over it. They stopped at every fiercer blast, and turned their backs to the storm to recover breath; and every few yards they advanced, they had to stoop to the earth to ascertain the direction of their path, by catching the outline of the nearer objects between them and the sky. After many a stumble and fall, however, and many a groan and exclamation from the two boatmen behind, who were well-nigh worn out, they all reached the clachan in safety about two hours after nightfall.

The inmates were seated round an immense peat fire, placed, according to the custom of the country, in the middle of the floor. They made way for the travellers, and Sandy Wright, drawing his seat nearer the fire, began to chafe the hands and feet of the boy, who was almost insensible from cold and fatigue. "Bring us a mutchkin o' brandy here," said the boatman, "to drive out the cauld frae our hearts; an', as supper canna be ready for a while yet, get me a piece of bread for the boy. He has had a narrow escape, puir little fellow, an' maybe there's some that would miss him, lanerly as he seems. Only hear how the win' roars on the gable, an' rattles at the winnocks and the door. It's an awfu' night in the Moray Frith."

Sandy Wright shared with the boy his supper and his bed, and on setting out on the following morning he brought him along with him, despite the remonstrances of the other boatmen, who dreaded his proving an incumbrance.

The story of the little fellow, though simple, was very affecting. His mother, a poor widow, had lived for the five preced

(ing years in the vicinity of Inverness, sup ̈porting herself and her boy by her skill as a sempstress. As early as his sixth year he had shewn a predilection for reading, and, with the anxious solicitude of a Scottish mother, she had wrought late and early to keep him at school. But her efforts were above her strength, and, after a sore struggle of nearly four years, she at length sunk under them. "Oh," said the boy to his companion, "often would she stop in the middle of her work, and lay her hand on her breast, and then she would ask me what I would do when she would be dead, and we would both greet. Her fingers grew white and sma', and she couldna sit up at nights as before; but her cheeks were redder and bonnier than ever, and I thought that she surely wouldna die; she had told me that she wasna eighteen years older than mysel'. Often, often when I waukened in the morning she would be greetin' at my bedside, and I mind one day, when I brought home the first prize from school, that she drew me till her, an' told me, wi' the tear in her ee, that the day would come when her head would be low, that my father's gran' friends, who were ashamed o' her because she was poor, would be proud that I was connected wi' them. She soon couldna hold up her head at all, and if it wasna for a neighbour woman, who hadna muckle to spare, we would have starved. I couldna go to the school, for I needed to stay and watch by her bedside, and do things in the house; and it vexed her more that she was keeping me from my learning than that hersel' was sae ill. But I used to read chapters to her out of the Bible. One day when she was very sick, two neighbour women came in, and she called me to her, and told me, that when she would be dead I would need go to Edinburgh, for I had no friends anywhere else. Her own friends were there, she said, but they were poor and couldna do muckle for me; and my father's friends were there too, and they were gran' and rich, though they wadna own her. She told me no to be feared by the way, for that Providence kent every bit o't, and he would make folk to be kind to me; and then she kissed me, and grat, and bade me go to the school. When I came out she was lying wi' a white cloth on her face, and the bed was all white. She was dead, and I could do nothing but greet a' that night, and she was dead still. I'm now traveling to Edinburgh, as she bade me, and folk are

kind to me just as she said; and I have letters to show me the way to my mother's friends when I reach the town; for I can read and write." Such was the narrative of the poor boy.

Throughout the whole journey, Sandy Wright was a father to him. He shared with him his meals and his bed, and usually, for the last half-dozen miles of every stage, he carried him on his back.

"An' now, my boy," said the boatman, as they reached the West-port, "I ha'e business to do at the Custom-house, an' some money to get; but I maun first try and find out your friends for ye. Look at the letters and tell me the street where they put up." The boy untied his little bundle, which contained a few shirts and stockings, a parcel

of papers, and a small box. "What's a' the papers about?" enquired the boatman, "an' what have ye in the wee box?" "My mither," said the boy, "bade me be sure to keep the papers, for they tell of her marriage to my father, and the box hauds her ring. She could have got money for it when she was sick, and no able to work, she said, but she would sooner starve than part wi't; and I widna like to part wi't either, to ony bodie but yoursel'-but if ye would take it?" He opened the box, and passed it to his companion. It contained a valuable diamond ring. "No, no, my boy," said the boatman, "that widna do; the ring's a bonnie ring, an' something bye ordinar, though I be no judge; but, blessings on your head! tak ye care o't, an' part wi't on no account, to ony bodie. Hae ye found out the direction ?" The boy named some place in the vicinity of the Cowgate, and in a few minutes they were walking up the Grass-market.

She

"Oh, yonder's my aunt," exclaimed the boy, pointing to a young woman who was coming down the street; "yonder's my mother's sister!" and away he sprang to meet her. She immediately recognised and welcomed him; and he introduced the boatman to her, as the kind friend who had rescued him from the snow-storm. related in a few words the story of the boy's parents. His father had been a dissipated young man, of good family, whose follies had separated him from his friends; and the difference he had rendered irreconcilable by marrying a low-born, but industrious and virtuous woman; who, despite of her birth, was deserving of a better husband. In a few years he had sunk into indigence

and contempt, and in the midst of a wretchedness, which would have been still more complete had it not been for the efforts of his wife, he was seized by a fever, of which he died. "Two of his brothers,"" said the woman, "who are gentlemen of the law, were lately enquiring about the boy, and will, I hope, interest themselves in his behalf."

In this hope the boatman cordially acquiesced. "An' now, my boy," said he, as he bade him farewell, "I have just one groat left yet; it's an honest groat, any how; an' I'm sure I wish it luck."

Eighteen years elapsed before Sandy Wright again visited Edinburgh. He had quitted it a robust, powerful man of fortyseven, and returned to it a grey-headed old man of sixty-five. His humble fortunes, too, were sadly in the wane. His son Wilfiam, a gallant young fellow, who had risen in a few years, on the score of merit alone, from the forecastle to a lieutenancy, had headed, under Admiral Vernon, some desperate enterprise, and from which he never returned; and the boatman himself, when on the eve of retiring on a small pension, from his long service in the Custom-house, was dismissed without a shilling, on the charge of having connived at the escape of a smuggler. He was slightly acquainted with one of the inferior clerks in the Edinburgh Custom-house, and in the slender hope that this person might prove powerful enough to get him reinstated, he had now traveled from Cromarty to Edinburgh, a weary journey of nearly two hundred miles. He had visited the clerk, who had given him scarcely any encouragement; and he was now waiting for him in a street near Brown-square, where he had promised to meet him in less than half an hour. more than two hours had elapsed; and Sandy Wright, fatigued and melancholy, was sauntering slowly along the street, musing on his altered circumstances, when a gentleman, who passed him with the quick, hurried step of a person engaged in business, stopped abruptly a few yards away, and, returning at a much slower pace, eyed him stedfastly as he repassed. He again came forward, and stood. "Are you not Mr. Wright?" he enquired. "My name, Sir, is Sandy Wright," exclaimed the boatman, touching his bonnet. The face of the stranger glowed with pleasure, and grasping him by the hand, "Oh, my good, kind friend,

But

The boatman accompanied him to an elegant house in Brown-square, and was ushered into a splendid apartment, where there sat a madonna-looking young lady, engaged in reading. "Who of all the world have I found," said the advocate to the young lady, "but good Sandy Wright, the kind, brave man who rescued me when perishing in the snow, and who was so true a friend to me when I had no friend besides." The lady welcomed the boatman with one of her most fascinating smiles, and held out her hand. "How happy I am," she said, "that we should have met with you. Often has Mr. Hamilton told me of your kindness to him, and regretted that he should have no opportunity of acknowledging it." The boatman made one of his best bows, but he had no words for so fine a lady.

The advocate enquired kindly after his concerns, and was told of his dismissal from the Custom-house. "I'll vouch," he exclaimed, "it was nothing an honest man should be ashamed of." "Oh! only a slight matter, Mr. Hamilton," said the boatman; "an' truth I couldna weel do other than what I did, though I should hae to do't o'er again. I have an acquaintance

in the Custom-house here, Mr. Scrabster, the clerk; an' I came up ance errand to Edinburgh in the hope that he might do something for me; but he's no verra able, I'm thinking, an' I'm feared no verra willing; an' so, Mr. Hamilton, I just canna help it. My day, o'course o' nature, canna be verra long, an' Providence, that has aye carried me through as yet, winna, surely, let me stick now." "Ah, no, my poor friend," said the advocate; "make up your mind, however, to stay for a few weeks with Helen and me, and I'll try in the meantime what my little influence may be able to do you at the Custom-house."

for

A fortnight passed away very agreeably to the boatman. Mrs. Hamilton, a fascinating young creature of very superior mental endowments, was delighted with his character and his stories: the latter opened