by leaders qualified to instruct the world. But one important work remained. The truth attained by these individual leaders, was to be made general-was to be spread among the people. And this can be secured only by a great struggle, and with imminent danger to the church. A new era now opens-a new form of Christian labor commences. Paul and Barnabas were sent out upon a missionary work by the gentile church of Antioch. While they were absent, some Jewish Christians of strong national feelings, came to Antioch and said to this church, "Except ye be circumcised after the manner of Moses, ye can not be saved." Paul and Barnabas, upon their return, found them there attempting to persuade the gentiles that without circumcision their faith in Christ would avail nothing. And Paul and Barnabas "had no small dissension and disputation with them." The question was of deepest moment to the church then, and in all the future. For, if circumcision must be submitted to, Jerusalem will be the place where men ought to worship, in all time to come. Therefore Paul and Barnabas, and certain other of them, "were elected to go" up to Jerusalem about this question. But a little while before they would have been disqualified to give an enlightened opinion upon the question. But in that first council were Peter, enlightened by the conversion of Cornelius; James, who had been instructed by Peter's account of that work; Barnabas, who gave a warm and full fellowship to the Antiochian church; and Paul, with his clear insight into the character of Christianity. The council decided that conformity to the Jewish ceremonies was not essential to salvation. And then was proclaimed, as the acknowledged doctrine of the whole church, that not by works of the Law, but by faith in Jesus Christ, men of every land may know and worship God!

The Spirit has guided into all truth, and nothing remains for Luke but the history of the extension of that truth" to all that are afar off." It is unnecessary, therefore, for us to follow him further. If we have succeeded in proving design in the Acts of the Apostles-a design wholly distinct from a purpose to give an historical record -our confidence and interest in the book must be increased, and its author must rise in our esteem as a pro

found thinker and critical observer. And if the object of the book is such as we have attempted to show, it removes the objection, so often and so pertinaciously urged by the skeptic, that the book is fragmentary and does not fulfil its promises. And what object would be more natural and commendable, after a long life of acquaintance with the inward struggles by which truth was attained, and the outward struggles by which it was spread in the earth, than to write the history, not merely of consecutive events, but of the Spirit's guidance into all truth, and of the extension of that truth, "beginning at Jerusalem," "to the uttermost parts of the earth?"

B. S.

ART. VI.

Rev. Henry Bacon.

Memoir of Rev. Henry Bacon. By Mrs. E. A. Bacon. Boston: Abel Tompkins. 1857. pp. 361.

It is a delicate, a responsible task, for one human being to write the record of the life of another. For what is the record of a life? It is not that so many years were passed at one place, and so many at another; that such a work was performed, and such a character sustained, before men. This is not all; behind all outer manifestations, is something deeper. To know the life, we need to enter behind the veil. By what is performed we can indeed judge much; but still, the human heart craves more than this;-it asks to be let into the motives which have influenced that life, into the circumstances which have made it what it is to follow it up from the time the plastic soul received its first impressions, and see with what influences it has been surrounded, what struggles it has resisted, what experiences have come to it, and how they have been received-it is eager to know the atmosphere cast around the seclusion of home, and to obtain glimpses of that spirit-life which, after all, is the true life.

Were it not so, it were no difficult task to write a biog

raphy; it would be like the record of a journey, telling us that the traveller stopped at such and such places, and saw such and such things, but revealing to us no thoughts suggested by the scenes, and giving no reason to believe that his impressions, if he received any, made him any wiser or better.

And to do this work in a way to make the life of the departed speak to us as no living voice can speak,-showing how a human being has lived, suffered and enjoyed, what he has resisted and what he has performed, it is essential that its history should be written by one who thoroughly understood it-who saw through all its outer coverings, all its natural infirmities-who saw into the motives of every action, the secret springs of every thought-knew and appreciated the cravings and aspirations of the spirit, and enjoyed that entire sympathy and communion which maketh the heart as open and clear as it is possible for one human heart to be before another. The fact that these conditions are seldom complied with, is one reason why our shelves are piled with so many biographies, which, beyond the immediate circle of friends, are uninteresting and uninstructive. They are narratives of events and facts and dates, but are dry and barren, Jacking soul and vitality.

This is not the case with the book before us. 'The life of Henry Bacon is here given, by one who was, as it were, but another part of that life, and who knew and appreciated him as no other on earth could know and appreciate him; his every thought and aspiration were confided to her with a surety of meeting with all the encouragement and sympathy needed. An autobiography could be no truer than this memoir,-indeed we question if so true; for, looking from a clear point of vision, the faithful biographer knew him better even than he knew himself; and when this life was written, it was as if the spirit of the departed guided the pen. In these pages he speaks to us as powerfully and effectually as he spoke with his living voice-how powerfully and effectually that was, very many of us know full well. In the pages before us, his life shines forth an example of Christian piety, of untiring industry, of fervent zeal, of unswerving perseverance in the right, and fearless denunciation of the

wrong. To make that life appear to us what it truly was to make it speak with the power and unction of his living presence-to present it in all phases, private, social, and public, to give us glimpses of that inner life which was not shown to the world-and through all these to lead us to do that justice to the departed, which, while living, he, like many others, may not have had meted out to him—and in all things to be true and faithful to her subject, seerns to have been the chief desire of his biographer. How well she has succeeded in this work,-which has been a constant thought by day and night, and the subject of many prayers, we now intend to consider.

Henry Bacon was born in Boston in the year 1813, and was the sixth of a family of ten children. As "the child is father of the man," we see in his strongly-marked childhood, the same characteristics which stamped his after life. We see the little boy sitting in church by his mother's side, and as she points out the hymn, and folds his little hands in prayer, we see the beginning of that deep reverence which always distinguished him. We see, too, that strong love of his mother which remained with him. through all his manhood, till, in his last sickness, the desire to see her, the conviction so strong within him that she would comfort him as no other on earth could do, grew into a longing so intense that it was almost painful to witness it. A little boy, he went with her on her errands of benevolence, and doubtless in those visits were instilled that generosity and whole-souled charity which were ever his. We find, too, that conscientiousness in the boy, which, when he had uttered a profane word in his mother's presence, sent him from the room in shame and distress. "I was condemned by the thought that I had uttered profanity in the presence of my mother." At another time, seized by an ardent longing to be present at the "Commencement," he at last decided to go without returning to inform his mother. He prepares himself; and in that boyish preparation was seen the extreme nicety with regard to personal appearance which ever clung to him.

"He took off his straw hat, and fixed the brim of it a little more even, and pushed out two dents in the crown, and then put it on

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more carefully. He stepped up to a low window-sill, and with a piece of paper wiped his bootees clean, tied the leather strings over again more neatly, and then went to the town pump' to wash his hands, shaking them till they were dry from the washing. Then he rubbed them together to get them still more dry, that with his thumb and forefinger he might smooth out the collar he had on. While doing this, he happened to pass a looking-glass store, and he stopped at the window to see himself by the aid of a large mirror there placed for a show. There he was at full length. The mirror was bent over just enough to suit him. He could see every thing, from hat to bootees, and really Henry thought he was not a bad-looking boy. His skin was very white and girlish looking. His hair was light as flax, very fine, and parted from left to right over his forehead, underneath which just peered out two clear blue eyes, whose tender expression singularly contrasted with the long upper lip and firm expression of the mouth, seeming to say he could easily be moved by an appeal to his affections, and could be inflexibly firm when occasion required. Here was his danger, and here was his defence. The face suited him. It glowed with excitement; and when he left the study of that face for a glance at his clothing, he felt that his dress would do, and not having his best suit to take care of, he should have the more fun."

"After many trials, he at last comes in sight of Cambridge; but

"His longing for Commencement' was more than a match for his bodily endurance, and now he sat down on the railing by the roadside to rest a while. As he sat here he saw some dandelions, and some of them which were in decay seemed to nod their heads to him. The old superstition came to his mind, that if you take one of these tops, and with a single breath blow off all the down, your mother wants you. He got down from the railing and stepped over on the marsh, and plucked near the road the long stem of a dandelion, with its round top full of downy seeds. His hand trembled as he held it up, and he blew upon the down, when but a portion of it fell off. Henry's face lighted up with joy.

"Mother don't want me!' he gladly said to himself, and he had put one hand on to the rail to spring into the road again. But his heart beat quick. He didn't feel right. I was tired, he said,' and didn't blow strong enough.' Henry's conscience was uneasy. He kept his hand resting on the rail, and now he began to whistle, but the tune was a serious one. He sighed, he looked up the road, he saw the people flocking to the festivities, and he thought he heard the sound of the music on the college green; but if he did, the peal of the church bell soon took it away from his ear. It was the bell ring