his death. Death is robbed of his terrors by the manner in which the Christian dies; and never did death wear a serener aspect. That death seemed the still, waveless ocean of rest, in which the gentle stream of so calm and beautiful a life might lose its peaceful waters. He died without effort or motion, and apparently without consciousness. It was only ceasing to breathe, and the spirit was with its God."

After this rapid narrative, we would attempt a very brief sketch of his character.

We would say of his character that, though perfectly natural, it was evidently, and with deep mental care and toil, formed upon the Christian model. The meek and unostentatious virtues of Jesus Christ, his piety, as a part of himself, and deep seated in his soul, like a principle of life, and that calm dignity which must ever attend a pure mind, all whose aspirations are lofty and heavenward, were the leading features of his life. A mind of such a cast must necessarily preserve the very finest balance, looking upon all the objects of human pursuit with the justest diserimination, and forming the most accurate estimate of their comparative worth. That mind alone can preserve itself calm and gentle and dispassionate, which has a fixed standard within itself by which to adjust all outward and inward things. It is the strength and loftiness of one ascendant principle that preserves peace and moderation among all the other desires and passions of the soul. In Mr. Hincks this principle was evidently the spirit of his Master's religion, keeping the mind pure and serene by raising it to heights which the agitations of the atmosphere below do not reach, and enabling it, through its just appreciation of one transcendent object, to assign its proportioned importance to every inferior passion and pursuit. This is the only true principle of a meek and equable and dignified mind. Accordingly, there was nothing for which Mr. Hincks's mind was more distinguished than the accuracy of its moral judgments, and a correct moral imagination. There was an utter absence, both in his character and writings, of

anything excessive or overwrought. Everything was in its right place and in its right proportion. If he erred at all, it was in being too much rather than too little cautious, and especially in his compositions, sometimes enfeebling his style by throwing in qualifying words and clauses, through a fine and delicate conscientiousness, that could not bear to give strong and positive expression to what might admit of the shadow of a doubt. This eminent and difficult virtue, for so it is, was essentially the same part of his character as the meek and calm dignity of his mind.

Whoever is mild and forbearing from principle, and not from mere temperament, is also firm through the strength of the very same principle. This was strongly exemplified in Mr. Hincks. The convictions of his own mind were a constituted law, which we believe that he would have died rather than have transgressed. He possessed, in an extraordinary degree, that high virtue which is called moral courage. It was not that there was anything of pretension, or of uncalled for and undignified daringness in his cha racter, but simply that he was true to himself, and that nothing could tempt him to betray the trusts of his own mind. His moral nature was unspoiled, and seemed perfectly to perform the work for which God has given it to us. He seemed to feel virtue and vice, what is worthy of, and what is disgraceful to, our nature, with the fine and accurate perception of a distinct sense. With all the gentleness of charity, he could not conceal his indignant loathing of everything disreputable or unprincipled, and before he could be guilty of wounding his conscience, he must have made up his mind to have abhorred himself. We believe that he would fearlessly have done anything which he was convinced that it was his duty to do; and that at once to perform the task, however painful, and whatever sensibilities it might wound, was the only means of preserving a mind like his from absolute wretchedness.

It would be inexcusable not to make a separate mention of his piety, though it is essentially involved in the character we have so far described, As a mi

nister, it was his high praise that his power lay chiefly in his devotional character. The God of his prayers was the God who filled the temple of his hourly thoughts. He had not to forget any god of the earth when he sought the God of heaven. He looked habitually upon the present and the future world, upon sin, sorrow and death, in the light of a Father's countenance. In his unprovoked gentleness, in his bland manners, in his deep interest in all around him, and in his hopeful and brightening, though mild and humble spirit, piety was ripening her choicest fruits. His devotional services had a peculiar character of reality, as though he were giving simplest utterance to the experiences of his heart. His imagination, dwelling habitually in the purest regions, seemed to form, with a perfect ease, the rich combinations of beauty and grandeur, and to gather all that is attractive in another world to recommend heaven to the gained and unresisting heart.

That purity of mind and of imagination, which rendered him so familiar with the visions and the imagery of a brighter sphere, was connected with another, and, though apparently opposite, yet a perfectly consistent feature of his character. Every mind of a higher order, when it is perfectly innocent, and blessed with a piety in which there is no gloom or superstition, is keenly alive to all the pleasing associations of humour, and harmless gaiety and wit. Our susceptibility of this class of emotions has a more intimate connection with the higher part of our nature than is generally believed. It throws bright colours over life, sweetening our social intercourse, enlivening all that is dull or gloomy, and surrounding us with a perpetual and cheerful sunshine. In the fine perceptions of a pure and religious mind, there is often an exquisite relish for these peculiar emotions. This sportiveness and pleasantry of feeling was a very decided, though not a prominent, part of Mr. Hincks's character. There was too acute a feeling of propriety, and too accurate an observance of the due' proportions of the several parts of his character, ever to permit this susceptibility to become too marked, or

even to be generally known, except to those who were admitted to the intimacies of his mind. His friends will remember with delight the mild and radiant light that played around his social conversation; the blended affection and sportiveness of his temper; the charm and freshness of those happy feelings, and the beautiful connection that subsisted between the piety and the playfulness of his mind. From the predominance, however, of other feelings, and that refinement of mind which cannot exert itself freely, except where it is sure of being perfectly sympathized with, this was a part of his character that was but little known.

Perhaps his most extraordinary quality, and one which marked him most decidedly as belonging to a superior class of minds, was the beautiful union of humility and dignity in his character. His humility was evidently in reference to a higher standard than that of the beings around him, and was, therefore, uniformly tempered with a just self-respect. Even when exhbiting the lowliness of a child, there was that about him which claimed a respectful deference. He never lost sight of the sacredness of his character, nor suffered it to be forgotten that he was clothed with an office that claims respect. He succeeded in that at which every minister should aim, if he would shield himself from much suffering, and prevent his usefulness from being injured by unwise and ill-timed interferences, in surrounding himself with a certain fine, but felt and impassable barrier, which may not be rudely broken through.

If we were to look for the defects of his character, we should say, that he had, perhaps, fallen into the error of refined natures, and may have lost something of his practical usefulness by the extreme delicacy of his feelings. He could not act a part, nor exhibit a factitious interest, which he did not feel. With minds, therefore, in which he had no sympathy, he found it difficult to hold an intercourse, and to bring them sensibly under his influences. We know not, however, whether any opportunities which may have been thus lost to him, had not more than an

equivalent in the perfect belief in his sincerity which he so uniformly inspired, and in the unaffected simplicity and truth which belonged to every thing he did. It may, perhaps, be true, that he paid more severely than others that heavy tax which acute sensibilities impose upon their possessor, and which is only the necessary price of the high and refined enjoyment they afford. No one may number the wounds, and disappointments, and mortifications of such a heart. He may have suffered more than was right from this cause, and yielded too much to that suffering; but let not those blame who cannot understand, or censure feelings which arise out of what is finest, and most beautiful, and most immortal in our nature. These feelings, however they may have existed, never interfered with his active exertions. There was a sense of duty in his mind, stronger than its own sensibilities. He felt his own power, as every gifted mind must do, and confidently anticipated the time when he would make his influences more felt, and act upon society with a new energy and effect. God, however, has seen fit to call him to other spheres of action, where we may hope there are no silent and secret bleedings of the heart.

As a preacher, his character will, no doubt, be judged of by the sermons to which this short sketch is annexed; but they can convey but little idea of the effect which they produced, when detached from the fervour, and earnestness, and persuasiveness of his delivery. There was in his pulpit services all that charm which is occasioned by a deeply interested mind, and an absorbed and enthusiastic, though not impassioned manner. There was the excitement of principle, and of a mind habitually elevated, but not that warmth which is the produce of heated and momentary feelings. He wrought his effects by a purely moral power, by the adaptation of his own high and noble thoughts to the souls and consciences of his hearers. His whole soul was on his lips, as though he were breathing out the very truth of his heart. Those just and beautiful sentiments, whose vehicle was a voice of peculiar sweetness, were felt d