stand its bearings in the voyage of life the truth which is the compass to steer its entire way; namely, that nature is constant in her processes and that the mind is able to search out and understand them by the use of its own veracious powers. This, the first principle of progress, can never be proved more true than it was at the beginning of the search, but as the application of the doctrine is found to be successful at every step the result obtained by its use is an à posteriori confirmation of its truth. Thus it is sustained with equal clearness by the only possible methods by which we can be sure of anything. The discovery of America by Columbus did not create the New World. The establishment of a new fact or the verification of a principle does not create them. For if there were no principle lying back of the forces which have brought it about the fact itself could not have taken place. So the new evidence at each advance of science by which it verifies itself again in some relation new to us is not necessary to the establishment of this uniformity which had to be assumed before there could be a single step forward in knowledge. It is simply a wider generalization of that which had been constant, so far as observed. It is therefore making clearer to ourselves and others that which had already an essential existence but had not been applied in the new discovery. The analytical judgment had not been expanded in all its applications. The knowledge of new facts pushes farther forward the line separating ignorance from knowledge. So the wider application of the same laws does not add to their validity. And while this process goes on continually it shows no more certainty in the application of scientific principles, but brings a wider domain under the control of known and positive law, and instructs the mind how to govern its possessions.

If there could be a single instance shown where nature does not act uniformly the whole principle would be rendered doubtful. But such is the unshaken confidence of all men of science, even if they be agnostics on questions of intellect or morals, that an apparent exception is treated not as contradictory to an established principle but as not yet understood in all its bearings, and hence awaiting explanation and verification. No doubt lurks in the mind of the most obstinate doubter, no misgiving in the language of the

most thoroughgoing agnostic, that there is truth in material nature somewhere; that things have an essential constitution and are regulated by some principle so as to produce a definite result. But our powers are so weak and vacillating that they cannot discover the language that nature speaks, and therefore in many instances her utterances have no meaning for us. The agnostic should best understand his own powers, but if consistent would never open his lips to utter an opinion. The utmost license he should allow himself is to point his finger* to that which he neither has understood nor can ever know, yet by this gesture even he transcends the limits which agnosticism theoretically imposes upon itself. For if he points his finger he either has knowledge or thinks he has. This induces him to call others' attention to that which must have enlisted his own with sufficient force to awaken the desire to impart to some one else that which he possesses. But of course the agnostic must know that he cannot know, and he has to meet the peculiar difficulty of compelling himself to prove a negative.

This process of experiment in enlarging our knowledge of the domain of uniformity must go on without ever ceasing, and each step seems to be, if that were possible, a renewed confirmation. It will go on forever because the work of science, as registering facts and showing their relations both to those hitherto known and those constantly coming to our knowledge, can never end. The proof by experiment is the asymptotic curve. We know that if carried to infinity it will meet the straight line of absolute universality, but in actual practice this can never be effected. The mind at the end of its quest, as at the beginning, must rest upon the à priori truth that nature in all her domains is absolutely uniform. This truth must antedate hopeful experiment and support the entire structure of scientific knowledge. Accordingly, as we have a body of scientific truth constantly growing in extent and accuracy, we have a drastic refutation of agnosticism.

* Aristot., Metaph., book iii, cap. v, 1010 α. καὶ οἷαν (δόξάν) Κρειτύλος εἶχεν, ὃς τὸ τελευταῖον οὐθὲν ᾤετο δεῖν λέγειν, αλλὰ τον δάκτυλον ἐκίνει μόνον· κ.τ.λ.

Jacob Corper,

ART. V.-PASTOR HOFFMANN, OF HALLE.

HALLE, the seat of a famous university, has been highly favored in the quality of her preachers. Two hundred years ago August Hermann Francke was there in the midst of his great and fruitful labors. Almost one hundred years after his death, in 1727, there came to Halle the young but already distinguished professor of theology, August Tholuck-probably even greater in the pulpit than in the professor's chair. Nor was Tholuck the only notable preacher whom the university could boast in that period. His great colleague, Julius Müller, preached, it is true, rather infrequently, but he preached so well that some-for instance, Albrecht Ritschl, as student in Halle in the early forties-preferred him to Tholuck. And then there was their younger colleague, Beyschlag, a preacher of great elegance and power. But even here the list is not complete, for the university has several men still living whose preaching is very strong and fine. Outside of the university, however, there was in Halle one preacher in the last century who deserved to be ranked with Tholuck. This was Heinrich Hoffmann (died 1899). We must have added another name, that of Ahlfeld, but for the fact that he remained so short a time in Halle. Hoffmann has not yet attained to universal fame in the Church. Whether he ever shall time alone can tell, but there are not wanting distinguished critics who regard him as the greatest German preacher of the last three decades of the nineteenth century. Professor Herrmann, of Marburg, once remarked in conversation: "I believe the impression generally prevails abroad that the preaching in Germany is poor. And if one should judge by the preaching one hears in certain localities I grant the impression is altogether natural. But I always tell the foreign students of theology, 'If you would know German preaching at its best read Hoffmann." And some years earlier this same distinguished theologian wrote the following: "If I could preach like F. W. Robertson or Heinrich Hoffmann I should make haste to give the Church as preacher of the Gospel the best that can be given her, and should cease to be an academic

theologian." The significance of this appreciation is the more manifest when we consider how far apart these men stood in their theology. Professor Haupt, of Halle, has unreservedly declared: "Hoffmann is the greatest preacher I have ever heard. We have more famous preachers, for instance Kögel; but I prefer Hoffmann to them all."

Heinrich Hoffmann was born in 1821 in Magdeburg, as son of a bank secretary. His parents were unusually pious and the boy's home life was happy and wholesome. An uncle, too-a man of much wisdom and grace, who had studied theology but because of ill health could not assume a pastor's labors-showed him much affection and exerted a strong influence upon his development. Probably Hoffmann's most marked trait in his boyhood was an excessive shyness, which he never wholly overcame. Until, at the age of eighteen, he left the gymnasium for the university he had had but two intimate friendships. Not that he lacked the susceptibility for friendship; he was simply shy. But he was also sickly. From his thirteenth year on he entertained thoughts of dying. He acquired at that period a cough from which he never afterward was wholly free. This sickliness caused him as a boy to be much alone, and in this way he had opportunity to gratify a strong passion for reading. He also early developed an ardent love for nature, which remained a leading trait of his character throughout life.

When the time came for Hoffmann to leave the gymnasium and go to a university to prepare for some profession he yielded to his father's desire that he should study theology-and herein he manifested a trait of character of which he himself was very conscious. He called it "the lack of initiative." It will be interesting to read his own account of this decisive turning point in his life:

My spontaneity was always very slight; in things that were not directly matters of conscience I have always been much inclined to be controlled from without." I was wont to suffer myself to be led; and so it was in the most decisive turning point of my outward life. . . . Ah, my father did not know what a responsibility he assumed. He had, though, no idea of what the ministry really is, else he had doubtless rather taken the same attitude to the question of the choice of my vocation as my wiser

...

uncle. Well-I doubt not the Lord had his hand upon it all. For my own part, I was able to judge neither myself nor the ministerial office, which, however, I reverenced. I wonder that my bashfulness did not deter me. Whenever I considered that I should at some time have to appear publicly before a congregation and preach, I shuddered at the thought; this I remember plainly enough. Besides, it was always a puzzle to me how I should be able to bring together so many thoughts that I might continue to speak till the hour had struck. . . . In short, I really do not know how I made bold to resolve to become a clergyman. A man that had not the least inward impulse to exert direct influence upon others, that regarded it as a terrible thing to have to appear in public, a man that was not, indeed, unwilling to work, and to work, too, in the realm of thought, that had also a sense for the ideal and was warm toward the truth of the Gospel, and yet was ever only inclined to grub and dig for myself. On the religious side I had nothing whatever against the ministry of the word of God. The inward connecting point for my subsequent vocation lay absolutely alone in the awakened Christian receptivity of my spirit, conscience, and thinking. At the same time I know only too well that in deciding upon my vocation my attitude was at bottom a passive one. The agony of choosing I did not pass through. . . . When I at Berlin had myself inscribed as student in the theological faculty I subscribed to the renunciation of a good part of the happiness of life, and did not suspect it. If an essential element in one's happiness is a vocation to which one has decided inclination and natural talent-well, to this present day I do not find either the one or the other in me.

And yet he learned more and more to trust that the Lord had led him. Near the close of his ministry he wrote:

Far be it from me to complain of the way in which-with infinite secret sighing, indeed-I have traveled. I believe that the Lord has willed it even as it has come to pass. I believe, too, that herein he designed all for my best good, only-I cannot understand it.

But let us return to the young student. Hoffmann went in October, 1839, to Berlin. The theological faculty was a most distinguished one, yet only one of its professors-Neander-made a notable impression upon him. Hengstenberg's sharp polemics repelled him. In Berlin he remained but two semesters, all the time lonesome and unsatisfied. He longed for closer contact with the charms of landscape and also, though he scarcely suspected it, for some satisfying human friendships. These he chanced not to find in Berlin, and his social instinct was beginning to assert itself. In the autumn of 1840 he went, with his father's consent, to Halle. He had hoped there to find "the world greener." And there indeed