tones, such burning eyes, such
dreadful threatenings, such awful appeals? He was not artistic in the
use of words and phrases like Bourdaloue, but he reached the conscience
and the heart like Whitefield. He never sought to amuse; he would not
stoop to any trifling. He told no stories; he made no witticisms; he
used no tricks. He fell back on truths, no matter whether his hearers
relished them or not; no matter whether they were amused or not. He was
the messenger of God urging men to flee as for their lives, like Lot
when he escaped from Sodom.

Savonarola's manner was as effective as his matter. He was a kind of
Peter the Hermit, preaching a crusade, arousing emotions and passions,
and making everybody feel as he felt. It was life more than thought
which marked his eloquence,--his voice as well as his ideas, his
wonderful electricity, which every preacher must have, or he preaches to
stones. It was himself, even more than his truths, which made people
listen, admire, and quake. All real orators impress themselves--their
own individuality--on their auditors. They are not actors, who represent
other people, and whom we admire in proportion to their artistic skill
in producing deception. These artists excite admiration, make us forget
where we are and what we are, but kindle no permanent emotions, and
teach no abiding lessons. The eloquent preacher of momentous truths and
interests makes us realize them, in proportion as he feels them himself.
They would fall dead upon us, if ever so grand, unless intensified by
passion, fervor, sincerity, earnestness. Even a voice has power, when
electrical, musical, impassioned, although it may utter platitudes. But
when the impassioned voice rings with trumpet notes through a vast
audience, appealing to what is dearest to the human soul, lifting the
mind to the contemplation of the sublimest truths and most momentous
interests, then there is _real_ eloquence, such as is never heard in the
theatre, interested as spectators may be in the triumphs of
dramatic art.

But I have dwelt too long on the characteristics of that eloquence which
produced such a great effect on the people of Florence in the latter
part of the fifteenth century. That ardent, intense, and lofty monk,
world-deep like Dante, not world-wide like Shakspeare, Who filled the
cathedral church with eager listeners, was not destined to uninterrupted
triumphs. His career was short; he could not even retain his influence.
As