Savonarola was transcendent in his oratorical gifts, the like of which has never before nor since been witnessed in Italy.  He was a born orator; as vehement as Demosthenes, as passionate as Chrysostom, as electrical as Bernard.  Nothing could withstand him; he was a torrent that bore everything before him.  His voice was musical, his attitude commanding, his gestures superb.  He was all alive with his subject.  He was terribly in earnest, as if he believed everything he said, and that what he said were most momentous truths.  He fastened his burning eyes upon his hearers, who listened with breathless attention, and inspired them with his sentiments; he made them feel that they were in the very jaws of destruction, and that there was no hope but in immediate repentance.  His whole frame quivered with emotion, and he sat down utterly exhausted.  His language was intense, not clothing new thoughts, but riveting old ideas,—­the ideas of the Middle Ages; the fear of hell, the judgments of Almighty God.  Who could resist such fiery earnestness, such a convulsed frame, such quivering 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.