So the voluptuous, infidel, elegant Pope—­accomplished in manners and pagan arts and literature—­sent one of the most learned men of the Church which called him Father, to argue with Doctor Luther, confute him, conquer him,—­deeming this an easy task.  But the doctor could not be silenced.  His convictions were grounded on the rock; not on Peter, but on the rock from which Peter derived his name.  All the papal legates and cardinals in the world could neither convince nor frighten him.  He courted argument; he challenged the whole Church to refute him.

Then the schools took up the controversy.  All that was imposing in names, in authority, in traditions, in associations, was arrayed against him.  They came down upon him with the whole array of scholastic learning.  The great Goliath of controversy in that day was Doctor Eck, who challenged the Saxon monk to a public disputation at Leipsic.  All Germany was interested.  The question at issue stirred the nation to its very depths.

The disputants met in the great hall of the palace of the Elector.  Never before was seen in Germany such an array of doctors and theologians and dignitaries.  It rivalled in importance and dignity the Council of Nice, when the great Constantine presided, to settle the Trinitarian controversy.  The combatants were as great as Athanasius and Arius,—­as vehement, as earnest, though not so fierce.  Doctor Eck was superior to Luther in reputation, in dialectical skill, in scholastic learning.  He was the pride of the universities.  Luther, however, had deeper convictions, more genius, greater eloquence, and at that time he was modest.

The champion of the schools, of sophistries and authorities, of dead-letter literature, of quibbles, refinements, and words, soon overwhelmed the Saxon monk with his citations, decrees of councils, opinions of eminent ecclesiastics, the literature of the Church, its mighty authority.  He was on the eve of triumph.  Had the question been settled, as Doctor Eck supposed, by authorities, as lawyers and pedants would settle the question, Luther would have been beaten.  But his genius came to his aid, and the consciousness of truth.  He swept away the premises of the argument.  He denied the supreme authority of popes and councils and universities.  He appealed to the Scriptures, as the only ultimate ground of authority.  He did not deny authority, but appealed to it in its highest form.  This was unexpected ground.  The Church was not prepared openly to deny the authority of Saint Paul or Saint Peter; and Luther, if he did not gain his case, was far from being beaten, and—­what was of vital importance to his success—­he had the Elector and the people with him.