to reason, without the assistance of logic, without conviction.  The house that had been swept and garnished was re-entered by devils, and the last state was worse than the first.  To have effected a radical and lasting reform, Savonarola should have gone deeper.  He should have exposed the foundations on which the superstructure of sin was built; he should have undermined them, and appealed to the reason of the world.  He did no such thing.  He simply rebuked the evils, which must needs be, so long as the root of them is left untouched.  And so long as his influence remained, so long as his voice was listened to, he was mighty in the reforms at which he aimed,—­a reformation of the morals of those to whom he preached.  But when his voice was hushed, the evils he detested returned, since he had not created those convictions which bind men together in association; he had not fanned that spirit of inquiry which is hostile to ecclesiastical despotism, and which, logically projected, would subvert the papal throne.  The reformation of Luther was a grand protest against spiritual tyranny.  It not only aimed at a purer life, but it opposed the bondage of the Middle Ages, and all the superstitious and puerilities and fables which were born and nurtured in that dark and gloomy period and to which the clergy clung as a means of power or wealth.  Luther called out the intellect of Germany, exalted liberty of conscience, and appealed to the dignity of reason.  He showed the necessity of learning, in order to unravel and explain the truths of revelation.  He made piety more exalted by giving it an intelligent stimulus.  He looked to the future rather than the past.  He would make use, in his interpretation of the Bible, of all that literature, science, and art could contribute.  Hence his writings had a wider influence than could be produced by the fascination of personal eloquence, on which Savonarola relied, but which Luther made only accessory.

Again, the sermons of the Florentine reformer do not impress us as they did those to whom they were addressed.  They are not logical, nor doctrinal, nor learned,—­not rich in thought, like the sermons of those divines whom the Reformation produced.  They are vehement denunciations of sin; are eloquent appeals to the heart, to religious fears and hopes.  He would indeed create faith in the world, not by the dissertations of Paul, but by the agonies of the dying Christ.  He does not instruct; he does not reason.  He is dogmatic and practical.  He is too earnest to be metaphysical, or even theological.  He takes it for granted that his hearers know all the truths necessary for salvation.  He enforces the truths with which they are familiar, not those to be developed by reason and learning.  He appeals, he urges, he threatens; he even prophesies; he dwells on divine wrath and judgment.  He is an Isaiah foretelling what will happen, rather than a Peter at the Day of Pentecost.