enthusiasm, like Saint Augustine.  Luther now comprehends Augustine, the great doctor of the Church, embraces his philosophy and sees how much it has been misunderstood.  The rare attainments and interesting character of Luther are at last recognized; he is made a professor of divinity in the new university, which the Elector of Saxony has endowed, at Wittenberg.  He becomes a favorite with the students; he enters into the life of the people.  He preaches with wonderful power, for he is popular, earnest, original, fresh, electrical.  He is a monk still, but the monk is merged in the learned doctor and eloquent preacher.  He does not yet even dream of attacking monastic institutions, or the Pope; he is a good Catholic in his obedience to authorities; but he hates the Middle Ages, and all their ghostly, funereal, burdensome, and technical religious customs.  He is human, almost convivial,—­fond of music, of poetry, of society, of friends, and of the good cheer of the social circle.  The people love Luther, for he has a broad humanity.  They never did love monks, only feared their maledictions.

About this time the Pope was in great need of money:  this was Leo X. He not only squandered his vast revenues in pleasures and pomps, like any secular monarch; he not only collected pictures and statues,—­but he wanted to complete St. Peter’s Church.  It was the crowning glory of papal magnificence.  Where was he to get money except from the contributions of Christendom?  But kings and princes and bishops and abbots were getting tired of this everlasting drain of money to Rome, in the shape of annats and taxes; so Leo revived an old custom of the Dark Ages,—­he would sell “plenary indulgences”; and he sent his agents to market them in every country.

The agent in Saxony was a very popular preacher, a shrewd Dominican prior by the name of Tetzel.  Luther abhorred him, not so much because he was vulgar and noisy, but because his infamous business derogated from the majesty of God and religion.  In wrathful indignation he preached against Tetzel and his practices,—­the abominable traffic of indulgences.  Only God can forgive sins.  It seemed to him to be an insult to the human understanding that any man, even a pope, should grant an absolution for crime.  These indulgences also provided the release of deceased friends from purgatory.  And it was useless to preach against them so long as the principles on which they were based were not assailed.  Everybody believed in penance; everybody believed that this, in some form, would insure salvation.  It consisted in a temporal penalty or punishment inflicted on the sinner after confession to the priest, as a condition of his receiving absolution or an authoritative pardon of his sin by the Church as God’s representative.  And the indulgence was originally an official remission of this penalty, to be gained by offerings of money to the Church for its sacred uses.  However ingenious this theory, the practice inevitably ran into corruption.  The people who bought, the agents who sold, the popes who dispensed, these indulgences wrested them from their original intention.