“It became tedious,” said Abelard, “to go to my lessons.  I gave my lectures with negligence.  I spoke only from habit and memory.  I was only a reciter of ancient inventions; and if I chanced to compose verses, they were songs of love, not secrets of philosophy.”  The absence of his mind evinced how powerfully his new passion moved his fiery and impatient soul.  “He consumed his time in writing verses to the canon’s niece; and even as Hercules in the gay court of Omphale threw down his club in order to hold the distaff, so Abelard laid aside his sceptre as a monarch of the schools to sing sonnets at the feet of Heloise.”  And she also, still more unwisely, in the mighty potency of an absorbing love, yielded up her honor and her pride.  This mutual infatuation was, it would seem, a gradual transition from the innocent pleasure of delightful companionship to the guilt of unrestrained desire.  It was not premeditated design,—­not calculation, but insidious dalliance:—­

     “Thou know’st how guiltless first I met thy flame,
     When love approached me under friendship’s name. 
     Guiltless I gazed; heaven listened when you sung,
     And truths divine came mended from your tongue. 
     From lips like those, what precept failed to move? 
     Too soon they taught me ’t was no sin to love.”

In a healthy state of society this mutual passion would have been followed by the marriage ties.  The parties were equal in culture and social position.  And Abelard probably enjoyed a large income from the fees of students, and could well support the expenses of a family.  All that was needed was the consecration of emotions, which are natural and irresistible,—­a mystery perhaps but ordained, and without which marriage would be mere calculation and negotiation.  Passion, doubtless, is blind; but in this very blindness we see the hand of the Creator,—­to baffle selfishness and pride.  What would become of our world if men and women were left to choose their partners with the eye of unclouded reason?  Expediency would soon make a desert of earth, and there would be no paradise found for those who are unattractive or in adverse circumstances.  Friendship might possibly bring people together; but friendship exists only between equals and people of congenial tastes.  Love brings together also those who are unequal.  It joins the rich to the poor, the strong to the weak, the fortunate to the unfortunate, and thus defeats the calculations which otherwise would enter into matrimonial life.  Without the blindness of passionate love the darts of Cupid would be sent in vain; and the helpless and neglected—­as so many are—­would stand but little chance for that happiness which is associated with the institution of marriage.  The world would be filled with old bachelors and old maids, and population would hopelessly decline among virtuous people.

No scandal would have resulted from the ardent loves of Abelard and Heloise had they been united by that sacred relation which was ordained in the garden of Eden.  “If any woman,” says Legouve, “may stand as the model of a wife in all her glory, it is Heloise.  Passion without bounds and without alloy, enthusiasm for the genius of Abelard, jealous care for his reputation, a vigorous intellect, learning sufficient to join in his labors, and an unsullied name.”