It is not my object to present Abelard except in his connection with the immortal love with which he inspired the greatest woman of the age.  And yet I cannot conclude this sketch without taking a parting glance of this brilliant but unfortunate man.  And I confess that his closing days strongly touch my sympathies, and make me feel that historians have been too harsh in their verdicts.  Historians have based their opinions on the hostilities which theological controversies produced, and on the neglect which Abelard seemed to show for the noble woman who obeyed and adored him.  But he appears to have employed his leisure and tranquil days in writing hymns to the abbess of the Paraclete, in preparing homilies, and in giving her such advice as her circumstances required.  All his later letters show the utmost tenderness and zeal for the spiritual good of the woman to whom he hoped to be reunited in heaven, and doing for Heloise what Jerome did for Paula, and Fenelon for Madame Guyon.  If no longer her lover, he was at least her friend.  And, moreover, at this time he evinced a loftier religious life than he has the credit of possessing.  He lived a life of study and meditation.

But his enemies would not allow him to rest, even in generous labors.  They wished to punish him and destroy his influence.  So they summoned him to an ecclesiastical council to answer for his heresies.  At first he resolved to defend himself, and Bernard, his greatest enemy, even professed a reluctance to contend with his superior in dialectical contests.  But Abelard, seeing how inflamed were the passions of the theologians against him, and how vain would be his defence, appealed at once to the Pope; and Rome, of course, sided with his enemies.  He was condemned to perpetual silence, and his books were ordered to be burned.

To this sentence it would appear that Abelard prepared to submit with more humility than was to be expected from so bold and arrogant a man.  But he knew he could not resist an authority based on generally accepted ideas any easier than Henry IV. could have resisted Hildebrand.  He made up his mind to obey the supreme authority of the Church, but bitterly felt the humiliation and the wrong.

Broken in spirit and in reputation, Abelard, now an old man, set out on foot for Rome to plead his cause before the Pope.  He stopped on his way at Cluny in Burgundy, that famous monastery where Hildebrand himself had ruled, now, however, presided over by Peter the Venerable,—­the most benignant and charitable ecclesiastical dignitary of that age.  And as Abelard approached the gates of the venerable abbey, which was the pride of the age, worn out with fatigue and misfortune, he threw himself at the feet of the lordly abbot and invoked shelter and protection.  How touching is the pride of greatness, when brought low by penitence or grief, like that of Theodosius at the feet of Ambrose, or Henry II. at the tomb of Becket!  But Peter raises him up, receives him