Abelard, on the whole the most brilliant and interesting man whom the Middle Ages produced,—­not so profound as Anselm, or learned as Peter Lombard, or logical as Thomas Aquinas, or acute as Albertus Magnus, but the most eloquent expounder of philosophy of whom I have read.  He made the dullest subjects interesting; he clothed the dry bones of metaphysics with flesh and blood; he invested the most abstruse speculations with life and charm; he filled the minds of old men with envy, and of young men with admiration; he thrilled admirers with his wit, sarcasm, and ridicule,—­a sort of Galileo, mocking yet amusing, with a superlative contempt of dulness and pretension.  He early devoted himself to dialectics, to all the arts of intellectual gladiatorship, to all the sports of logical tournaments which were held in such value by the awakened spirits of the new civilization.

Such was Abelard’s precocious ability, even as a youth, that no champion could be found to refute him in the whole of Brittany.  He went from castle to castle, and convent to convent, a philosophical knight-errant, seeking intellectual adventures; more intent, however, on eclat and conquest than on the establishment of the dogmas which had ruled the Church since Saint Augustine.  He was a born logician, as Bossuet was a born priest, loving to dispute as much as the Bishop of Meaux loved to preach; not a serious man, but a bright man, ready, keen, acute, turning fools into ridicule, and pushing acknowledged doctrines into absurdity; not to bring out the truth as Socrates did, or furnish a sure foundation of knowledge, but to revolutionize and overturn.  His spirit was like that of Lucien,—­desiring to demolish, without substituting anything for the dogmas he had made ridiculous.  Consequently he was mistrusted by the old oracles of the schools, and detested by conservative churchmen who had intellect enough to see the tendency of his speculations.  In proportion to the hatred of orthodox ecclesiastics like Anselme of Laon and Saint Bernard, was the admiration of young men and of the infant universities.  Nothing embarrassed him.  He sought a reason for all things.  He appealed to reason rather than authority, yet made the common mistake of the scholastics in supposing that metaphysics could explain everything.  He doubtless kindled a spirit of inquiry, while he sapped the foundation of Christianity and undermined faith.  He was a nominalist; that is, he denied the existence of all eternal ideas, such as Plato and the early Fathers advocated.  He is said to have even adduced the opinions of Pagan philosophers to prove the mysteries of revelation.  He did not deny revelation, nor authority, nor the prevailing doctrines which the Church indorsed and defended; but the tendency of his teachings was to undermine what had previously been received by faith.  He exalted reason, therefore, as higher than faith.  His spirit was offensive to conservative teachers.  Had he lived in our