understood, and that it was ridiculous for any one to preach what neither he nor those he taught could comprehend, God himself calling such people blind leaders of the blind.”

Here we have Abelard’s central position, exactly the opposite to that of his realist contemporary, Anselm of Canterbury, whose principle was “Credo ut intelligam” (I believe, that I may understand).  We must not suppose, however, that Abelard, with his rationalism, dreamed of undermining Christian dogma.  Very far from it!  He believed it to be rational, and thought he could prove it so.  No wonder that the book gave offense, in an age when faith and ecstasy were placed above reason.  Indeed, his rivals could have wished for nothing better than this book, which gave them a weapon to use against him.  Led on by two old enemies, Alberich and Lotulf, they caused an ecclesiastical council to be called at Soissons, to pass judgment upon the book (1121).  This judgment was a foregone conclusion, the trial being the merest farce, in which the pursuers were the judges, the Papal legate allowing his better reason to be overruled by their passion.  Abelard was condemned to burn his book in public, and to read the Athanasian Creed as his confession of faith (which he did in tears), and then to be confined permanently in the monastery of St. Medard as a dangerous heretic.

His enemies seemed to have triumphed and to have silenced him forever.  Soon after, however, the Papal legate, ashamed of the part he had taken in the transaction, restored him to liberty and allowed him to return to his own monastery at St. Denis.  Here once more his rationalistic, critical spirit brought him into trouble with the bigoted, licentious monks.  Having maintained, on the authority of Beda, that Dionysius, the patron saint of the monastery, was bishop of Corinth and not of Athens, he raised such a storm that he was forced to flee, and took refuge on a neighboring estate, whose proprietor, Count Thibauld, was friendly to him.  Here he was cordially received by the monks of Troyes, and allowed to occupy a retreat belonging to them.

After some time, and with great difficulty, he obtained leave from the abbot of St. Denis to live where he chose, on condition of not joining any other order.  Being now practically a free man, he retired to a lonely spot near Nogent-sur-Seine, on the banks of the Ardusson.  There, having received a gift of a piece of land, he established himself along with a friendly cleric, building a small oratory of clay and reeds to the Holy Trinity.  No sooner, however, was his place of retreat known than he was followed into the wilderness by hosts of students of all ranks, who lived in tents, slept on the ground, and underwent every kind of hardship, in order to listen to him (1123).  These supplied his wants, and built a chapel, which he dedicated to the “Paraclete,”—­a name at which his enemies, furious over his success, were greatly scandalized, but which ever after designated the whole establishment.