used every argument which her fertile mind could suggest to dissuade him from a step which she felt must be his ruin, at the same time expressing her entire willingness to stand in a less honored relation to him.  But Abelard was inexorable.  Taking her to Paris, he procured the consent of her relatives to the marriage (which they agreed to keep secret), and even their presence at the ceremony, which was performed one morning before daybreak, after the two had spent a night of vigils in the church.

After the marriage, they parted and for some time saw little of each other.  When Heloise’s relatives divulged the secret, and she was taxed with being Abelard’s lawful wife, she “anathematized and swore that it was absolutely false.”  As the facts were too patent, however, Abelard removed her from Paris, and placed her in the convent at Argenteuil, where she had been educated.  Here she assumed the garb of a novice.  Her relatives, thinking that he must have done this in order to rid himself of her, furiously vowed vengeance, which they took in the meanest and most brutal form of personal violence.  It was not a time of fine sensibilities, justice, or mercy; but even the public of those days was horrified, and gave expression to its horror.  Abelard, overwhelmed with shame, despair, and remorse, could now think of nothing better than to abandon the world.  Without any vocation, as he well knew, he assumed the monkish habit and retired to the monastery of St. Denis, while Heloise, by his order, took the veil at Argenteuil.  Her devotion and heroism on this occasion Abelard has described in touching terms.  Thus supernaturalism had done its worst for these two strong, impetuous human souls.

If Abelard had entered the cloister in the hope of finding peace, he soon discovered his mistake.  The dissolute life of the monks utterly disgusted him, while the clergy stormed him with petitions to continue his lectures.  Yielding to these, he was soon again surrounded by crowds of students—­so great that the monks at St. Denis were glad to get rid of him.  He accordingly retired to a lonely cell, to which he was followed by more admirers than could find shelter or food.  As the schools of Paris were thereby emptied, his rivals did everything in their power to put a stop to his teaching, declaring that as a monk he ought not to teach profane science, nor as a layman in theology sacred science.  In order to legitimatize his claim to teach the latter, he now wrote a theological treatise, regarding which he says:—­

“It so happened that I first endeavored to illuminate the basis of our faith by similitudes drawn from human reason, and to compose for our students a treatise on ’The Divine Unity and Trinity,’ because they kept asking for human and philosophic reasons, and demanding rather what could be understood than what could be said, declaring that the mere utterance of words was useless unless followed by understanding; that nothing could be believed that was not first