If you stated the problem clearly to a hundred men and women who were unacquainted with philosophic speculations, ninety-nine of them would probably answer that these universals were neither mere words nor external realities, but general or generalised ideas—composite photographs, to use the interesting comparison of Mr. Galton, in the camera of the mind. That was the profound discovery with which Abélard shattered the authority of his master, revolutionised the thought of his age, and sent his fame to the ends of the earth. He had introduced a new instrument into the dialectical world, common sense, like the little girl in the fairy tale, who was brought to see the prince in his imaginary clothes.[6] This, at least, Abélard achieved, and it was a brilliant triumph for the unknown youth: he swept for ever out of the world of thought, in spite of almost all the scholars of Christendom, that way of thinking and of speaking which is known as realism. I am familiar with the opinion of scholastic thinkers in this question, from the thirteenth century to the present day. It differs verbally, but not substantially, from the conceptualism of Abélard. The stripling of twenty or twenty-one had enunciated the opinion which the world of thought was to adopt. [6] Lest there be a suspicion of caricature, or of ignorance (though I too have sat in the chair of scholastic philosophy, and held grave discourse on _genera_ and _species_), let me remind the reader of the theological import which was read into the problem. We still have some of the arguments with which Abélard assailed his chief—but enough of philosophy, let us proceed with the story. Once more the swift and animated years are condensed into a brief phrase by the gloomy autobiographist; though there is a momentary flash of the old spirit when he says of the earlier stage that he ‘seemed at times to have the victory in the dispute,’ and when he describes the final issue in the words of Ovid, ‘... non sum superatus ab illo.’ He soon found the weak points in William’s armour, and proceeded to attack him with the uncalculating passion of youth. It was not long before the friendly master was converted into a bitter, life-long enemy; and that, he wearily writes, ‘was the beginning of my calamities.’ Possibly: but it is not unlikely that he had had a similar experience at Locmenach. However that may be, it was a fatal victory. Ten years afterwards we find William in closest intimacy and daily intercourse with Bernard of Clairvaux.