Yes, when once these old monks “soared beyond chains and prison”—when they dreamed by night and talked by day of the land that is very far off—they drew to them all loving hearts from the most distant ages. Doubtless Hildebert knew—and rejoiced in knowing—that his aspirations had been caught in a modern city and by a weary lawyer, who found rest and peace in their strain. And doubtless in the perfectness of the present rejoicing they both see and love what they once sighed to obtain. CHAPTER XVIII. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX. There is no lack of material for a copious account of Bernard of Clairvaux. He was a man to become distinguished in any age of the world, and he took and maintained the highest place of his time. His faults are as patent as his virtues. But, if he had not these faults, he would never have enjoyed certain kinds of success. His very austerity was a merit when it held his keen intellect steadily to its mark. And his intolerance, narrowness, ambition, and love of dialectics, were themselves a part of the great demand which his generation made upon him. I shall be responsible here simply for a condensation and compilation of facts, a very different proceeding from that which is usually needed. In the case of almost all these hymn-writers the materials are so slight and meagre as to require large research; in this case one is overwhelmed with riches. I do not profess to say how many lives of Bernard have been written, but I know of a goodly number; and no history of his time has failed to give attention to so prominent a figure in religion and in statecraft. He was singularly situated in point of time and place. Born in Burgundy, not far from Dijon, of a fighting family, who owned a castle and were well represented in the wars, he saw the light in 1091. His father Tesselin was a man who had learned in the school of Christ to be more careful not to wrong his neighbor than not to be wronged by him. His mother Alith was the model chatelaine of the times, full of kindness to the poor and helpfulness to the needy. He was born at the _omphalos_ and centre of the Middle Ages. Peter the Hermit whirled along his wild battalions almost beside his very cradle. The little lad of four years must have seen the strange excited throngs, with their red crosses and their banners, and in the dust of their passing and in the chants of their praise, he must have been conscious of a certain enthusiasm which was to run throughout his life.