Abaelard was not a great character--aside from his intellect. He was vain and inconsiderate, a man who delighted in confounding and supplanting his teachers, and in being a thorn in the flesh of all opponents. But he became chastened through his misfortunes and through Heloïse’s high and self-sacrificing love. In the end, perhaps, his love was worthy of the love of Heloïse. Yet her love from the beginning was nobler and deeper than his love of her. Love was for him an incident in his experience, then an element in his life. Love made the life of Heloïse; it remained her all. Moreover, in the records of their passion, Heloïse’s love is unveiled as Abaelard’s is not. For all these reasons, the heart of Heloïse rather than the heart of Abaelard discloses the greatness of a love that wept itself out in the twelfth century, and it is her love rather than his that can teach us much regarding the mediaeval capacity for loving. Hers is a story of mediaeval womanhood, and sin, and repentance perhaps, with peace at last, or at least the lips shut close and further protest foregone. Abaelard’s stormy intellectual career[1] and the story of the love between him and the canon’s niece are well known. Let us follow him in those parts of his narrative which disclose the depth and power of Heloïse’s love for him. We draw from his _Historia calamitatum_, written “to a friend,” apparently an open letter intended to circulate. “There was,” writes he, referring to the time of his sojourn in Paris, when he was about thirty-six years old, and at the height of his fame as a lecturer in the schools-- “There was in Paris a young girl named Heloïse, the niece of a canon, Fulbert. It was his affectionate wish that she should have the best education in letters that could be procured. Her face was not unfair, and her knowledge was unequalled. This attainment, so rare in women, had given her great reputation.