II. BIRTH-PLACE. INASMUCH as we have determined to follow the chronological order, which is perhaps the only true order in all veritable history, it is necessary to commence with Abelard's birth-place. We must describe the place where the first scene of the first act of the drama of his life is laid. After leaving Nantes in Brittany, and before arriving at Clisson, we come to a little village which is called Pallet. There is but one street. That street, however, is long enough, if it were sufficiently divided, to make a village of the usual form. We are about to leave the place behind us without observing any thing remarkable. Let us stop, however, and survey that church on our left, that overlooks the street below. It is a simple church, but men are accustomed to worship there the Maker of heaven and earth. It stands, as it were, at the gateway of the village, and we will respect the temple of the Infinite. Some of its parts seem to be remarkable for their antiquity; we will go, and, if may be, find some monument of an earlier age. What mean those remains of thick walls, and those vestiges of ditches, upon the hill back of the church? They are overgrown with ivy, and seem to be very old. Never mind the church, let us ascend the hill. The dilapidated walls, and half-filled fosses, indicate an ancient and strong construction. They inclose a cemetery, now abandoned, and overgrown with weeds and shrubs. Tread softly beneath us sleep the dead, those who once thought, felt, and acted, as we now think, feel, and act. The earth is a vast burial-ground; every step we take, we press beneath our feet dust that once has been ensouled with the breath of Jehovah. We will go and stand by that old stone cross, erected in the midst of a few modest tombs. Here* dwelt, and here still dwell, the lords of Pallet. Times have changed, but they heed it not. Their sleep is deep. They were brave knights and true, but they have for ever laid aside the armor and the lance. The war-trump may sound, Europe may again and again be the theatre of conflict, but not a finger will they lift, either for the new cause or the old. Some other than a war-trump must be sounded to make them answer the call. Sleep on, thou lord of Pallet, thy villain shall not disturb thee more, unless some injury thou hast done him, shall yet be paid for * Abelard, par Charles de Remusat, t. I., p 1. out of thy soul's joy. thy villain hereafter? Thinkest thou that he will be unto thee also, upon the earth; the Eternal has not commanded me to curse thee; peace be to thy ashes. Upon this place, too, war laid its heavy mailed hand. It was destroyed, history tells us, in 1420. Margaret of Clisson made an attack upon John V., duke of Brittany, and wars followed. Here in the eleventh century, stood a small fortified chateau, which commanded the town. The chateau was on the highest part of this hill, overlooking the narrow river Sangueze. This name was given to the river, because it was often died with the blood of the combatants who fought upon its banks. Many a time the blushing stream carried along to the inhabitants below evidence of a hard-fought battle between the Bretons and the English. In this chateau, in the year 1079, Peter Abelard was born. Philip I. was king of France, and Hoël IV. was duke of Brittany. Many more kings and dukes were then upon the earth, but the sun will probably shine to-morrow, if their names are not mentioned. Beranger, the father of Peter Abelard, was lord of the chateau, and the name of his wife was Lucie.* * See second paragraph of the Historia Calamitatum, or the first letter of Abelard. Guizot gives a different interpretation; see Essai Historique sur Abailard et Heloise, p. xi. Peter was the first-born child. There in that chateau on the hill, above the river, often reddened with the brave blood of warriors,-in the chateau that commanded the little town of Pallet, once more was manifested the continually recurring miracle of life. A new flower of humanity bloomed upon the banks of the stream whose dyed waters often told the tale of death. Has that young life no interest for thee? Then thou art still a sleeper; the mystery of things has never laid an awakening shadowy hand upon thy soul. A young mother's heart was there bursting with joy, while the propitious fates kept closely veiled the unhappy future. Who but a father knows what was the meaning of Beranger's silence, and self-satisfied look. Two more sons and a daughter were given to them, but the experience of clasping to their bosoms a firstborn could never be repeated. There nature made an effort, once more, to produce a man. Millions of efforts she makes, but in every instance she fails as well as succeeds. A perfect man she never produces, and therefore always fails. She never fails in making a good attempt, and therefore always succeeds. The perfect, or ideal man, the standard of which nature in every instance comes short, is the type of the unity of the soul, while nature's failure in different degrees, produces variety in unity. Her method is simple, her operations are manifold. She proceeds in every thing else, as she does with man. She is infinitely economic, and at the same time infinitely prodigal. God helped her in the production of the Redeemer, and thereby gave her a chance to save her blundering world. The child Abelard had one meaning for his parents, another for the world, and another for Deity. His history was, no doubt, already written in the quality of his infant blood, and the structure of his infant brain; but we must follow him, and see in what manner he will coin himself into real acts in the mint of life. His good and his evil deeds will interpret for us ours, and may make us wiser and better. Here, among the lords of Pallet, sleeps Beranger; but far from here in a more frequented place, we shall find the tomb of Abelard, to which lovers, both fortunate and unfortunate, still pilgrim. * See the Notice Historique, etc., par M. Alex. Lenoir, imprimée à Paris en 1815, p. 4, et seq. |