But the strangest of all strange narratives yet remains. We turn
from Egypt to Asia Minor to make the acquaintance of that saint whom
Tennyson has immortalized,—the idol of monarchs and the pride of the
East,—Saint Simeon Stylites. Stories grow rank around him like the
luxuriant products of a tropical soil. How shall I briefly tell of this
man, whom Theodoret, in his zeal, declares all who obey the Roman rule
know—the man who may be compared with Moses the Legislator, David the
King and Micah the Prophet? He lived between the years 390 and 459 A.D.
He was a shepherd's son, but at an early age entered a monastery. Here
he soon distinguished himself by his excessive austerities. One day he
went to the well, removed the rope from the bucket and bound it tightly
around his body underneath his clothes. A few weeks later, the abbot,
being angry with him because of his extreme self-torture, bade his
companions strip him. What was his astonishment to find the rope from
the well sunk deeply into his flesh. “Whence,” he cried, “has this man
come to us, wanting to destroy the rule of this monastery? I pray thee
depart hence.”
With great trouble they unwound the rope and the flesh with it, and
taking care of him until he was well, they sent him forth to commence a
life of austerities that was to render him famous. He adopted various
styles of existence, but his miracles and piety attracted such crowds
that he determined to invent a mode of life which would deliver him
from the pressing multitudes. It is curious that he did not hide
himself altogether if he really wished to escape notoriety; but, no, he
would still be within the gaze of admiring throngs. His holy and
fanciful genius hit upon a scheme that gave him his peculiar name. He
took up his abode on the top of a column which was at first about
twelve feet high, but was gradually elevated until it measured
sixty-four feet. Hence, he is called Simeon Stylites, or Simeon the
Pillar Saint.
On this lofty column, betwixt earth and heaven, the hermit braved
the heat and cold of thirty years. At its base, from morning to night,
prayed the admiring worshipers. Kings kneeled in crowds of peasants to
do him homage and ask his blessing. Theodoret says, “The Ishmaelites,
coming by tribes of two hundred and three hundred at a time, and
sometimes even a thousand, deny, with shouts, the error of their
fathers, and breaking in pieces before that great illuminator, the
images which they had worshiped, and renouncing the orgies of Venus,
they received the Divine sacrament.” Rude barbarians confessed their
sins in tears. Persians, Greeks, Romans and Saracens, forgetting their
mutual hatred, united in praise and prayer at the feet of this strange
character.
Once a week the hero partook of food. Many times a day he bowed his
head to his feet; one man counted twelve hundred and forty-four times
and then stopped in sheer weariness from gazing at the miracle of
endurance aloft. Again, from the setting of the sun to its appearance
in the East, he would stand unsoothed by sleep with his arms
outstretched like a cross.
If genius can understand such a life as that and fancy the thoughts
of such a soul, Tennyson seems not only to have comprehended the
consciousness of the Pillar Saint, but also to have succeeded in giving
expression to his insight. He has laid bare the soul of Simeon in its
commingling of spiritual pride with affected humility, and of a
consciousness of meritorious sacrifice with a sense of sin. The Saint
spurns notoriety and the homage of men, yet exults in his control over
the multitudes.
The poet thus imagines Simeon to speak as the Saint is praying God
to take away his sin:
“But yet
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints
Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on earth
House in the shade of comfortable roofs,
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food,
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light,
Bow down one thousand and two hundred times,
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints;
Or in the night, after a little sleep,
I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back;
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:
O mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.
O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin:
'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine;
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,
That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha!
They think that I am somewhat. What am I?
The silly people take me for a saint,
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers:
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here)
Have all in all endured as much, and more
Than many just and holy men, whose names
Are register'd and calendared for saints.
Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.
What is it I can have done to merit this?
* * * * *
Yet do not rise; for you may look on me,
And in your looking you may kneel to God.
Speak! is there any of you halt or maim'd?
I think you know I have some power with Heaven
From my long penance: let him speak his wish.
Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me.
They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark! they shout
'St. Simeon Stylites.' Why, if so,
God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul,
God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be,
Can I work miracles and not be saved?”
Once, the devil, in shape like an angel, riding in a chariot of
fire, came to carry Simeon to the skies. He whispered to the weary
Saint, “Simeon, hear my words, which the Lord hath commanded thee. He
has sent me, his angel, that I may carry thee away as I carried
Elijah.” Simeon was deceived, and lifted his foot to step out into the
chariot, when the angel vanished, and in punishment for his presumption
an ulcer appeared upon his thigh.
But time plays havoc with saints as well as sinners, and death slays
the strongest. Bowed in prayer, his weary heart ceased to beat and the
eyes that gazed aloft were closed forever. Anthony, his beloved
disciple, ascending the column, found that his master was no more. Yet,
it seemed as if Simeon was loath to leave the spot, for his spirit
appeared to his weeping follower and said, “I will not leave this
column, and this blessed mountain. For I have gone to rest, as the Lord
willed, but do thou not cease to minister in this place and the Lord
will repay thee in heaven.”
His body was carried down the mountain to Antioch. Heading the
solemn procession were the patriarch, six bishops, twenty-one counts
and six thousand soldiers, “and Antioch,” says Gibbon, “revered his
bones as her glorious ornament and impregnable defence.”