Those who think these words too strong, may judge
for themselves how far they apply to his story of
Marana and Cyra.
Marana, then, and Cyra were two young ladies of Berhoea,
who had given up all the pleasures of life to settle
themselves in a roofless cottage outside the town.
They had stopped up the door with stones and clay,
and allowed it only to be opened at the feast of Pentecost.
Around them lived certain female slaves who had voluntarily
chosen the same life, and who were taught and exhorted
through a little window by their mistresses; or rather,
it would seem, by Marana alone: for Cyra (who
was bent double by her “training”) was
never to speak. Theodoret, as a priest, was allowed
to enter the sacred enclosure, and found them shrouded
from head to foot in long veils, so that neither their
faces or hands could be seen; and underneath their
veils, burdened on every limb, poor wretches, with
such a load of iron chains and rings that a strong
man, he says, could not have stood under the weight.
Thus had they endured for two-and-forty years, exposed
to sun and wind, to frost and rain, taking no food
at times for many days together. I have no mind
to finish the picture, and still less to record any
of the phrases of rapturous admiration with which
Bishop Theodoret comments upon their pitiable superstition.
SIMEON STYLITES
Of all such anchorites of the far East, the most remarkable,
perhaps, was the once famous Simeon Stylites—a
name almost forgotten, save by antiquaries and ecclesiastics,
till Mr. Tennyson made it once more notorious in a
poem as admirable for its savage grandness, as for
its deep knowledge of human nature. He has comprehended
thoroughly, as it seems to me, that struggle between
self-abasement and self-conceit, between the exaggerated
sense of sinfulness and the exaggerated ambition of
saintly honour, which must have gone on in the minds
of these ascetics—the temper which could
cry out one moment with perfect honesty—
“Although I be the basest of mankind,
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin;”
at the next—
“I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold
Of saintdom; and to clamour, mourn, and sob,
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer.
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God,
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,
* * * * * *
A sign between the meadow and the cloud,
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and
snow;
And I had hoped that ere this period closed
Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest,
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs
The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.
O take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,
Not whisper any murmur of complaint.
Pain heaped ten hundred-fold to this, were still
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush’d
My spirit flat before thee.”
Copyrights
The Hermits from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
