The Mintage | Page 4

cold and dark,
Simeon sat there with bowed head, and drew the folds of his single
garment, a black robe, over his face.
Another season passed; the sun again grew warm, then hot, and the
sandstorms raged and blew, when the people below almost lost sight of
the man on the column. Some prophesied he would be blown off, but
the morning light revealed his form, naked from the waist up, standing
with hands outstretched to greet the rising sun.
Once each day, as darkness gathered, a monk came with a basket
containing a bottle of goat's milk and a little loaf of black bread, and
Simeon dropped down a rope and drew up the basket.
Simeon never spoke, for words are folly, and to the calls of saint or
sinner he made no reply. He lived in a perpetual attitude of adoration.
Did he suffer? During those first weeks he must have suffered terribly
and horribly. There was no respite nor rest from the hard surface of the
rock, and aching muscles could find no change from the cramped and
perilous position. If he fell, it was damnation for his soul--all were
agreed as to this.
But man's body and mind accommodate themselves to almost any
condition. One thing at least, Simeon was free from economic
responsibilities, free from social cares and intrusion. Bores with sad

stories of unappreciated lives and fond hopes unrealized, never broke in
upon his peace. He was not pressed for time. No frivolous dame of
tarnished fame sought to share with him his perilous perch. The people
on a slow schedule, ten minutes late, never irritated his temper. His
correspondence never got in a heap.
Simeon kept no track of the days, having no engagements to meet, nor
offices to perform, beyond the prayers at morn, midday and night.
Memory died in him, the hurts became callouses, the world-pain died
out of his heart, and to cling became a habit.
Language was lost in disuse.
The food he ate was minimum in quantity; sensation ceased, and the
dry, hot winds reduced bodily tissue to a dessicated something called a
saint--loved, feared and reverenced for his fortitude.
This pillar, which had once graced the portal of a pagan temple, again
became a place of pious pilgrimage, and people flocked to Simeon's
rock, so that they might be near when he stretched out his black, bony
hands to the East, and the spirit of Almighty God, for a space, hovered
close around.
So much attention did the abnegation of Simeon attract that various
other pillars, marking the ruins of art and greatness gone, in that
vicinity, were crowned with pious monks. The thought of these monks
was to show how Christianity had triumphed over heathenism.
Imitators were numerous. About then the Bishops in assembly asked,
"Is Simeon sincere?" To test the matter of Simeon's pride, he was
ordered to come down from his retreat.
As to his chastity, there was little doubt, his poverty was beyond
question, but how about obedience to his superiors?
The order was shouted up to him in a Bishop's voice--he must let down
his rope, draw up a ladder, and descend.

Straightway Simeon made preparation to obey. And then the Bishops
relented and cried, "We have changed our minds, and now order you to
remain!"
Simeon lifted his hands in adoration and thankfulness and renewed his
lease.
And so he lived on and on and on--he lived on the top of that pillar,
never once descending for thirty years.
All his former companions grew aweary, and one by one died, and the
monastery bells tolled their requiem as they were laid to rest. Did
Simeon hear the bells and say, "Soon it will be my turn"?
Probably not. His senses had flown, for what good were they! The
young monk who now at eventide brought the basket with the bottle of
goat's milk and the loaf of brown bread was born since Simeon had
taken his place on the pillar.
"He has always been there," the people said, and crossed themselves
hurriedly.
But one evening when the young monk came with his basket, no line
was dropped down from above. He waited and then called aloud, but all
in vain.
When sunrise came, there sat the monk, his face between his knees, the
folds of his black robe drawn over his head. But he did not rise and lift
his hands in prayer.
All day he sat there, motionless.
The people watched in whispered silence. Would he arise at sundown
and pray, and with outstretched hands bless the assembled pilgrims?
And as they watched, a vulture came sailing slowly through the blue
ether, and circled nearer and nearer; and off on the horizon was
another--and still another, circling nearer and ever nearer.

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