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,