SUPERSTITIONS.
SUPERSTITION is literally—as the dictionary would say —that which survives, the relic of what is dead or de- parted,—the skeleton of a religion, when its life and spirit are decayed and gone. Like other relics—the bones of saints and martyrs, for instance—the dead bones of religion not unfrequently enjoy more universal respect and reverence than -either the living man or the creed received while the breath was still in them, After centuries, the dried and fleshless little finger of the dead man is more powerful for good or evil than was the whole body, of the living saint ; it is held in greater honour, and is called upon to work more miracles. And so with the dry bones of religion. The worthless shell, the dry husk of outer observance, is carefully preserved and cherished long after the living truth that it once contained is gone or forgotten. The Southern assassin will cross him- aelf devoutly as he lurks in the shadow of a " Calvary," while waiting for his unsuspecting victim ; or the Northern Scot, with half his senses fuddled by drink, and the other half plotting knavery for the coming week, will piously correct his children for the heinous crime of whistling on the Sabbath-day. For this unprofitable remnant, " superstition " as it is called, is found in many forms and in many places. Now, we have no intention of discussing the vexed question which has lately been raised, of Sunday Observance, or the advisability of opening museums and other places of amuse- ment upon that day. Whether the question be considered 'from the point of view of religion or public expediency, there is very much to be said on both sides which need not be said here. But we wonder whether some of the most ardent advo- cates of our English Sunday ever attempt to realise how far superstition enters into the motives of their advocacy. They -cannot pretend that the English Sunday, as it is generally observed, is a proof of either their faith or of their consistency. There is something amiss in an inconsistency which shuts the house of business and allows the domestic servant to go on working, which closes the baker's shop and leaves open the -tobacconist's, or which buys Sunday papers and travels in Sunday trains, and still persuades itself that it is not seeking its own amusement, or profiting by the Sunday labour of others. Superstition is naturally inconsistent. If the majority of these people could bring themselves to examine their motives strictly, they would honestly confess that they kept Sunday after a certain fashion because it was unlucky to work upon that day, and because they believed that work done on a Sunday, in open defiance of that feeling, never prospered. In support of this belief, they will assert that England owes its greatness to its strict observance of a Sunday,—rather a marrow and insular view to take of the workings of Providence, but one that is nevertheless deeply rooted in the provincial mind. In plain words, they have a superstitious dread of a
malign and jealous influence which will visit them with all manner of ill-fortune unless it be propitiated by a certain formal sacrifice. This feeling has nothing whatever to do with their religion ; it lies entirely outside it; and yet it may exist in the minds of really religious people, together with a real and genuine religious belief, so undefined that they will confuse the one with the other. Such people would probably indignantly deny what is very often the real truth,—namely, that they do no labour upon a Sunday for the same reason that a sailor is unwilling to leave port upon a Friday.
The more sober and matter-of-fact the people, the more curious are the superstitions that survive among them, in spite of their common-sense• It is not only the ignorant sailor before the mast who regards Friday with a superstitious dread. His captain and several other well-educated men share in the feeling. The origin of it is too obvious to need explana- tion. Equally obvious is the history of the reluctance to it down at table in a company of thirteen,—a superstition which is perhaps more widely observed than any other. The Parisian pique-asaiette, who lives by dining in other people's houses, is often known as the quatorziente, it being the chief part of his business to make the fourteenth to the chance unlucky number. A London hostess who deliberately made up a party of thirteen would be a bold woman indeed, for two or three at least of her company would object to dining at her table. Many people will assert that they have actually known cases in which one of a party of thirteen at dinner has died in the course of the year,—and with perfect truth probably, for taking the average age of the assembled guests to be thirty-five or over, the:mathematical chances, in favour of death occurring among them within the year, are rather more than one in thirteen. The chance of a death would be even greater if they were twenty, and would amount to almost a certainty in the case of a hundred,—an excellent reason for abstaining from public dinners ! Another widely spread superstition is that which forbids a man to walk under a ladder. Some people fancy that this originated from a cautious dread of what a workman upon the ladder might drop upon them, and yet those same people will carefully avoid passing under a ladder which is quite untenanted, and know well that they do so, not to avoid the fall of a tile or a paint-pot, but to avoid the fall of ill-luck upon their heads. In former days, when hanging was done after a more primitive and simple fashion than it is to-day, the victim at Tyburn, or elsewhere, had generally to pass under the ladder which stood against the gallows for the convenience of the executioner. And he passed under that ladder with the fair certainty of being immediately hanged. What the unhappy criminal at Tyburn could not avoid, the exquisite in Piccadilly avoids to-day, even at the expense of his polished boots, by turning into the roadway. There is a touching humility in the practice. Which of us knows his fate ? Though all the world may assure that young man that he was not born to be hung, he is yet not so certain of him- self that he can afford to imitate the criminal even in that single and harmless particular. This superstition is a purely English one. Another that is more universally shared, is the dread of spilling salt, and it is one which dates from the most distant antiquity. Salt, the incorruptible and the preserver from corruption, the holy substance that was used in sacrifice, could not be rudely spilt or wasted without incurring the',anger of all good spirits, and giving an opportunity to the evil ones. Now, the evil spirit lurks, as a rule, somewhere behind a man upon the left side, so that it is desirable, if one wishes to avoid the consequence of carelessness, to throw the salt over the left shoulder three mystic times and discomfit the wicked one exceedingly. It is interesting to view the grave solemnity with which the intelligent and well-educated woman of to-day will perform that ceremony. Does she ever picture to herself in imagination the horrible dismay upon the face of the baffled fiend that grinned in hideous exultation behind her pretty shoulders P Childish though the practice be, nothing in the world would induce her to omit it. But the list of childish superstitions is endless. Helping people to salt, giving them knives, breaking looking-glasses, and a hundred other misdeeds, are all of them fraught with disaster, and most of them devoid of meaning. No woman actually believes that she has condemned herself to seven years of bad fortune by breaking her mirror, and yet she cannot help being saddened by an in- definable dread that attends that very ordinary catastrophe. No
man really thinks that he is altering the course of fate by sitting' down to dinner in a company of twelve others, and yet many men cannot do so without a feeling of discomfort. The feeling is well termed " superstition," or that which survives. It has survived, indeed, from the very earliest days of primeval man ; from those days when all Nature inspired him with a nameless horror, with the fear of some unseen power, some jealous and malevolent influence, that would surely destroy him if it were not duly propitiated.
In no way is this dread more universally and clearly shown than in the superstition which we may call the superstition of the ring of Polycrates. Nothing angers the zealous and watch- ful power so much as the unusual prosperity of a mortal, and his careless confidence in its continuance, and it can only be propitiated by the sacrifice of something precious, or by a rigid abstinence from all boasting and ostentation. Polycrates, the ancient, threw his most precious jewel into the sea : the modern is ashamed to sacrifice in the same way, but he is also afraid to boast. Should a German unthinkingly assert his immunity from some of the common ills of life—should he declare, for example, that he has never suffered from an indigestion—he will quickly repent him of his rashness, and solemnly rap thrice upon the table while he murmurs the word, " Un- berufen,"—that is to say, the indigestion is "uncalled for," and he does not want it. Many English people will do the same thing, with the phrase, " In a good hour be it spoken !" It is a kind of Absit omen !—a prayer to deprecate the jealousy of Providence. Now, we do not believe that one man in a hundred is entirely free from this superstition in some form or another. Should any man desire some one thing very earnestly and above all others, he will set himself to believe that it is not attainable, and will even try to persuade himself that it is not desirable,—not for the sake of saving himself from disappointment, but from an undefined and half-conscious feeling that it is necessary to deceive some superior and jealous power that would otherwise thwart his wishes. What that power is, or why it should be pleased to disappoint him, he never asks himself. In spite of himself almost, he fears it, and instinctively tries to deceive or cajole it. Perhaps it is an instinct that we share with the lower animals; and they, too, after their own fashion, try to propitiate Fate. This is not only the commonest form of superstition, but it is the fundamental idea of many others. Doubtless the old Persians were more preoccupied in keeping Ahriman, the Spirit of Evil, in a good temper, than in worshipping Ormuzd, the Spirit of Light and Good. We enlightened people, though we pretend to know nothing of Ahriman, are not above making "him a .sly sacrifice of our pride every now and then in order to disarm his ill-will. But, as we have said, superstition lurks in strange places and under unexpected forms ; few of us are free from it, and still fewer care to recognise the fact. Still, it by no means follows that those people who are most free are the best.
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