Superstition is godless religion, devout impiety. The superstitious is
fond in observation, servile in fear; he worships God but as he lists;
he gives God what He asks not more than He asks, and all but what he
should give; and makes more sins than the Ten Commandments. This man
dares not stir forth till his breast be crossed and his face sprinkled:
if but an hare cross him the way, he returns; or if his journey began
unawares on the dismal day, or if he stumble at the threshold. If he see
a snake unkilled, he fears a mischief; if the salt fall towards him, he
looks pale and red, and is not quiet till one of the waiters have poured
wine on his lap; and when he sneezeth, thinks them not his friends that
uncover not. In the morning he listens whether the crow crieth even or
odd, and by that token presages of the weather. If he hear but a raven
croak from the next roof he makes his will, or if a bittern fly over his
head by night; but if his troubled fancy shall second his thoughts with
the dream of a fair garden, or green rushes, or the salutation of a dead
friend, he takes leave of the world and says he cannot live. He will
never set to sea but on a Sunday, neither ever goes without an _Erra
Pater_ in his pocket. Saint Paul's Day and Saint Swithin's with the
Twelve are his oracles, which he dares believe against the almanack.
When he lies sick on his deathbed no sin troubles him so much as that he
did once eat flesh on a Friday; no repentance can expiate that, the rest
need none. There is no dream of his without an interpretation, without a
prediction; and if the event answer not his exposition, he expounds it
according to the event. Every dark grove and pictured wall strikes him
with an awful but carnal devotion. Old wives and stars are his
counsellors, his night-spell is his guard, and charms his physicians. He
wears Paracelsian characters for the toothache, and a little hallowed
wax is his antidote for all evils. This man is strangely credulous, and
calls impossible things miraculous. If he hear that some sacred block
speaks, moves, weeps, smiles, his bare feet carry him thither with an
offering; and if a danger miss him in the way, his saint hath the
thanks. Some ways he will not go, and some he dares not; either there
are bugs, or he feigneth them; every lantern is a ghost, and every noise
is of chains. He knows not why, but his custom is to go a little about,
and to leave the cross still on the right hand. One event is enough to
make a rule; out of these he concludes fashions proper to himself; and
nothing can turn him out of his own course. If he have done his task he
is safe, it matters not with what affection. Finally, if God would let
him be the carver of his own obedience, He could not have a better
subject; as he is, He cannot have a worse.