Superstition has done more harm than war, famine and pestilence.

It has been said that all men are tainted with superstition, in greater or less degree, and that they are credulous from the cradle to the grave. We may be particularly strong on Friday, on the thirteenth, on walking under a ladder, and other foolish superstitions which have thousands of times been exposed, yet we find ourselves weak on something else equally absurd. We are credulous because we are naturally sincere, which indicates that superstitious belief proceeds from honorable principles. All men have a strong attraction to truth, and the man who is the most deceitful is usually the most disposed to belief that other men respect truth. And thus, before rejecting the statements of others, we usually require to detect something in them which is not in accord with our previous knowledge, unless, perchance, we have cause to suspect a design to deceive us. Credulity is, therefore, natural, in part, and it is also the result of the faulty education that we have received from our distant ancestors.

Perhaps many of the superstitions owe their origin to religion. If people had not been taught about devils, hells, miracles and other mysteries, they would not be so susceptible to other beliefs equally absurd.

It is commonly known that gamblers are very superstitious, but fashions change with them as they do with everything else; for, where unsuccessful gamblers used formerly to make a knot in their linen, to change their luck, they now content themselves with changing their chairs, and performing other silly things which some successful gamester has lately done. And so with other superstitious persons. As a security against cowardice, it was once only necessary to wear a pin plucked from the winding sheet of a corpse; now, all one needs is to rub the back of a hunchback. To insure a prosperous accouchement to your wife, you once had to tie her girdle to a bell and ring it three times, while now all that is necessary is to see the new moon over your right shoulder and wish. To get rid of warts, you were to fold up in a rag as many peas as you had warts, and throw them into the highroad, when the unlucky person who picked them up became your substitute; but now, they may be cured by finding a pin, head toward you. To cure a tooth-ache you had to solicit alms in honor of St. Lawrence, but in these enlightened times it can be done by staring at a horseshoe over the door. And so on, ad infinitum do we find the superstitions, like the fashions, ever changing.

The birth of science was the death of superstition, said Huxley; but, alas, it is a slow and painful death. But, science is only half born as yet, and that is why superstition is only half dead.

P. T. Barnum was known as the prince of humbuggers, yet few men have ever lived who had a keener insight into human nature. He knew the human heart, he knew its weaknesses, and he knew how to profit by his knowledge.

The gullibility of the public is shown in various ways: first, by the prosperity of the palmists, astrologers and mediums; second, by the success of all get-rich-quick enterprises; third, by the crowds who patronize the street fakirs who sell articles which nobody can operate but themselves; and fourth, by the apparent success of certain officials who operate through their press agents.

Palmistry, graphology, physiognomy, phrenology, clairvoyancy, chirognomancy, and the other "sciences," have not yet been accepted by the powers that be, fortunately, as an infallible detector of crime. Very few, indeed, of the believers in these isms and ologies would care to have their fate in court determined by experts in one or more of these theories. Only a few hundred years ago, persons were tried and convicted of witchcraft by the same sort of "experts," and the result was that the accused had a very slight chance of acquittal.

Most of our great men have had their illusions, delusions and superstitions, but that is no excuse for people of our times. Genius is always ill-balanced, in accordance with the law of compensation. Napoleon believed in the exploded theory of astrology, and he once said of a bright star, "It has never deserted me. I see it on every occurrence urging me onward; it is an unfailing omen of success." Oliver Cromwell says he saw the figure of a gigantic woman enter his chamber, who told him that he would become the greatest man in England. Sir Joshua Reynolds thought the lamps in his gardens were trees, and the women bushes, agitated by the breeze. Descartes thought he was followed by an invisible person, whose voice urged him to continue his researches. Loyola, lying wounded after the siege of Pampeluna, imagined he saw the Virgin, who encouraged him to prosecute his mission. Pope thought he saw an army come through the walls of his home to inquire after his welfare. Goethe says that he once saw his exact counterpart coming towards him. Byron was also visited by ghosts, and Dr. Johnson thought he heard his mother's voice, though she was in a distant city. Swedenborg imagined that he could converse with departed spirits. Cellini was deterred from suicide by the apparition of a beautiful woman, and Nicolai was annoyed by various spirits, one of which had the appearance of a dead body. And when we remember that some of the world's greatest minds were deluded by the doctrines of witchcraft, alchemy, astrology, spiritualism, and kindred superstitions, now known to be false and silly, including the mighty search for the Philosopher's Stone, we should hesitate long before accepting any strange theory just because somebody else believed in it.

ABRACADABRA was one of the names given to the Persian sun-god Mithra. This word was supposed to have magic powers to cure diseases, provided it was written in the form of a magic triangle several times, as follows, and worn on the bosom for nine days:

ABRACADABRA
BRACADABR
RACADAB
ACADA
CAD
A

Why is superstition so deep-rooted? Why do we cling to error so tenaciously? Why does every new, occult fad soon attract a host of followers? Let us see. First, there is a charm to everything that is extraordinary—we love the unusual, the different, the marvelous, the miraculous; second, we hate to see destroyed that which we love. Hence, the tendency to exaggeration, which is a consequence of it; and hence the regretful reluctance to have our dreams of wondrousness dispelled. Is there anything quite so unpleasant, when we have told a friend of some marvelous manifestation we had witnessed, as to have that friend prove to us that the manifestation was but a trick? Not only is our pride hurt, but our pet joy is spoiled; we had been hugging a sacred mystery, only to find it a delusion.

That which we call mystery is unfinished knowledge—not complete ignorance. That which we call the supernatural is but the natural not yet understood, or only partly understood. We know a little of everything, but not everything of everything, nor even everything of any one thing. Science is only a mystery solved.

A prevalent and dangerous form of credulity or enthusiasm is that which makes us extremists or faddists. A faddist is an extremist, and an extremist is a faddist. It is one thing to be so stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing new has any interest to us, and it is another to be so credulous and catholic that we seize every new theory with a mad enthusiasm. Every fad and delusion is founded on a truth, but the extremist sees in them more than a truth; his brain becomes a kaleidoscope, with numerous reflecting surfaces which reflect multifold imaginary pictures. From two or three simple truths, sprang an immense false system of astrology; from the simple truth that our temperaments and characters are more or less expressed upon our bodies, sprang some of the silly doctrines of palmistry and physiognomy; from the simple truth that every person has an individuality which is expressed in his apparel, his home and his manners, sprang the ridiculous theory of psychometry; from the simple truth that souls live beyond the grave, and that our imagination may picture those souls, sprang the untenable belief in ghosts, spirits and mediums; and from the simple fact that our pains and troubles are intensified by brooding over them, sprang the fallacy of Christian Science. Who would say that the Boston tea party caused the Revolutionary war, or that the firing on Fort Sumpter caused the "late unpleasantness"? The quarrel between Queen Anne and the Duchess of Marlborough over a pair of gloves did not cause the change of ministry and the following peace with Louis XIV, nor did the blood of Lucretia put an end to the kingly powers at Rome, as some say, and neither did the sight of Virginia terminate the decemviral power, nor did the view of Caesar's body and mantle enslave Rome. It seems to be that love of the marvellous, of the curious, of the strange, and of the impossible, that makes us ascribe great results to the most insignificant and isolated causes.

There is a book entitled "Current Superstitions," which can be had in any library, that should cure any reasonable mind of superstition. It contains some thousands of superstitions common throughout the United States, and if a person were to believe in them all, that person could not live one day without violating a dozen or more that would involve him into fatal consequences. Fortunately, the superstitious person usually clings to only two or three, which are not bothersome, and he does not see the folly of them. Some superstitions seem harmless enough, such as, for example, the belief that holding an open umbrella over the head in the house is productive of bad luck, for who wants to do such a thing? or, that of walking under a ladder, for how many times in a lifetime does a person have occasion to avoid doing so? But all superstitions are harmful to the mind, and harmful in their influence upon others—particularly upon children. A man cannot successfully contend against an unknown enemy in the dark, and superstition pre-supposes that there is some unknown, relentless, all-powerful force at work, against God, Nature, common sense, and against the laws of the universe.

There is an old story, but a well-authenticated one, which serves to illustrate the dangers of superstition. In Hamburg, in 1784, a singular accident occasioned the death of a young couple. The lady, going to the church of the Augustin Friars, knelt down near a Mausoleum, ornamented with divers figures in marble, among which was that of Death, armed with a scythe, and a small piece of the scythe being loose, fell on the hood of the lady's mantlet. On her return home, she mentioned the circumstances as a matter of indifference to her husband, who, being a credulous and superstitious man, cried out in a terrible panic, that it was a presage of the death of his dear wife. The same day he was seized with a violent fever, took to his bed and died. The disconsolate lady was so affected at the loss that she was taken ill and soon followed him. They were both interred in the same grave, and their inheritance, which was very considerable, fell to some distant relatives.

Under the head of "Thirteen at Dinner," Edwards in "Words, Facts and Phrases" says: "The common superstition which makes it unlucky to have thirteen at dinner is no doubt a reference to the Last Supper of our Lord and his disciples, where thirteen were present and Judas was among them. He left first, and therefore the first of a party of thirteen to leave the table is the unlucky one." Perhaps this is correctly stated, but if so, how many persons now make the dangerous mistake of at once leaving a table as soon as they discover thirteen present! By leaving at once they hope to avert the evil, whereas they are rushing into it. What folly, either to leave the table or to remain at it, because of this superstition!

The Thirteen Club of New York serves a useful mission. Composed of several hundred prominent people, it meets, discusses the folly of popular superstitions, exposes the fallacies of the supernatural, and breeds a healthy condition of the mind. They meet on Fridays, usually on the 13th of the month, they enter the clubrooms by passing under a ladder, the dues are multiples of thirteen, umbrellas are hung over every chair, salt is spilled on every table, and so on, in defiance of the laws of superstition.

Those foolish persons who believe in the silly superstition "Thirteen at table, one of them sure to die," should remember that if there are fourteen at table, or more, the chances of one of them dying soon are much greater than if there were only thirteen, so that it is far safer to reduce the number to thirteen!

Wonder is the effect of novelty upon ignorance, it is said, but the ignorant are not the only ones to wonder over novelty, and other things than novelty cause wonder, such as want of familiarity with common things met with every day. Knowledge is the cure of both ignorance and superstition, but of the love to wonder there appears to be no cure.

The reason we are so quick to believe in the supernatural is that we are prone to discern in it either good luck or bad luck—benefit or punishment. We are all governed by our passions—principally Hope and Fear, and nothing is more capable of creating those hopes and fears than unrestrained credulity concerning the mysterious.

Everybody has doubtless seen those wonderful, supernatural mind-readers at Coney Island, who profess to be able to tell you your name. I listened to one of their dialogs recently, in which a young lady and her companion were amazed at having the magician look in their eyes and read there their true names, fully convinced of the supernatural powers of the operators. Guessing at how it was done, my friend and I strolled off, made a plan, returned, stopped in front of the camp, and began a conversation in which I addressed my friend as "William"—which was not his name at all—and he called me "Washington," to all of which the several fakirs were intently listening, though pretending not to. Just as they thought they had enough to work upon they approached us, and we yielded to their entreaties. We were ushered into the mystic chamber, there was some whispering among them, and then we were dramatically ordered to think intensely of our names, the chief fakir all the while glaring tragicly into my friend's eyes. "Ah, I has it," said he, gesticulating wildly, "William!" he exclaimed, exultantly. "Wonderful!" was our reply. Devoting his attention to me, he appeared puzzled, but finally said: "You no think; I no get name, but I tell you something wonderful—I tell you what on your mind." "Very well," said I, "that will do." And then he put his greasy forefingers on my temples and cried, "You think you have some washing done!"

If every spiritualist, astrologer, palmist, clairvoyant, mind reader and fortune teller were compelled by law to hang out a sign, "I am a professor of tricks, magic, sleight-of-hand, legerdemain, and tomfoolery; come in and match your wits against mine!" they would still have many customers; but, if everybody believed in signs, there would be no harm done. But perhaps the people would rather have it the other way, as it is, so that they can nurse the delusion that "Perhaps there may be something in it, after all."