The Arab drew forth
from his pouch, with abundant solemnity, a bunch of curiously made
keys, and sharply directed me to stand away from and out of sight of
the door.
When I obeyed, grumblingly, he began to rattle the locks, and
to snap the padlocks, opening them slowly, shaking them, and making as
much noise as possible. The reason of the precaution-it sounded like
poetry if not sense-is this. It is believed that the souls of martyrs,
leaving the habitations of their senseless clay,
[FN#19] are fond of sitting together in spiritual
[p.428]converse, and profane eye must not fall upon the scene. What
grand pictures these imaginative Arabs see! Conceive the majestic
figures of the saints-for the soul with Mohammedans is like the old
European spirit, a something immaterial in the shape of the body-with
long grey beards, earnest faces, and solemn eyes, reposing beneath the
palms, and discussing events now buried in the gloom of a thousand
years. I would fain be hard upon this superstition, but shame prevents.
When in Nottingham, eggs may not be carried out after sunset; when
Ireland hears Banshees, or apparitional old women, with streaming hair,
and dressed in blue mantles; when Scotland sees a shroud about a
person, showing his approaching death; when France has her loup-garous,
revenants, and poules du Vendredi Saint (i.e. hens hatched on Good
Friday supposed to change colour every year): as long as the Holy Coat
cures devotees at Treves, Madonnas wink at Rimini, San Januario melts
at Naples, and Addolorate and Estatiche make converts to hysteria at
Rome:
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