Hocus-pocus

How was it possible that I, a rational man, not unacquainted with the leading scientific facts of our history, and hitherto an absolute and utter disbeliever in all the hocus-pocus which in Europe goes by the name of the supernatural, could believe that I had within the last few minutes been engaged in conversation with a woman two thousand and odd years old?

The ego thinks that his local time and space is all there is to reality, and that the busy affairs of state and trade are more important than a lot of obscurantist hocus-pocus.

[T]hat which we call Good Humour, is in Truth but a ſort of Slight of Hand in Diſcourſe, or a Faculty of making Truths look like Appearances, or Appearances like Truths. Now this Gift of Hocus Pocuſing, and of Diſguiſing Matters, is ſo Surpriſing and Agreeable on the one hand, that it muſt of Neceſſity be a very ſtrong Temptation to the Quitting of the Beaten Road on the other.

But it was possible to say something about Cahirciveen—that it has a nunnery, a market-house, a reading-room.^([sic]) and a Fever Hospital, and, being just two miles from the Valentia slate-quarry, that its houses are slated; but it was impossible to say a single word in defence of Derrynane Beg;—so the two, though seventeen miles apart, were “hocussed-pocussed” together, and it all went down as gospel in Conciliation Hall, that because the houses of Cahirciveen were slated from the quarry close by, ergo, my description of the wretched hovels of Derrynane Beg with their rotten potato-stalk thatches, was monstrously incorrect.

She was fair and above board dealing with her, and no hocusing-pocusing, and every farthing paid to the last shilling, though she did remark that sherry might have been three-and-six, and four were ru’nation ’igh.

But jest argufy this t’other way, and then see how it’d be; for there ain’t no ladies as go marrying Codlings and Humpys—begging your pardon, Mr. Humpy—and Chequerses—not they; they’d be right down hocussed-pocussed and back-parloured in no time; and so, you see, it ain’t according, and all you said about veal pies and oat-cakes goes for nothing, Mr. Humpy.

He was an admirable mimic, so that he kept us roaring with laughter, as he hocussed-pocussed, and fussed and fumed like the former captain of the Water Sprite.

The curse of the Church today is that large portions of the church represent the Christ either as a baby in a mother’s arms, a dead man on a crucifix, or, as in the blasphemous idolatry of the mass, which declares that a bit of bread, stamped by the hand of a priest and hocused-pocused with his Latin, has been transformed into the body, blood and bones of Jesus, the Christ.