by Chloe Rhodes
Greek legend also provides another possible source of the superstition: as symbols of life and growth, cuttings of nails and hair were used as votive offerings to Persephone, the Goddess of Spring, and it was thought that to offer these to her while at sea would anger Poseidon, the God of the Sea, and incite him to cause a storm.
RAVENS
Ravens, along with crows and other corvids (which include magpies), appear in the folklore of many European cultures; in Norse mythology a pair of ravens, Huginn and Midgard, are the familiars of the Norse god Odin and fly across the world gathering news to take back to him. In Irish legend the Morrigan, a goddess of battle, often took the form of a raven, while in medieval country lore they were usually seen as omens of death. Their jet-black feathers linked them to the night, which was dominated by witches, demons and the Devil. They were in fact often suspected of being witches who had taken on the form of a bird to allow them to spy on those they planned to harm, and seeing one perched on the roof of a house in which someone was sick was taken as a sure sign the patient would never recover. The earliest superstitious beliefs relating to ravens held them to be prophetic, though not necessarily sinister, as this extract from Virgil’s Eclogues, from around 40 BC, describes: ‘If a timely raven on my left hand . . . had not warned me at all costs to cut short this last dispute, neither your friend Moeris nor Menalcas himself would be alive today.’
By AD 77, when Pliny the Elder wrote his Natural History ravens were seen as ‘the very worst sort of omen when they swallow their voice, as if they were being choked.’ And their reputation as a minstrel of death was cemented by Shakespeare’s famous reference to the bird in Macbeth: ‘The raven himselfe is hoarse / That croaks the fatall entrance of Duncan / Under my battlements.’
One possible reason for the proliferation of the belief in rural England was the raven’s cry, which was thought to sound like a cry of ‘Corpse! Corpse!’ Its behaviour may have contributed to its reputation too because it eats carrion and it was thought to be able to smell death. Farmers reported that if a sheep or cow was wounded ravens would often wait ominously nearby until they could settle down to feast on the carcass.
MAGPIES: ONE FOR SORROW, TWO FOR JOY
The belief that it is bad luck to see a single magpie is as prevalent today as it was in the nineteenth century, when the number of magpies seen together was used as a way to predict the future. It comes from the saying ‘One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told.’ Although no specific bird is mentioned by name in the verse, it is widely understood to refer to the magpie, though in areas where magpies are rarely seen it is also applied to crows and other corvids. Passed down by word of mouth from one generation to the next, there are many regional variations of the rhyme; in America and Ireland it is more commonly recited as ‘One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral, four for a birth, five for heaven, six for hell, seven’s the Devil his own self.’ While in Manchester there are additional lines: ‘eight for a wish, nine for a kiss, ten for a surprise you should be careful not to miss, eleven for health, twelve for wealth, thirteen beware it’s the Devil himself.’
These references to the Devil give a clue about the superstition’s origin: according to Christian folklore, the magpie was the only bird not to raise its voice in song to comfort Jesus at his crucifixion, and Scottish legend has it that the magpie holds a drop of the Devil’s blood beneath its tongue. The bird’s sinister reputation may also have been linked to country people’s observations of its habits, which include stealing anything shiny and killing other birds’ chicks to feed its own. Certainly it was seen as a very bad omen to see one on its own and usually signified great sorrow ahead.
Various methods exist to counteract the evil influence of a lone magpie: doffing your hat, spitting over your shoulder three times or saluting it are all well documented techniques, as is greeting it with the line ‘Good morning, Mr Magpie. How’s your wife?’, in the hope that the mention of a second bird will bring you joy instead of sorrow.
EVIL SPIRITS CAN’T HARM A PERSON STANDING INSIDE A CIRCLE
The circle is found as a symbol of completeness and eternity in many cultures and is still used symbolically in the secular world today in the familiar form of the wedding ring. The belief that the circle offers protection from evil has its roots in the ancient magic practised by the Babylonians, Assyrians and early Kabbalists, who used circles as a place of safety during incantations. They believed that the circle used could be physically realized by drawing it in salt, chalk or dust; once drawn, the circle was thought to become a metaphysical sphere, protecting its creator from all angles. The ceremonial magicians of the Middle Ages regarded the magic circle as crucial in protecting them from the influence of evil spirits who would be summoned, alongside good spirits, by their spells.
Though the Church actively discouraged the practice of magic during the medieval period, it remained an important aspect of folk religion and in many cases belief in its role was strengthened by the intense fear of the Devil so encouraged by the Church. Spells were often sought to counteract the various misfortunes that people put down to the interference of demons, or the work of the Devil, which made the protection of the magic circle even more critical. Sometimes, magicians in this era would attempt to gain heavenly protection by inscribing the names of archangels in the circle.
The modern superstition that there is safety inside a circle comes to us via the revival of magic in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Magical orders like the Golden Dawn encouraged spiritual development and ritualistic practices and had an enormous impact on the development of Occultism in the West. Some branches of contemporary paganism, particularly Wicca, still use the magic circle to harness good energy and form a protective barrier during magical rites.
IT IS UNLUCKY TO KILL AN ALBATROSS OR A GULL AS THEY CONTAIN THE SOULS OF SAILORS LOST AT SEA
This superstition has its roots in the ancient belief in metempsychosis, otherwise known as the transmigration of a soul into another living being. In the West, and especially in coastal areas, people believed that when someone died, their soul could inhabit the body of a bird. Fishermen and sailors, who faced greater perils than most while at sea and were therefore among the most superstitious of people, believed that the birds that came to fly alongside their boats carried the souls of men who had been killed at sea. This alone was enough to make killing one akin to the murder of a fellow human, but they were sacred for another reason too. The souls of the dead were thought to have the power to see both the past and the future, so their presence was seen as a warning that danger lay ahead. Seagulls containing the souls of dead sailors were said to screech before a disaster, while the mere presence of a storm petrel alongside a boat was enough to convince the living souls on board that they were in danger of drowning.
The albatross was also said to carry the soul of a dead sailor, but its presence was seen as a good omen. Its large wingspan and soaring flight made sailors believe that it brought favourable winds with it and killing one was the sin that cursed the ‘Ancient Mariner’ in Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s famous poem of 1798:
‘God save thee, ancient Mariner,
From the fiends that plague thee thus!
Why look’st thou so?’ – ‘With my crossbow
I shot the Albatross.’
. . . And I had done an hellish thing
And it would work ’em woe:
For all averr’d, I had killed the Bird
That made the Breeze to blow.
In the traditional sailing and fishing communities in Britain’s coastal regions the usefulness of gulls to the community may have fuelled this superstition. The birds are scavengers, keeping the public safe by eating dead fish and fish offal that might otherwise litter the beaches and provide a breeding ground for disease. The belief in gulls as soul-birds was still alive up to at least the late nineteenth century and few fishermen
would kill a gull even now.
THE CAUL OF A NEWBORN CHILD PROVIDES PROTECTION AGAINST DROWNING
The caul is a membranous part of the amniotic sac that in a small percentage of births still covers the baby’s head and body as it is delivered. The sac contains the amniotic fluid that has protected and nourished the baby during its gestation, so a baby born in the caul is still surrounded by ‘water’. The belief that the caul offered protection against drowning seems to have come from the observation that newborns only take a breath once free from the caul, so there is no danger of them drowning in the fluid. We now know that instinctive reflexes of a newborn allow it to close its windpipe and seal its lungs when submerged in water, but medieval science had no notion of this and people simply believed that the caul itself was responsible for protecting the baby from drowning.
This made it a precious good-luck charm for the child, and it was usually kept in a glass container or mounted on paper and framed. It also made a prized talisman for sailors, who believed it would protect them from drowning at sea. Evidence for this can be found as early as 1500 in a verse ‘conceit’ by ‘Piers of Fulham’ collected by William Carew Hazlitt in Remains of Early English Poetry (1866), which states the caul ‘Is right a perfyte medicyne,/ Both on freshe water and on see,/ That folke shall not drowned be.’
The value placed on the caul meant that the parents of children lucky enough to be born with one often sold them to the highest bidder. This practice was made famous by Charles Dickens in David Copperfield, the opening chapter of which provides a fascinating insight into the semi-superstitious attitudes of early Victorian England:
I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don’t know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain.
A COCK CROWING AT THE WRONG TIME IS BAD LUCK
Cockerels usually crow to herald the dawn, which means they were traditionally credited with the ability to scare away the spirits of darkness. West Country wisdom said that the cockerel could see off even the Devil himself, so its call was usually welcomed as a sign that the dangers of the night had passed. When they used their voice at any other time, however, it was seen as a prophesy of danger or death. Written records of this date back to a translation of Roman author Petronius’s The Satyricon in AD 65: ‘A cock crowed . . . “It’s not for nothing that yonder trumpeter has given the signal; it means either a house on fire, or else some neighbour giving up the ghost. Save us all!”’
In 1594, ‘The unseasonable crowing of the barnyard cock’ was listed as an ill omen in Thomas Moresin’s collection Papatus. By the mid-1800s the crowing was said to be a specific warning that a member of the family the cock belonged to would die the next day, possibly on the exact hour that the cock had opened its beak to sing.
In Celtic and Welsh mythology a cockerel crowing three times around midnight was also believed to foretell a death, especially if it stood on the roof of a house to deliver its ominous message, as it was thought to mean that someone sleeping inside was about to meet their maker. Crowing in the early evening was less disastrous and was taken by country dwellers as a sign that there would be rain by morning, hence the old rhyme: ‘If a cock goes crowing to bed, he’ll certainly rise with a watery head.’ The crow of a cock directly outside the door was said in rural areas to signal the arrival of a stranger, while in the Shetland Islands, your fate depended on the temperature of a cockerel’s feet. If one crowed after dark and was found to have warm feet, it meant that good news was heading your way, if his feet were cold, it meant death.
CARRYING A TOADSTONE TO PROTECT AGAINST EVIL AND CURE ILLNESS
Toads and frogs were a source of fascination in ancient times because of their ability to exist on either land or water. They were seen as symbolic of the connection between the known world and the mysterious depths and were thought to possess magical powers. By the Middle Ages toads were known to produce poisonous secretions if attacked and this fact, combined with their warty skin and preference for damp, shady spots, led to their being associated with witchcraft. (See If a Toad or Frog Enters the House . . .) The toxins in their skin had a hallucinogenic effect and were used by witches in ‘flying ointments’. At the time those using them believed the ointment actually enabled them to fly, though in fact they were simply mind-altering enough to produce the sensation of flying in anyone who ingested them. Toad secretions also made them useful to witches as a source of poison for spells designed to harm or weaken people, and one common antidote to such spells was to wear the powdered bones of a toad in a small box around the neck (see Wear a Toad around the Neck to Ward off the Plague).
The wearing of a ‘toadstone’ became popular in the sixteenth century and in 1558 ‘A iewell containing a Crapon or Toade Stone set in golde’ was listed among the gifts given to Queen Elizabeth in her coronation year. Though these button-shaped stones were thought to be formed in the heads of toads, they were later found to be the fossilized teeth of the Lepidotes, a Jurassic and Cretaceous bony fish that lived in both shallow seas and freshwater lakes, where toads later made their homes. The stones were worn around the neck as an amulet against a range of ailments, especially those caused by poisoning or the bite or sting of a venomous creature.
Many medieval cures were thought to work based on the principles of sympathetic magic, or the idea that like cures like. As in modern homeopathy, medicines containing an ingredient from something that could cause the same ailment was used as a cure. In this case it was hoped that a toadstone from a venomous toad would protect the wearer from the effects of any poison.
ST JOHN’S WORT GUARDS AGAINST THE DEVIL
St John’s Wort has been known as a medicinal plant since ancient times and notes on its use appear in Pliny the Elder’s Natural History in AD 77: ‘The seed is of a bracing quality, checks diarrhoea, promotes urine. It is taken with wine for bladder troubles.’ It was also used by the ancient Greeks and Romans to treat venomous bites, menstrual pains, upset stomachs and ulcers, as well as to combat depression or melancholy. However, it was for its spiritual powers that the plant was especially revered, as illustrated by its botanical name Hypericum perforatum. Perforatum simply means perforated, because of the tiny black ‘holes’ in the petals, which are actually oil secreting glands, but Hypericum comes from the Greek word hyperikon, which can be translated as ‘over ghosts’ (hyper means ‘over’ and eikon means ‘apparition’).
The plant’s strong odour (often compared to turpentine) was partly responsible for this belief, as it was thought that the scent would act like an incense to drive off evil spirits.
A poem said to date from 1400 reveals medieval attitudes towards the plant:
St John’s Wort doth charm all witches away
If gathered at midnight on the saint’s holy day.
Any devils and witches have no power to harm
Those that gather the plant for a charm:
Rub the lintels and post with that red juicy flower
No thunder nor tempest will then have the power
To hurt or hinder your houses: and bind
Round your neck a charm of similar kind.
In the thirteenth century St John’s Wort is described as ‘herba demonis fuga’ in a compendium of drugs compiled by the Salernitan physicians (from the celebrated medical school of Salerno in Italy, established at the end of the first century) and was later given the name ‘fuga demonum’ or devil’s scourge, because of its perceived power to protect people from the demons that haunted them. As medical understanding of psychological disorders grew during the scientific revolution of the Renaissance, people continued to use the word ‘demons’ to describe feelings of melancholy an
d the plant is now commonly used in the treatment of depression.
IF A PICTURE FALLS OFF THE WALL, THE PERSON DEPICTED WILL SOON DIE
Death omens are among the most common superstitions, dealing as they do with the one thing that most people fear above all else, and death omens that are unmistakably directed at an individual are the most sinister of all. This belief has been popularly held since at least the seventeenth century, though the anxieties behind it date back much further. Images of the person are viewed with suspicion in many cultures; some devout Muslims, Amish people, Native Americans and Aborigines prefer not to have their pictures taken, the former because they view it as wrong to replicate anything made in the image of God, the latter because of an ancient belief that it steals a part of their soul. This notion has parallels in Christian folklore too, in which the image of a person reflected in a mirror was believed to capture the person’s soul. (See Breaking a Mirror.)
Stories in which such an omen had ended in the person’s death were passed down from one generation to the next as confirmation of its truth. The following instance was a particularly spine-chilling example; William Laud, the Archbishop of Canterbury from 1633 to 1645 and supporter of King Charles I in the English Civil War, was famously beheaded for treason. A 1668 biography of him, Life of William Laud by ecclesiastical author Peter Heylin, tells the following, often repeated tale:
Going into his upper study . . . he [Laud] found his Picture at full Length, and taken as near unto the life as the Pensil was able to express it, to be fallen on the Floor, and lying flat upon its face, the string being broke by which it was hanged against the wall. At the sight whereof . . . he began to fear it as an Omen of that ruine which was coming toward him.