tables, a similar number of guests being seated at each table. The
serving of the meal was announced by the “shivering” of a mirror
placed on an easel, a ceremony performed by two cross-eyed waiters!
Having put on green neckties and placed a miniature skeleton in their
button-holes, the guests passed under a ladder into the dining room.
The tables were lighted with small lamps placed on plaster skulls;
skeletons were suspended from the candles, which were thirteen in
number on each table; the knives were crossed; the salt-stands were
in the shape of coffins, with headstones bearing the inscription, ‘In
memory of many senseless superstitions, killed by the London Thirteen
Club, 1894.’ The salt-spoons were shaped like a grave-digger’s spade.
“After the dinner was fairly started, the chairman asked the company
to spill salt with him, and later on he invited them to break
looking-glasses with him, all of which having been done, he presented
the chairmen of the different tables with a knife each, on condition
that nothing was given for them in return. An undertaker, clothed in a
variety costume, which would have done credit to a first-class music
hall, was then introduced ‘to take orders,’ but he was quickly shuffled
out of the room.”
These unbelieving jesters, who so audaciously defied the fatal omen,
did not seem to realize that a popular superstition is not to be
laughed out of existence in so summary a manner. Equally futile was the
attempt to put it to a scientific test, as, if tried by that means, it
appears that, of any group of thirteen persons, the chances are about
equal that one will die within the year. Therefore, the attempt to
break the spell by inviting a greater number of persons could have the
effect only of increasing, rather than diminishing, the probability of
the event so much dreaded.[18]
It has been stated in the newspapers, from which I take it, that there
are many hotels in New York which contain no room numbered thirteen.
There are other hotels and office buildings wherein the rooms that are
so numbered cannot be leased except once in a great while. In large
hotels one custom is to letter the first thirteen rooms and call them
parlors. Another custom is simply to skip the unpopular number, and
call the thirteenth room “No. 14.” A man who had just rented an office
which bears the objectionable number, in a down-town building, asserts
that though he has no superstitious dread of the number, he finds that
others will not transact business with him in that office. I also find
it stated as a fact that the new monster passenger steamship _Oceanic_
has no cabin or seat at the table numbered thirteen.
It was again instanced as a deathblow to a certain candidate’s hopes
of a reëlection to the United States Senate, that repeated ballotings
showed him to be just thirteen votes short of the required number.
From the same state, Pennsylvania, comes this highly significant
announcement in regard to a base-ball team: “Because the team left here
on a very rainy day, and on a train that pulled out from track No.
13, the superstitious local fans (_sic_) are in a sad state of mind
to-night, regarding the coincidence as an evil omen.” Again the small
number of six, in the graduating class of a certain high school, was
gravely referred to as owing to there having originally been thirteen
in that class.
At the same time there are exceptions which, however, the superstitious
may claim only go to prove the rule. For instance the Thirteen Colonies
did not prove so very unlucky a venture.
As regards the superstitions of actors and actresses, the following
anecdote, though not new, probably as truly reflects the state of
mind existing among the profession to-day as it did when the incident
happened to which it refers. When the celebrated Madame Rachel
returned from Egypt in 1857, she asked Arsène Houssaye, within a year
thereafter, the question: “Do you recollect the dinner we had at the
house of Victor Hugo? There were thirteen of us,--Hugo and his wife,
you and your wife, Rebecca and I, Girardin and his wife, Gerard de
Nerval, Pradier, Alfred de Musset, Perrèe, of the _Siècle_, and the
Count d’Orsay, thirteen in all. Well, where are they to-day? Victor
Hugo and his wife are in Jersey, your wife is dead, Madame de Girardin
is dead, my sister Rebecca is dead, De Nerval, Pradier, Alfred de
Musset, and d’Orsay are dead. I say no more. There remain but Girardin
and you. Adieu, my friends. Never laugh at thirteen at a table.”
The world, however, especially that part of it represented by diners
out, goes on believing in the evil augury just the same. A dinner party
is recalled at which two of the invited guests were given seats at a
side table on account of that terrible bugbear “thirteen at table.”
When mentioning the circumstance to a friend, he was reminded of an
occasion where an additional guest had been summoned in haste to break
the direful spell.
Unquestionably, the newspapers might do much toward suppressing the
spread of superstition by refusing to print such accounts as this,
taken from a Boston daily paper, as probably nothing is read by a
certain class with greater avidity. It says “that engine No. 13 of
the Boston, Hoosac Tunnel & Western Railroad has, within three weeks,
killed no less than three men. The railway hands fear the locomotive,
and say that its number is unlucky.” It is true, we understand, that
the standard number of a wrecked locomotive, that has been in a fatal
accident, is not unfrequently changed in deference to this feeling on
the part of the engine-men.
It is held to be unlucky to pass underneath a ladder, an act which
indeed might be dangerous to life or limb should the ladder fall. But
it is even harder to understand the philosophy of the _dictum_ that to
meet a squinting woman denotes ill luck.
The bird was formerly accounted an unlucky symbol, perhaps from
the fact that good fortune, like riches, is apt to take to itself
wings. The hooting of an owl, the croaking of a raven, the cry of a
whip-poor-will, and even the sight of a solitary magpie were always
associated with malignant influences or evil presages. Poe’s raven
furnishes the theme for one of his best-known poems. And the swan was
long believed to sing her own death-song. Be that as it may, the fact
is well remembered that a ring, bearing the device of a bird upon it,
or any other object having the image of the feathered kind, was not
considered a suitable gift to a woman. That article of superstition,
like some others that could be mentioned, has vanished before the
resistless command of fashion, so completely indeed, that birds of
every known clime and plumage have since been considered the really
proper adornment for woman’s headgear.
There is, however, an odd superstition connected with the magpie, an
instance of which is found related by Lord Roberts, in “Forty-one Years
in India.” We could not do better than give it in his own words: “On
the 15th July Major Cavagnari, who had been selected as the envoy and
plenipotentiary to the Amir of Kabul, arrived in Kuram. I, with some
fifty officers who were anxious to do honor to the envoy and see the
country beyond Kuram, marched with Cavagnari to within five miles of
the crest of Shutargardan pass, where we encamped, and my staff and
I dined that evening with the mission. After dinner I was asked to
propose the health of Cavagnari and those with him, but somehow I did
not feel equal to the task: I was so thoroughly depressed, and my
mind filled with such gloomy forebodings as to the fate of these fine
fellows, that I could not utter a word.
“Early next morning the Sirdar, who had been deputed by the Amir to
receive the mission, came into camp, and soon we all started for the
top of the pass.... As we ascended, curiously enough, we came across
a solitary magpie, which I should not have noticed had not Cavagnari
pointed it out and begged me not to mention the fact of his having seen
it to his wife, as she would be sure to consider it an unlucky omen.
“On descending to the (Afghan) camp, we were invited to partake of
dinner, served in the Oriental fashion on a carpet spread on the
ground. Everything was done most lavishly and gracefully. Nevertheless,
I could not feel happy as to the prospects of the mission, and my heart
sank as I wished Cavagnari good-by. When we had proceeded a few yards
in our different directions, we both turned round, retraced our steps,
shook hands once more, and parted forever.”
The sequel is told in the succeeding chapter. “Between one and two
o’clock on the morning of the 5th of September, I was awakened by my
wife telling me that a telegraph man had been wandering around the
house and calling for some time, but that no one had answered him. The
telegram told me that my worst fears had been only too fully realized.”
Cavagnari and his party had been massacred by the Afghans.
Again, there are certain things which may not be given to a male friend
(young, unmarried ministers excepted), such, for example, as a pair of
slippers, because the recipient will be sure, metaphorically speaking,
to walk away from the giver in them.
There is also current in some parts of New England a belief that it is
unlucky to get one’s life insured, or to make one’s will, under the
delusion that doing either of these things will tend to shorten one’s
life. This feeling comes of nothing less than a ridiculous fear of
facing even the remote probability involved in the act; and is of a
piece with the studied avoidance of the subject of death, or willing
allusion in any way, shape, or form to the dead, even of one’s own kith
and kin, quite like that singular belief held by the Indians which
forbade any allusion to the dead whatsoever.
Spilling the salt, as an omen of coming misfortune, is one of the
most widespread, as well as one of the most deeply rooted, of popular
delusions. It is said to be universal all over Asia, is found in
some parts of Africa, and is quite prevalent in Europe and America
to-day. Vain to deny it, the unhappy delinquent who is so awkward as
to spill salt at the table instantly finds all eyes turned upon him.
Worse still, the antidote once practised of flinging three pinches of
salt over the left shoulder is no longer admissible in good society.
Instantly every one present mentally recalls the omen. His host may
politely try to laugh it off, but all the same, a visible impression of
something unpleasant remains.
Something was said in another place about the potency of the number
“three” to effect a charm either for good or for evil. Firemen and
railroad men are more or less given to the belief that if one fire or
one accident occurs, it will inevitably be followed by two more fires
or accidents. A headline in a Boston newspaper, now before me, reads,
“The same old three fires in succession,” and then hypocritically
exclaims, “How the superstitious point to the recurrence!”
The superstition about railroad accidents is by no means confined
to the trainmen, or other employees, but to some extent, at least,
is shared even by the higher officials, who point to their past
experiences in the management of these iron highways as fully
establishing, to their minds, certain conditions. One of these
gentlemen once said to me, after a bad accident on his road, “It is not
so much this one particular accident that we dread, as what is coming
after it.” I also knew of a conductor who asked for a leave of absence
immediately after the occurrence of a shocking wreck on the line.
Although periodically confronted with a long series of most momentous
events in the world’s history that have happened on that day of the
week, the superstition in regard to Friday, as being an unlucky day,
has so far withstood every assault. It will not down. Whether it exists
to so great an extent as formerly may be questioned, but that it does
exist in full force, more especially among sailors, is certain. We have
it on good authority that this self-tormenting delusion grew out of the
fact that the Saviour was crucified on Friday, ever after stigmatized
as “hangman’s day,” and, therefore, set apart for the execution of
criminals, now as before time.
It is not wholly improbable that some share of the odium resting upon
Friday may arise from the fact of its being so regularly observed as a
day of fasting, or at least _maigre_, by some religionists.
In some old diaries are found entries like the following: “A vessel
lost going out of Portland against the advice of all; all on board,
twenty-seven, drowned.” It is easy to understand how such an event
would leave an indelible impression upon the minds of a whole
generation.
Notwithstanding the belief is openly scouted from the pulpit, and is
even boldly defied by a few unbelieving sea-captains, the fact remains
that there are very many sober-minded persons who could not be induced
on any account to begin a journey on Friday. There are others who will
not embark in any new enterprise, or begin a new piece of work on that
day; and still others who even go so far as to say that you must not
cut your nails on Friday. A man could be named who could not be tempted
to close a bargain on any other day of the week than Thursday. It is a
further fact, which all connected with operating railroads will readily
confirm, that Friday is always the day of least travel on their lines.
This circumstance alone seems conclusive as to the state of popular
feeling. Apparently a brand has been set upon the sixth day of the week
for all time.
Numerous instances might be given to show that men of the strongest
intellect are as fallible in this respect as men of the lowest; but one
such will suffice. Lord Byron once refused to be introduced to a lady
because it was Friday; and on this same ill-starred day he would never
pay a visit.
“See the moon through the glass,
You’ll have trouble while it lasts.”
This warning couplet is still a household word in many parts of New
England. It has been observed that even those sceptical persons who
profess to put no faith in it whatever, generally take good care to
keep on the right side of the window-glass. As bearing upon this branch
of the general subject an incident is related by a reputable authority,
as having occurred at a party given, not many years ago, by a gentleman
holding a considerable station in life. It is therefore repeated here
word for word.
“In the midst of a social chat, at the close of the day, a footman
rather briskly entered the drawing-room, and walked up to the back
of the chair of the hostess and whispered something in her ear; she
immediately closed her eyes and gave her hand to the man, and was
forthwith led by him from the room. The guests were rather astonished,
but after the lapse of a few moments the lady returned and resumed her
seat.
“Her sudden departure having occasioned a rather uneasy pause in the
conversation, she felt it necessary to state the cause of her singular
conduct. She then told us that the New Harvest Moon had just made
its appearance, and it was her custom to give a crown to any of her
servants that first brought the information to her when that event
occurred; and that the reason why she closed her eyes, and was led by
the footman out of the room to the open air, was that she might avoid
the evil consequences that were sure to happen to her if she obtained
her first glimpse of the Harvest Moon through a pane of glass. This
lady was highly accomplished, and possessed remarkable sagacity upon
most subjects, but was nevertheless a slave to a groundless fear of
evil befalling her if she saw this particular New Moon in any other way
than in the open air.”
It is passing strange, however, that the gentle and beautiful Queen
of the Night should have been mostly associated with a malignant
influence. Juliet pleads with Romeo not to swear by the “inconstant
moon.” The traditional witch gathers her simples only by the light of
the moon, as at no other time do they possess the same virtues to work
miraculous cures or potent spells. It is also an old belief that if a
person goes to sleep with the moonbeams shining full upon his uncovered
face, he will be moonstruck, or become an idiot. I well remember to
have seen the officer of the watch awaken a number of sleepers, who
had taken refuge on the deck of a vessel from the stifling heat below.
Milton speaks of
“Moping melancholy
And moonstruck madness,”
which has become incorporated with the language under the significant
nickname of “luny.”
When we consider the already long list of material or immaterial
objects threatening us with dire misfortune, the wonder is how poor
humanity should have survived so many dangers ever impending over it
like the sword of Damocles. Really, we seem “walking between life and
death.” The catalogue is, however, by no means exhausted. A picture,
particularly if it be a family portrait, falling down from the wall,
bodes a death in the family, or at least some great misfortune. This
incident, somewhat startling, it must be confessed, to weak nerves, has
been quite effectively used in fiction.
Notwithstanding it is the national color of Ireland, green has the
name of being unlucky. More strange still is the statement made by
Mr. Parnell’s biographer that the famous Irish leader could not bear
the sight of green. Queer notion this, in a son of the Emerald Isle!
Mr. Barry O’Brien goes on to say that Parnell “would not pass another
person on the stairs; was horror-stricken to find himself sitting with
three lighted candles; that the fall of a picture in a room made him
dejected for the entire afternoon; and that he would have nothing to
say to an important bill, drawn up by a colleague, because it happened
to contain thirteen clauses.” It is added that the sight of green
banners, at the political meetings he addressed, often unnerved him.
The singular actions of a pet cat have recently gained wide currency
and wider comment in connection with the ill-fated steamer Portland,
which went down with all on board, during the great gale of November
27, 1898. Not a soul was left to tell the tale. It was remarked that
puss came off the boat before the regular hour for sailing had arrived,
and though she had never before been known to miss a trip, she could
not be called or coaxed back on board, and the doomed craft therefore
sailed without her. As a matter of fact, it has been noticed that in
times of great disasters, like that just related, superstition that
has lain dormant for a time, always shows a new vigor, and finds a new
reason for being.
In the course of my rambles along the New England coast, I found many
people holding to beliefs of one sort or another, who hotly resented
the mere suggestion that they were superstitious. The quaint and
curious delusions which have become ingrained in their lives from
generation to generation, they do not regard in that light. For one
thing they believe that if a dead body should remain in the house over
Sunday, there will be another death in the family before the year is
out.
The ticking of the death-watch, once believed to forebode the
approaching dissolution of some member of the family, so terrifying
to our fathers and mothers, is now, fortunately, seldom heard or
little regarded. While the superstition did prevail, there was nothing
so calculated to strike terror to the very marrow of the appalled
listeners as the noise of this harmless little beetle, only a quarter
of an inch long, tapping away in the decaying woodwork of an ancient
wainscot.
There is no end of legendary matter concerning clocks. Sometimes
nervous people have been frightened half out of their wits at hearing
a clock that had stopped, suddenly strike the hour. Clocks have been
known to stop, too, at the exact hour when a death took place in the
house. But even more startling was an instance, lately vouched for by
reputable witnesses, of a clock, of the coffin pattern, of course, from
which the works had been removed, playing this same grewsome trick.
The first case might be accounted for, rationally, by some fault in
the mechanism, or some rusty spring suddenly set in motion; but all
theories necessarily fail with clocks without works. Admonitions or
warnings are often associated with clocks, as has been noticed in
connection with marriage customs. And the mystical relation between
time and eternity is often brought to mind by the stopping of the watch
in a drowned person’s pocket, or the relation of some curious legend
like the following, without comment or qualification, in a reputable
newspaper:--
“There is a curious legend about the old clock, which is to be
superseded by a new one, at Washington, Pennsylvania. It is stated that
about twenty years ago a person was hung in the courtyard. The clock,
which had always tolled out the hour regularly, stopped at the hour
of two o’clock, being the hour at which the drop fell that sent the
unfortunate into eternity. Since that time, many aver, the clock has
never struck again.”
So, also, the howling of a dog, either by day or by night, under a sick
person’s window, is to this day held by the weak-minded to portend the
death of that person. Some writers think they have traced this belief
to the symbolism of ancient mythology, where the dog stands for the
howling night-wind, on which the souls of the dead rode to the banks of
the Styx, but this hypothesis seems quite far-fetched.
The winding-sheet in the candle is another self-tormenting belief of
evil portent, now happily gone out with the candle.
Then again, to pass from this subject, a single case of nosebleed often
excites the liveliest fears on the part of nervous people, on account
of a very old belief that it was a sure omen of a death taking place in
the family. Not long ago the following choice morsel met my eye while
reading in a book: “Our steward has this moment lost a drop of blood,
which involuntarily fell from his pug nose. ‘There,’ said he, ‘I have
lost my mother--a good friend.’”
Breaking a looking-glass denotes that a death will take place in the
family within the year. This mode of self-torture is supposed to derive
its origin from the great use formerly made of mirrors by magicians
and other obsolete impostors in carrying on their mystical trade.
Astrologers also made use of the looking-glass in practising the art
of divination or foretelling events, probably by means of some such
cunning contrivances as are now employed with startling effects by our
own “wizards” and “necromancers.” Quite naturally the innocent glass
itself came to be looked upon by the ignorant with superstitious awe,
and the breaking of one as the sure forerunner of calamity. We do not
think, however, that this old superstition is by any means as widely
prevalent as it once was.
It is pleasing to chronicle the total disappearance of that terrible
bugaboo, the Evil Eye, which so long kept our ancestors in a state
of nervous apprehension fearful to contemplate. It is now only
perpetuated by a saying. So with that other equally repulsive belief
in the efficacy of touching a dead body, as a means of convicting a
suspected murderer by the fresh bleeding from the wound. Both of these
superstitions were fully accepted by the first settlers of New England,
and perhaps also in other of the colonies. John Winthrop relates a very
harrowing case of infanticide, in which this monstrous test was put in
practice to convict the erring mother.[19] The superstition is said to
be of German origin.
The following very curious piece of superstition is found in Colonel
May’s Journal of his trip to the Ohio, early in the century. It seems
that a man had fallen into the river and was drowned before help could
reach him. The following method was employed to recover the body. First
they took the shirt which the drowned man had last worn, put a whole
loaf of good, new bread, weighing four pounds, into it, and tied it
up carefully into a bundle. The bundle was then taken in a boat to the
place where the man had fallen in, a line and tackle attached to it,
and then set afloat on the water. The rescuers said that the bread
would float until it should come directly over the body, when it would
sink and thus discover the location of the dead man. Unfortunately, the
line was not long enough, so that when the loaf filled with water and
sank, the tackle disappeared with it.
[Illustration]
X
OF HAUNTED HOUSES, PERSONS, AND PLACES
“Three times all in the dead of night,
A bell was heard to ring.”--_Tickell._