Palmistry

I was up at Blackpool's North Pier this afternoon. Did you know we have three piers here in the jewel of the north? I was indulging a guilty pleasure (more on that later) and on the way there I passed one of those seaside fortune-teller's booths - you know, cross the palm of Madame Sosostris* with silver and she will reveal your fate to you. It was a sign that today's blog would be about palmistry.

It will be principally about the history of palmistry, not its secrets or techniques. If there are any chiromancers reading this, you should probably stop now, because frankly, I don't believe in you.

Palmistry is the pseudoscientific practice of fortune-telling through the study of the palm of the hand. It is a practice that is found all over the world, with numerous cultural variations and with many, often conflicting, interpretations of the various lines and palmar features.

palmistry (aka chiromancy)

It is believed to have been practiced as far back as the Sumerian civilisation and to have spread through Persia to India (where it intersected with acupuncture) and thence to China. 

Palmistry also progressed independently westwards, to  Greece where Anaxagoras practiced it. Aristotle (384–322 BC) reportedly discovered a treatise on the subject on an altar of Hermes, which treatise he then presented to Alexander the Great, who took a keen interest in examining the character of his officers by analysing the lines on their hands. Imagine that.

In Renaissance Europe, palmistry (also known as chiromancy) was classified as one of the seven forbidden arts, along with necromancy, geomancy, aeromancy, pyromancy, hydromancy, and spatulamancy (look them up). During the 16th century the art of palmistry was actively suppressed by the Catholic Church. Both Pope Paul IV and Pope Sixtus V issued edicts against various forms of divination, including palmistry.

However, humankind being prone to superstition by nature, an interest in palmistry soon resurfaced in the west, starting with Captain Casimir Stanislas D'Arpentigny's publication 'La Chirognomie' in 1839 and the founding of the Chirological Society of Great Britain in London by Katharine St. Hill in 1889 with the stated aim of "advancing and systematising the art of palmistry to prevent charlatans from abusing the art."

Edward Heron-Allen, an English polymath, published various works including the 1883 book, 'Palmistry: A Manual of Cheirosophy', which is still in print. There were also attempts at formulating some sort of scientific basis for the art, most notably in the 1900 publication 'The Laws of Scientific Hand Reading' by William Gurney Benham.

A pivotal figure in this modern palmistry movement was the Irishman William John Warner, known by his sobriquet, Cheiro. After studying under gurus in India, he set up a palmistry practice in London and enjoyed a wide following of famous clients from around the world, including the likes of Sarah Bernhardt, Mata Hari, Oscar Wilde, Grover Cleveland, Thomas Edison, the Prince of Wales, General Kitchener, William Ewart Gladstone, and Joseph Chamberlain. So popular was Cheiro as a society palmist that even those who were not believers in the occult had their hands read by him. A sceptical Mark Twain wrote in Cheiro's visitor's book that he had "exposed my character to me with humiliating accuracy"

Ho hum. Those of us who continue not to believe in palmistry, and who resolutely don't wish to know their futures anyway, would say that palmists/chiromancers are canny and quite skilled at a level of character assessment through deduction and hypothesis, (easier if the client is famous), regardless of their subject's dermatoglyphics. And there I rest my case..

As for my guilty pleasure, that's Anita Harris (I kid you not). She was my first heartthrob when I was barely into my teens. She had a regular singing spot on ITV's satirical Saturday night review show On The Braden Beat (a rival to the BBC's That Was The Week That Was), got signed up by Pye Records and made a few excellent jazz-tinged singles backed up by Top Of The Pops appearances in 1964 and 1965. She switched to CBS for her debut LP 'Somebody's In My Orchard'.  It was one of two albums I bought in 1966, the other being 'Revolver'. Both are still firm favourites in the house on the strand.

Anita Harris circa 1965

Her breakthrough to real stardom came with 'Just Loving You' in 1967. In terms of musical chops, I thought she was right up there with Dusty Springfield and Jackie DeShannon, though Dusty was gay and Jackie was American, so Anita was the one for me. By then, she had a fan club and I became a member (the only time I've ever done such a thing) though of course I never told my school friends. 

Over the next couple of years, she veered away from classy jazz-tinged pop into the realms of light entertainment, pantomime and television panel shows and I lost interest. But I've always treasured those early Pye and CBS recordings and so when I read that Anita Harris was coming to Blackpool for a one-off show as part of a mini-tour, I thought I really should go and see her - for old time's sake, you understand. She was appearing at the theatre on the end of the North Pier, somewhere I'd never been inside in all my years of living here.

I have to say it was a most enjoyable show. Anita, now 83, defies the years. She looks beautiful and her voice is still a remarkable instrument. She talked at length about her career in music, in films (two 'Carry On'  classics) and on stage (as Peter Pan, and as Grizabella in 'Cats' in particular). She sang some of her greatest hits. She exudes grace and vivaciousness, a truly lovely and talented lady, happy to acknowledge how fortunate she has been in her marriage of fifty years, with the friends she has made, the breaks she has got, and the success she has enjoyed doing what she loves in a career spanning over sixty years - all in the palm of her hand, a long life line, a deep heart line, a strong head line, a kind fate line.

To finish, I spotted a coal tit in my back garden just a while ago, and I thought why not weave him in to today's blog as well? This, then, is the latest from the imaginarium. I had no idea where it might take me.

a coal tit

Palm Mystery

Ten grams of tiny coal tit on my fingertips

and he's not impressed by the nyjer seeds,

seems more interested in the palm itself

so I'm honestly not surprised when he asks

"How long's your lifeline, then?"

"In centimetres or years?" I quip, 

assuming he's both metric and numerate,

though he could still be imperial of course,

this tiny black-capped inquisitor.

"If I had hands not claws, mine would be

two times round the sun, so what's yours?"

He cocks an oily eye, waits for my reply.

"Five centimetres," I confide, "but as for years,

I don't know, I've never wanted to find out. 

Longer than two orbits, that's for sure. 

Seventy at least, maybe more."

If he could sniff...he pretends indifference 

to me now, seeds and all, puffs out his chest, 

prepares to fly away, remarks

"Nyjer's for goldfinches mate" and does a flit.

I imagine this doesn't happen every day.

*Madame Sosostris is of course the fortune-teller from T.S. Eliot's 'The Waste Land'. 

Thanks for reading my palm blog, S ;-)

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Magpies - One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

One for sorrow, two for joy. There they are again, on the fence, eyeing up the bird-feeders, the cheeky pair. They were going for it the other day, standing on the top of the frame from where they were able to peck at the fat-balls then stretching to the seed holders to steal from them. Stealing it is, because those feeders are for sparrows. By the time I’ve stood up from my chair, they’ve flown home to next door’s tree.

Over the weekend I was tidying the back garden and making space to plant some winter flowering pansies. For once it was quiet. Usually there’s someone nearby with a lawn-mower or strimmer, or noisy DIY going on and there’s always sirens. We are close to the hospital, the M55, the main police headquarters and a fire station. The sirens are really annoying but not as irritating as the sound of the magpies. The afternoon was pleasantly warm and the air was still. I wanted to do as much as I could before my knees and upper legs surrendered. Soon the magpies kicked off with loud, rattly chak chak chakking. It’s a horrible noise and I think they do it on purpose when they see me come outside. I did what I needed to do as quickly as I could. Next door’s tree is a well-established sycamore and I’m sure it is a housing estate for a massive conventicle of magpies or at least the overspill from the trees around nearby Lawson’s Field.

Magpies have an attractive plumage of black and white with a wide stripe of navy blue which is beautifully vibrant in sunlight. They are predators of bird’s eggs and nestlings which they will kill to feed their young. Nice looking but nasty creatures which also carry superstition. I don’t like to see just one on its own and have to mutter “Good day, Mr Magpie” and hope for another to show up. Apparently, in China they are thought to bring good luck.

In my early teens I used to enjoy ‘Magpie’, the TV show. I’ve read that it was a rival to Blue Peter. I don’t remember it being anything like Blue Peter. I found it entertaining and informative aimed at slightly older kids, which is probably what appealed to me. And it had the rhyme we all know for a signature tune. Join in.

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.
Eight for a wish,
Nine for a kiss,
Ten for a bird
You must not miss.
Magpie.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Superstition - Good Afternoon, Mr Magpie

It was here again the other day. I heard it before I saw it, that horrible noise, like a distorted football rattle, then it swooped down from next door’s tree to strut around my garden like it owns the place. The magpie. Hopefully, there’s another one coming along. Not that I’m superstitious. After a muttering of “Good afternoon, Mr Magpie, pass my best wishes to your good lady wife” I forget all about him and carry on wiping down the kitchen. I notice him fly away with a companion, “One for sorrow, two for joy”, that’s good.

It is just as well that I’m not bothered by cracks in the footpath. I can’t avoid them when I’m pegging out washing and so far, I haven’t come to any harm. They give the courtyard character and somewhere to brush away the shattered shell of the snail I didn’t mean to tread on.

I’m not worried by the number thirteen, but I wouldn’t want to have thirteen people round a dinner table or gathering. That’s the one thing I share with the queen. Actually, I don’t think I know twelve people who would join me for dinner. Well, after lockdown, maybe.

There are superstitious rules concerning cutlery which have existed from my childhood and probably made up by my grandmothers and other ladies of their generation in my family to encourage good table manners. Dropped cutlery meant unexpected visitors and if it was a knife, the visitor would be a man. I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed this. I wonder what we’d get if I dropped a handful of teaspoons? No, I’m not experimenting. Anyway, it’s got to be accidental. There is a correct way to leave cutlery on a finished plate. Deviate from the acceptable and we’re inviting the devil, apparently. The devil doesn’t like salt. Spilling salt causes bad luck. Quickly remedy the situation by throwing a pinch over your left shoulder into the eyes of the waiting devil. To spill salt was considered to be wasting money, dating back to ‘salary’ times.

I once broke the mirror on a handbag compact. I still use it, very carefully because it has a sharp bit and I’ve had the odd nick. I should really buy a new one. I’m not aware of any bad luck as a result, certainly not seven years’ worth. When it comes to personal care, no nail trimming on Sundays, but I’ve no idea why not.

Is it just me with pillowcases? The open ends must always face the same way, usually towards a window and I won’t change bed linen on a Friday. Superstition or not?

Here is my haiku for that pesky bird,

Strutting so aloof

As if it owns my garden.

Arrogant magpie.

Thanks for reading, stay safe and well. Back soon, fingers crossed. Pam x

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Feathers - Superstitious? Me?

 

 

 



 

 

 

I knew that the small, white feather on the bedroom floor had escaped from the duvet as I made the bed, but for a fleeting moment I was happy to think it was a sign from my late father and I smiled.  Superstition, of course, but it gave me a few moments of joyful memories of my lovely dad and there’s no harm in that.

 

I was brought up to understand that peacock feathers are a bad omen and not welcome in the house. They are a sign of doom, even death, apparently. In Greek mythology  Argus, a monster covered with eyes, was changed into a peacock by Hera, so maybe that is where the superstition comes from. A peacock in full plumage with such rich colour is beautiful and majestic.  Even so, I heed to those who have gone before, just in case.

 

Magpies bother me and when I see one, or hopefully more than one, I have to say the rhyme. If it is alone, I say “Good morning, Mr Magpie” which should be enough to protect me, again just in case.  Magpies have stunning deep blue colouring on their wings. The only time I’ve seen a magpie up close is when the unfortunate, motionless bird was gripped in the jaws of my springer spaniel.  No wonder I feel doomed.

 

I found this paragraph in an article about the superstitions of feathers in Nature Center Magazine, written by Emma Springfield.  I’ve never heard of this before and as it made me laugh, I’d like to share it.

 

    “Feathers from a wren are used by sailors to prevent shipwreck. The wren must be chased, caught and killed on Christmas Eve. Then it was carried on top of a pole with its wings outstretched.  For a coin one feather was bought.  At the end of the day so many sailors would have purchased a feather that the wren was practically featherless.  It would then be buried on the seashore.  The sailor would keep the feather on his person in order to make it home safely.”

 

White feathers have been a symbol of cowardice. The Order of the White Feather was founded at the start of World War I and reinstated at the start of World War II, where white feathers were given to men who hadn’t joined the military forces and considered to be ‘conscientious objectors’.

 

The feather that came out of my duvet got pushed back inside one of the sections because I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It is the warmest, lightest, most comfortable duvet we’ve ever had because it is filled with goose feather and down. As a child I remember the Paisley patterned eiderdowns we had, the same as my grandparents, back in the days of sheets and blankets before duvets or continent quilts reached our shores. Our beds were never cold, thanks to the feathers.

 

I found this poem,

 

'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

Emily Dickinson

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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