St. John's Eve

In the cooling night air, I pedaled to Bayou St. John, where voodoo priestess Sallie Ann Glassman was leading a St. John’s Eve head-washing ceremony.

They used to visit her shrine on St. John’s Eve, carrying wisps of lighted straw, in order to bring good luck to crops and herds … Her son, the magic Earl of Desmond, is still seen riding over the ripples of Loch Gur until his horse’s golden shoes are worn out.

St. John’s Eve, or Midsummer’s Eve—the shortest night of the year—is still celebrated with bonfires in late June in Western Europe, especially Scandinavia.

Mr. Dyer says, in his interesting book, "The Folk-Lore of Plants," that the St. John's-wort was supposed to be an excellent amulet against lightning, and that it had the magic property of revealing the presence of witches; whence in Germany it was extensively worn on St. John's Eve, when the air was supposed to be peopled with witches and evil spirits, who wandered abroad upon no friendly errands.

We see the gay boats on St. John's eve from the bridges of the Arno, the procession of the black Madonna, the interior of the studios, the ceremonies, the saintly traffic and social subterfuge and naïve manners,—the tradesman, painter, devotee, priest,—pride, piety, and passion,—whereof even the casual observation of a traveller's sojourn had given us so curious or attractive an idea, that, thus expanded and defined, they seem like a personal experience.