Voudouism is not, however, to be dignified by the name “religion.”  It is superstition founded upon charms and hoodoos.  It is witchcraft of the maddest kind, involving the most hideous performances.  Moreover, it is said that a hoodoo is something of which a French negro is very much afraid, and that his fear is justifiable, for the reason that the throwing of a wanga, or curse, may also involve the administering of subtle poisons made from herbs.

Legend is rich with stories of Marie Le Veau, the voudou queen, who lived long ago in New Orleans, and of love and death accomplished by means of voudou charms.  Charms are brought about in various ways.  Among these the burning of black candles, accompanied by certain performances, brings evil upon those against whom a “work” is made, while blue candles have to do with love charms.  It may also be noted that “love powders” can be purchased now-a-days in drug stores in New Orleans.

In the days of long ago the great negro gathering place used to be Congo Square—­now Beauregard Square—­and here, on Sunday nights, wild dances used to occur—­the “bamboula” and “calinda”—­and sinister spells were cast.  Later the voudous went to more secluded spots on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, and on St. John’s Eve, which is their great occasion, many of the whites of the city used to go to the lake in hopes of discovering a voudou seance, and being allowed to see it.  A friend of mine, who has seen several of these seances, says that they are unbelievably weird and horrible.  They will make a gombo, put a snake in it, and then devour it, and they will wring a cat’s neck and drink its blood.  And of course, along with these loathsome ceremonies, go incantations, chants, dances, and frenzies, sometimes ending in catalepsis.

There are weird stories of white women of good family who have believed in voudou, and have taken part in the rites; and there are other tales of evil spells, such as that of the Creole bride of long ago, whose affianced had been the lover of a quadroon girl, a hairdresser.  The hairdresser when she came to do the bride’s hair for the wedding, gave her a bouquet of flowers.  The bride smelled the bouquet—­and died at the church door.

It was, I think, in an old book store on Royal Street—­or else on Chartres—­that I found the tattered guide book to which I referred in an earlier chapter.  It was “edited and compiled by several leading writers of the New Orleans Press,” and published in 1885, and it contains an introductory recommendation by George W. Cable—­which is about the finest guarantee that a book on New Orleans can have.