occasions of the year. It has brought some pretty fast mules to the front.
One of these had to be ruled out, because he was so fast that he turned
the thing into a one-mule contest, and robbed it of one of its
best features–variety. But every now and then somebody disguises him
with a new name and a new complexion, and rings him in again.
The riders dress in full jockey costumes of bright-colored silks,
satins, and velvets.
The thirteen mules got away in a body, after a couple
of false starts, and scampered off with prodigious spirit.
As each mule and each rider had a distinct opinion of his own
as to how the race ought to be run, and which side of the track
was best in certain circumstances, and how often the track ought
to be crossed, and when a collision ought to be accomplished,
and when it ought to be avoided, these twenty-six conflicting
opinions created a most fantastic and picturesque confusion,
and the resulting spectacle was killingly comical.
Mile heat; time 2:22. Eight of the thirteen mules distanced.
I had a bet on a mule which would have won if the procession
had been reversed. The second heat was good fun; and so was
the ‘consolation race for beaten mules,’ which followed later;
but the first heat was the best in that respect.
I think that much the most enjoyable of all races is
a steamboat race; but, next to that, I prefer the gay
and joyous mule-rush. Two red-hot steamboats raging along,
neck-and-neck, straining every nerve–that is to say,
every rivet in the boilers–quaking and shaking and groaning
from stem to stern, spouting white steam from the pipes,
pouring black smoke from the chimneys, raining down sparks,
parting the river into long breaks of hissing foam–this is
sport that makes a body’s very liver curl with enjoyment.
A horse-race is pretty tame and colorless in comparison.
Still, a horse-race might be well enough, in its way,
perhaps, if it were not for the tiresome false starts.
But then, nobody is ever killed. At least, nobody was ever killed
when I was at a horse-race. They have been crippled, it is true;
but this is little to the purpose.
Chapter 46
Enchantments and Enchanters
THE largest annual event in New Orleans is a something which we
arrived too late to sample–the Mardi-Gras festivities.
I saw the procession of the Mystic Crew of Comus there,
twenty-four years ago–with knights and nobles and so on,
clothed in silken and golden Paris-made gorgeousnesses,
planned and bought for that single night’s use; and in their
train all manner of giants, dwarfs, monstrosities, and other
diverting grotesquerie–a startling and wonderful sort of show,
as it filed solemnly and silently down the street in the light
of its smoking and flickering torches; but it is said that
in these latter days the spectacle is mightily augmented,
as to cost, splendor, and variety. There is a chief personage–‘Rex;’
and if I remember rightly, neither this king nor any of his
great following of subordinates is known to any outsider.
All these people are gentlemen of position and consequence;
and it is a proud thing to belong to the organization; so the mystery
in which they hide their personality is merely for romance’s sake,
and not on account of the police.
Mardi-Gras is of course a relic of the French and Spanish occupation; but I
judge that the religious feature has been pretty well knocked out of it now.
Sir Walter has got the advantage of the gentlemen of the cowl and rosary,
and he will stay. His medieval business, supplemented by the monsters and
the oddities, and the pleasant creatures from fairy-land, is finer to look
at than the poor fantastic inventions and performances of the reveling rabble
of the priest’s day, and serves quite as well, perhaps, to emphasize the day
and admonish men that the grace-line between the worldly season and the holy
one is reached.
This Mardi-Gras pageant was the exclusive possession of New
Orleans until recently. But now it has spread to Memphis and
St. Louis and Baltimore. It has probably reached its limit.
It is a thing which could hardly exist in the practical North;