It is great fun, and cordially liked. The mule-race
is one of the marked 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.
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.
