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.

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.