We at the comparatively frozen and prosaic north can indulge in gay coaching parades at Franconia, Newport, or Lenox, where costumes of gorgeous hues assist the natural beauty of the flowers. But it is only a coaching parade, at the wind-up of a gay season. We cannot catch the evanescent glamour, the optical enchantment, the fantastic fun, the exquisite art of making long preparation and hard work, careful schemes for effect, appear like airy nonsense for the amusement of an idle hour. We show the machinery. A true carnival can only be a success in a perpetual "summer-land," "within a lovely landscape on a bright and laughing seacoast." Taine said, "Give me the race, the surroundings, and the epoch, and I show you the man." Give me fair women, roses, sunshine, leisure, and high-bred, prancing steeds, and I show you this Santa Barbara Carnival.
But this is only a portion of the entertainment. There is a display of flowers at the Pavilion, where everything can be found that blooms in California, all most artistically arrayed; and more fascinating in the evening, when hundreds of tiny electric lights twinkle everywhere from out the grayish-green moss, and the hall is filled with admiring guests. There is always a play given one evening by amateur talent, a tournament, and a grand closing ball.
The tournament is exciting, where skilful riders try tilting at rings, trying to take as many rings as possible on lance while galloping by the wires on which these rings are lightly suspended—-a difficult accomplishment. Their costumes are elaborate and gay, but never outrè or bizarre, and no two alike. Each has his own color, and, like the knights of old, has a fayre ladye among the spectators who is especially interested and anxious for his success.
Next comes the Spanish game of "colgar," picking up ten-dollar gold pieces from the saddle, the horse at full speed. And the gymkhana race ends the games. Those who enter, saddle at the word "go," open an umbrella, and, taking out a cigar, light and smoke it—then see who first rides to the goal.
Last came the real vaqueros, and they ride untamed, unbroken horses, after a long and rather painful struggle to mount. They lasso mustangs and do wonderful things. But it was too much. I was glad to go and rest.
The Flower Dance at the ball, where human flowers formed intricate figures and dances for our edification and delight, was so attractive that my words are of no avail. Picture twenty-eight young ladies, each dressed to represent a flower—hollyhock, pansy, moss, rose, morning-glory, eucalyptus blossom, pink clover, yellow marguerite, Cherokee rose, pink carnation, forget-me-not, buttercup, pink-and-white fuchsia, lily of the valley, wine-colored peony, white iris, daffodil, and so on. They advance with slowly swaying motion, with wreaths uplifted until they reach the stage, where sit the guests of honor. There they bow low, then lay the garlands at their feet, and retire, forming ingeniously pretty groups and figures, while bees and butterflies flit in and out. See the bees pursuing the little pink rosebuds until at last they join hands and dance gaily away, only to be enthusiastically recalled.
Do you ladies want to understand a little in detail about the dresses? Of course you do. Well, here is the yellow marguerite:
Slender petals of yellow satin falling over a skirt of white silk crêpe, a green satin calyx girdle about her waist, and golden petals drooped again from the neck of her low bodice and over her shoulders.
A handsome brunette represented a wine-colored peony in a rich costume of wine-colored velvet and satin. The petals fell to make the skirt, and rose again from a bell sheathing the neck of her low corsage, and the cap on her dark hair was a copy of the flower.
There, you see how it is done. But it requires genius to succeed in such an undertaking. Look at Walter Crane's pictures of human flowers for more suggestions.