One day, in the middle of the skating season, I concluded to go down to Eastwick Park, Mr. R. O. Lowry’s popular resort, and amuse myself awhile by watching the skaters tumbling head over heels and cracking their brain-pans on the ice. I always had a passion for seeing any one fall, especially on skates. There is a calm, quiet enjoyment about it—to the observer—that is not equaled by any thing else. “We always,” remarks La Rochefoucault “have strength enough to bear the misfortunes of others,” a saying which, however humiliating it may be to confess it, has a certain truth. The ancient Greek writer Isidorus puts it very bluntly when he says: “Nothing is more pleasant than to sit at ease in the harbor and behold the shipwreck of others,” a sentiment which is repeated in an old English song:
“I wander not to seek for more: In greatest storm I sit on shore, And laugh at those that toil in vain, To get what must be lost again;”
to wit, their life. But to return to myself:
For the information of non-residents of Philadelphia, I will state that Eastwick Park is the largest skating-park in the world. It is a resort for pleasure seekers, both in the winter and in the summer: for skating and dancing in the former season; and dancing and rowing in the latter. It is something for Philadelphia to boast of, and for which she is indebted to the enterprise of the Park King, Mr. R. O. Lowry.
The smooth lake of ice was alive with skaters, of both sexes, and the scene was one of the gayest. I had not seen much skating since my return from the army, and, O, how this made me regret my inability to enjoy the delightful exercise. For the first time, I heartily regretted that I had ever served my country, and lost one of my nether limbs; and, in my vexation, felt that if I had it to do over, my loved land might go to the deuce before I would sacrifice a leg, and thus deprive myself of such delightful recreation.
“Never more,” I muttered, “will my nimble feet glide over the smooth ice, and the bright, ringing steel of my skates sing gleeful songs behind me, while I fly like the wind! Never more shall I go it at the rate of twenty miles an hour, tumble heels over head on the dear, clear, smooth, cold ice, get my head cracked and my eyes blacked, and spring up and try it again, cheerful and happy! Ah, John Smith! John Smith! thy skating days are over! They are numbered with the things of the past, and with the things that were, and are not!”