A GHASTLY JOY.
THERE being a great plenty of snow, there is an abundance of sleighing, and,
consequently, an abundance of misery. There is nothing in which our people
so persistently labor to deceive themselves as in the matter of sleighing.
The opera is nothing to it. If there is not much snow, everybody is sorry;
if there is plenty, everybody is glad. And yet it is safe to say, that not
one in twenty who go sleighing enjoy it. We deceive each other; we deceive
ourselves. A young man hires a horse and sleigh, and gives his girl a ride.
It is a pleasure-trip, without doubt: in fact, it is useless to dispute it.
His mother wants him to wear a cap which
can be drawn down over his ears,
and to tie a comforter about his neck, and put on two pairs of pants, and
a small shawl under his coat, and a pair of mittens over his gloves; but
he does not do it. He even feels offended at the suggestion, and becomes
a trifle irritable under the advice. She is a good mother; but she is well
along in years, and doesn't understand the proprieties of things. He understands
them. He is not going after a load of wood: he is going on a pleasure-excursion
with one who is very dear to him; and, if he should appear comfortable rather
than stylish, he might lose her favor forever. This is a serious reflection.
So he dons a silk hat and a pair of light gloves, and trusts the entire
protection of his throat to a stand-up shirt-collar. And she—how does she
prepare for the ride? She, too, has a mother,—a thoughtful old body, but
so far, so very far, behind the age! And this mother takes a hearty interest
in the ride. She suggests a quilted hood for her daughter's head, and a pair
of warm home-made mitts for her hands, and a wealth of tippets for her neck
and body. She even persists in these things, and is honestly horrified at
what she calls the temerity of going without them. But her daughter is not
going to do it. She is not going to appear to him like a mummy. How it
would look! So she puts on her Sunday bonnet with its bright colors,
and some lace around the neck, and
a pair of kids on her hands. And so they
start off, leaving the mother half paralyzed with horror on the door-step,
with her arms full of comfortable woollens. But they present a fine appearance:
there is no doubt of that. The horse dashes along at a rapid pace; the bells
sound merrily; and the handsome sleigh and the bright-colored robes combine
to make a pleasant picture to outsiders. The couple are out for a sleigh-ride,
and they must enjoy it. He is very happy. His fingers feel like stove-legs;
his feet ache with the cold; his nose and ears are batteries of sharp, tingling
sensations; the play of his mouth has been crippled by the action of the
biting air; and his spine appears to have been turned into a race-course
for the special purpose of displaying the speed in a polar wave.
Everybody goes sleigh-riding. There is a peculiar fascination in it. She
feels this as they glide along. It makes her very happy. Her new hat sits
on the back of her head, displaying her crimps to the very best advantage,
and exposing one-half of her head to the action of the weather. Her nose
has become a deep carmine at the tip; her lips are livid, her eyes set, her
cheeks icy; the kidded hands are stiff with the cold, and the kidded feet
are benumbed beyond all recovery. Chills chase wildly along the nerve-centres
of their bodies; and their faces are peppered with hardened snow and other
things thrown up by the flying heels of the
horse.
Such happiness!
such joy!
such exhilaration! People moving along on the walks
observe them with envious eyes, while the keen air through which they are
rushing is perforating them with a million sharp darts. They don't talk much
now: their joy is too great for utterance, perhaps. At any rate, a silence
falls upon them; and he is aware, when he attempts to say any thing, that
his mouth threatens to slop all over his face, and stay there; and, when
she attempts to laugh, it seems as if the lower half of her head was about
to come off, and slip into the bottom of the sleigh, and be lost among the
robes. This is an unhappy thought: but-sleigh-riding seems to be the right
thing to do; and they are doing it. And then—and this is really the cream
of the fun—they both appear well; that is, there is nothing bungling or
awkward in their appearance: they look stylish. And so they ride, and ride,
and ride; and when they get back, and she stumbles into the house, and he
reels into the stable and hands over the five dollars with his petrified
fingers, there is something so massive about their joy, that it seems as
if they never would be able to fully comprehend it.
Then there is the alligator, who owns a horse and sleigh of his own, and
who, to get the worth of his money, has faced all kinds of weather with them,
until his skin has become impervious, his nerves solidified, and his
sensibilities deadened beyond all
recall. The only one sentiment he is capable
of is revenge; and, to gratify that, he is constantly prowling about in search
of unsuspecting people, whom he beguiles into his sleigh. His chief victim
is the man of sedentary pursuits, who, being always shut up, is the more
easily seduced into the ride; and, being always shut up, is the more susceptible
to the cold. And so this unhappy wretch is caught up, and whirled through
the cold air until every tooth in his head is loosened, and every drop of
blood in his body is congealed, and every nerve strung to its highest tension
of suffering; until his heart stands still in pain, his brain becomes locked
in a sea of ice, and his limbs have lost their power of motion. Then he is
dumped out, and crawls back to his place of business a shattered wreck of
his former self. Snow may come and go, flowers bloom and fall again, and
thus the years creep on; but that man will never be as he was before,—never,
never again.
