p. 58 | CORONATION by Rodney Welch

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Nov 28, 1892

CORONATION.

By Rodney Welch

BY RODNEY WELCH.

It was the day before Thanksgiving, the only holiday that New England knows much about, and about which the rest of the world knows so very little. For three nights before the cold had been very severe for the time of year, and the newly-formed ice was as smooth and clear as a looking-glass. The Portland stage and the extra carriages that accompanied it had brought in most of the persons who were expected to join in the family reunions. Brave boys came from the stores of Boston and the sawmills of Oldtown. Brave girls, beautiful in the devotion they showed to the families they were supporting at home, came from the cotton mills at Lowell and Manchester. Houses where plain food had been served for many a week were now stocked with luxuries, for to-morrow was Thanksgiving, "the gladdest, merriest day" of all the year.

What were we to do on that day besides go to church and eat the feast that had been so long in preparation? Such was the question asked by my strong, earnest, older friend, who had come down from Boston to spend Thanksgiving.

"Skate, of course," I answered.

"But why not try the ice to-night?" he asked.

I could see no reason, and so we went down to the shore of the pond, fastened on our skates, and flew, as it were, over the glassy surface to the cove, where the piles of resinous boughs stood. Once there, we conceived the idea of skating back to the village, collecting the young men and women, boys and girls, taking suitable provisions for a picnic, placing them all in sleighs and on sleds, drawing them over to this place, and eating a supper on the rocks, amid the glare of the burning tree tops.

We were not long in carrying out our plans, for almost every house had its sleigh and skaters. In an hour the little lake was in possession of the merriest skating party it had ever known. And then the supper, the bonfires, the songs, and the merry-making. The sport was over at length. It was clearly time to go, and the company was arranging itself in little groups as it had done when we came over.

"Tie all the sleighs and sleds together," my strong friend shouted, as he stood upon a rock among the lingering flames. The order from the leader was soon obeyed. The little vehicles were arranged from ten to twenty feet apart, according to the length of the ropes or leading lines that we had, and three or four skaters were stationed between them. Then two much longer ropes were stretched on either side, of which some twenty skaters took hold. With a shout and a whoop, such as Indians give when rushing into battle, we started on the ice. The line, first straight, or wavering where the poorest skaters were, soon took the form of a crescent, and with a clamor of voices and the grating of the skates, we proceeded right joyfully.

My strong friend and I were on the same side, and held the place nearest the sleighs. We had not proceeded far before I perceived that the ice was bending in front of us, and I could clearly hear it crack, amid the noise of the skaters. I spoke not a word, but looked intently into my companion's face. I only thought that so long as we kept in motion as we were then doing, we might pass the terrible danger. But I knew very well that if the true state of affairs became known, a panic would spread along the line, some skaters would drop out, and the sleighs and their precious burdens must sink to the bottom.

I can never forget the horror of that moment—a moment that seemed an age. I was faint myself, but I shuddered lest some skater should fall or learn the situation. I could not speak for fear, but I most feared that other voices would stop, and that the cracking of the ice should be heard by the women, who would be sure to scream. My eyes were fixed on my companion's face. I was fairly drawn along over the curving ice, that seemed to rise higher before us every moment. Cold sweat was on my forehead, but I could not loosen my hand from the rope to wipe it off. My friend noticed that I was lagging—I, who was so expert a skater. His eye caught mine, and by that sort of intuitive knowledge we are sometimes endowed with in times of great danger, he became aware of our dreadful situation, heard the cracking of the ice, saw it, felt it rising in front of us.

What did the strong man do? Did the alarm seize him that had overpowered me?—Far otherwise. Raising his voice so it could be heard over the din of the skaters and the merry voices of those in the sleighs, he shouted: "Sing Coronation; all sing, so we can time our strokes," and, without lowering his voice, he sang:—

All hail the power of Jesus' name! Let angels prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem And crown him Lord of all.

The order came so unexpectedly that few joined in singing this verse, but when it came to the next stanza, almost all the voices were heard. I felt a sort of relief when the soprano, alto, tenor, and bass voices all struck the words:—

Crown him, ye martyrs of our God, Who from his altars call.

But I feared the time when the bass would be left to carry a line alone. There were but three or four bass voices in the entire company, but my friend was numbered among them. I noticed that he husbanded his breath for this, as a strong man saves his strength for some great effort. Nevertheless, I could hear alternating with the words:—

Extol the Stem of Jesse's rod,

the crack—crack—crack—crack—crack of the brittle shell that was between us and eternity. It was a wondrous relief when four parts instead of one, and a hundred voices instead of four, took on the words, which sounded like an anthem of praise:—

Extol the Stem of Jesse's rod, And crown him Lord of all.

We were now approaching the middle of the lake, where the water was the deepest, so deep, indeed, that no line in the village could reach the bottom, and where the ice must be the thinnest, because it was the last to freeze there. I knew this, but I felt that we were going with such rapidity there would be no new danger so long as there was no break in the singing. I singled out a tree on the shore we were trying to make, and calculated if, at the rate we were then singing, there were verses enough to last until we reached it. I feared lest the leader might omit a stanza, as was sometimes done in church, and there might be a space over which we would be left to pass in silence, or with nothing to disturb the silence but the cracking of the ice.

I had no cause for alarm, however, in the matter. There was, indeed, that dreadful crack—crack—crack—crack of the ice distinctly heard during the singing of one line in each stanza of the hymn, but it was either that I had become more accustomed to it, or because it was more faint than a little time before, that it failed to affect me as at first. So, too, there was a little breadth of ice to be passed over after the singers had closed the verse:—

Let every kindred, every tribe On this terrestrial ball, To him all majesty ascribe, And crown him Lord of all.

But our momentum was then such that I knew we should reach the shore in safety, which we soon did. On reaching the shore there was the same boisterous noise that marked our starting, each one untying his sled or sleigh and joining the little party with which he came. But of the peril through which they had passed, no one of them had the slightest intimation. The two who knew all remained on the sandy beach after the party had gone to their homes. Their arms were about each other's necks as they knelt, and a tremor closed the lips that would have prayed.

The next day was Thanksgiving. Singularly enough, the opening hymn in the church service was the one that was sung on the ice, but it was not strange that two hands holding hymn books trembled when all the congregation sang "Coronation."—Chicago Times.