“Good, the more
Communicated, more abundant grows.”
And yet, do we not too sadly feel that the end has come for us, who will not again, while we tarry here, look on that kind face, or feel the clasp of that hand that seemed strength itself? We rejoice in the joy of her immortality—here and hereafter—but for us, here and now, there is the suffering of this present time, which is “not joyous, but grievous.”
How much she did! She worked till the last; till those magnificent energies, which seemed inexhaustible, were at length worn out.
She “died in harness,” and we must not grudge her what she would have chosen. But yet, how we wish it might have been otherwise! That she might have rested in time, to have saved herself to be with us a little longer, an inspiration and strength to all; “a great moral force in the educational world;” an example to all teachers, as well as to her own staff and her own pupils; a joy to the friends who loved her; and to her own nearest and dearest——? But here we pause and are silent before her brother’s words: “I cannot speak of what she was—and what her memory will be—to her nearer relatives, and especially to us, her brothers.”
The details of the service in Holy Trinity and the concluding ceremony in the quiet churchyard at Theydon Bois, near her cottage at Epping, on the edge of the Forest, are given by eye-witnesses, happy in being permitted to be there to see and hear for themselves.
Never, it seemed to me then, could physical disability have pressed more heavily than during that week—from Christmas Eve to New Year’s Eve—when, although no farther distant than St. Leonard’s, I had to submit to be absent, while so many friends were doing honour to her whom we all loved and mourned.
The events of the three days, so full of emotion, could not be better told than as they are given in the “Memorials” compiled in the beginning of the year, by her old pupils—afterwards colleagues—Miss Edith Aitken, Mrs. W. K. Hill (Eleanor M. Childs), and Miss Sara A. Burstall, who record the scenes at Holy Trinity, at Theydon Bois, and on the first day of the re-opening of the schools.
THROUGH THE GRAVE AND GATE OF DEATH.
“It is the will of God that even to the most vigorous and faithful of His servants there shall come, sooner or later, weakness and decay of strength. There is nothing more simply sorrowful than this, and yet it is an integral part of the providence of the world. To the most fortunate and gifted life, full of great opportunities, to which the character and personality were equal, to a life blessed with health and power and love and success and a large measure of happiness, even to such a life comes old age, with its train of disappointment and feebleness. It is true that the waning of a noble life is often marked by a sweetening and mellowing of character, which is in itself a triumph and a glory; but still the growing earthly feebleness cannot be forgotten, and it is a sad thing to watch the face change, and to hear the voice ever weaker and the step ever feebler, and to know that strength is gone and will come back no more in this life. The grasshopper has become a burden; the night is at hand.