‘(2) I have asked, and I hope my wish may be respected by all, that no flowers should be bought for my funeral. They are beautiful emblems, and if any could gather a few wild flowers or bring a few from their own gardens, it would be good, but I should not like any wholesale destruction, any waste of life, even with wild flowers, and it seems to me quite wrong to spend large sums in decking a grave, when there is so much to be done for the living. If the present pupils and teachers were to give only sixpence each it would come to about £30, and if we take in old pupils and friends, and those who give much more, I fear a large sum would be wasted, which, wisely spent, would not perish like cut flowers, but bear real fruit. Still, flowers are all beautiful things, and gifts of our Father to teach and cheer us: they are patterns of things in the heavens, and flowers speak to us of ἀνάστασις, rising. I often said to you I do not like the word resurrection because it means rising again, and gives the impression that the body that rises is the same that was buried; whereas St. Paul has taught that we sow not that body that shall be.’
But this was only a preface. She spoke chiefly of rising through death to fuller and higher life,—of the purification which all who would see God must desire. Finally she asked:—
‘Shall I pray for my children who are now on earth, for this College which I have loved, and which has, I dare hope, been a means of blessing to some? Has it through my fault hidden the spiritual instead of revealing it, like the trees of Paradise? Will you see that the sunshine of Heaven, the love and holiness which can dwell only in souls, may light up the school-rooms and boarding-houses, and kindle hearts and send forth many light-bearers? And will you ask sometimes for me that I may be purified of the evil that obscured the heavenly light that yet burned feebly within the earthly pitcher? May He send you a worthier teacher! May you, above all things, hear the Voice of Him who stands at the door and knocks, may you open your eyes to the Blessed Spirit, the Paraclete!’
On Monday, November 12, the body was cremated at Perry Barr, the Reverend Dr. Magrath reading the committal service. Next day came the offer from the Dean and Chapter of Gloucester of ‘a tomb in the Cathedral to Dorothea Beale,’ and on the 16th the funeral took place. Everything that could lend dignity and honour to the occasion was done. Those who were present can never forget the impression of that day. The sombre beauty of the Cathedral in the November rain, the music, the well-ordered procession, the crowds, produced a sense of fitness for an occasion which was not merely one of grief. Rather was it an act of solemn thanksgiving for the long, faithful labours ended, an act of resignation through the heart and will of thousands of the life which had blessed them, to the continuous love of a merciful Creator. Many were there who held high position, in educational or municipal life, many friends and parents of pupils, many former teachers, and of course the whole staff. But the crowd which filled the great nave from end to end was made up for the most part of pupils past and present. Eight hundred girls still at the College came voluntarily, walking in grave silence in pairs from the station to the Cathedral. Only a small proportion of this crowd could be present in the Lady Chapel for the latter part of the service, but all when it was over filed quietly past the open grave surrounded by its home-made wreaths of flowers and laurel.
Meanwhile, in Cheltenham, those who were unable to come to Gloucester filled St. Matthew’s Church, where a service was held simultaneously with that in the Cathedral. At St. Paul’s Cathedral at the same time the dome was filled for a memorial service, which included a short address from the Bishop of Stepney. An old pupil present wrote of this:—
‘A memorial service in St. Paul’s Cathedral is an honour accorded to very few women, and befitting but very few. But to the great throng assembled in the wide spaces of the dome on November 16, there was a profound sense of congruity in this mourning for a woman whose real distinction was described on that occasion by the Bishop of Stepney when he called Miss Beale “great.”
‘Miss Beale’s greatness—that indefinable, unmistakable, inestimable quality so rare in her sex—gave her a right to be commemorated there, at the very heart of the world of the living, in presence of the memorials of the nation’s mighty dead. Listening to the mysterious, hope-inspiring sentences, and to the lesson from 1 Corinthians xv., so often chosen by her at College prayers, it seemed that but a very slight veil divided us from that eager, unquenchable, quickening spirit, then exploring the “vasty halls of Death.” And the reverberating thunders of the “Dead March in Saul” have an appropriateness for every strenuous life. Effort in growth and development, conflict with difficulties, the surmounting of obstacles, were certainly of the very essence of Miss Beale’s nature.’
Services were also held at Bowdon Parish Church and at Sunderland. At Bakewell, on the Sunday after she died, thanks were offered for the life and work of Dorothea Beale.
There was widespread appreciation both spoken and written of Miss Beale’s life and work, with barely a discordant note. Many of the notices[102] gave a really striking impression both of herself and of what she had done for the cause of education. Apart from that work she did not care to be known; it is but an obvious truth that its greatness was dependent on the greatness of her character.
A number of old Cheltenham pupils were once asked what they considered the special result of the teaching they had received at the College. Their replies were to the most part to the effect that they had learned the worth of the strenuous life. They would perhaps have been nearer a complete statement of the truth had they said ‘an idea of Duty.’ For it was surely this—a consciousness of responsibility, a sense of stewardship, some perception of the ‘thanks and use’[103] owing for each excellence that had been lent out to them—which was brought home by the teaching, both of word and life, of Dorothea Beale to all, even the youngest and least clever, who came within the circle of her influence. Through such knowledge of duty Miss Beale’s own idea of the ‘strenuous life’ might be perceived. Among the words most often on her lips, especially when speaking to teachers, were such as vivifying, energising, quickening, inspiration. She did not hesitate to say that to her all forms of life were a manifestation of God. Work was to her mind a privilege,—the active will, a Divine gift,—slothfulness was death. It was the defect of a great quality that she sometimes hasted overmuch, that she found it hard to wait in trifling matters, that she seemed even to exaggerate the importance of the College. She was not spared—she would not have asked to be spared—the inevitable sacrifice demanded of all genius, of all lives devoted to a cause. It was the sign of her self-consecration that in any great emergency, before any important decision, she was calm and full of patience. It should be remembered also that each generation has its own mission. To that of Dorothea Beale belonged especially the duty of crying to the careless daughters of England, ‘Rise up ye women that are at ease.’ To another it may be given to serve by waiting.