The Life and Letters of Elizabeth Prentiss

by George Lewis Prentiss

DORSET, VT. August 16, 1878.

This lovely valley has been, for the past few days, "a valley of the shadow." It is not the least significant tribute to one so widely known as Mrs. Prentiss, that her death has affected with such real sorrow, and with such a deep sense of loss, this little rural community which has been her home during a large part of the last ten years. It would have been hard to find among all who gathered at the funeral services on Wednesday, a face which did not bear the marks of true sorrow and of tender sympathy; while from the groups of sunburned farmers gathered round the door or walking towards the cemetery, were often heard the words "a great loss."

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The funeral took place at the house on Wednesday afternoon, and was conducted by the Rev. P. S. Pratt, pastor of the old Congregational Church of Dorset; assisted by Dr. Vincent, and Dr. D. W. Poor. Mr. Pratt read the twenty-third Psalm and a part of the fourteenth chapter of John, which was followed by the hymn, "O gift of gifts, O grace of faith," after which Dr. Poor delivered a most appropriate, tender, and interesting address. Dr. Vincent then offered prayer, and the hymn "Nearer, my God, to Thee," was sung, closing the services at the house. The large assemblage passed in succession by the casket, where lay such an image of perfect rest as one is rarely favored to see. All traces of struggle and pain had faded from the expressive face, and nothing was left but the sweetness of eternal repose.

It was now a little after six o'clock, and the shadows were lengthening in the valley at the close of one of those rare days of the ripe summer, which only the hill-countries develop in their perfect loveliness. The long procession moved from the house, and at the distance of about a quarter of a mile entered the little cemetery; and as it mounted the slope on which was the grave, the scene was one of most pathetic beauty. Standing in the shadow of the hills which bound the valley on the east, the eye ranged southward to the long, undulating outline of the Green Mountain, coming round to the Equinox range on the west, "muffled thick" to its very crest with the green maples and pines, and still farther round to the bold hills and sloping uplands on the north. Below lay the quiet village, at our feet "God's acre," with the train of mourners winding among the white stones. Who could stand there, compassed about by the mountains, and in the shadow of that great sorrow, and not whisper the words of the Pilgrim Psalm, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills. Whence should help come to me? My help cometh from Jehovah, who made heaven and earth."

As the casket was borne to the grave, the setting sun, which for the last half hour had been hidden by a mass of clouds, burst out in full splendor, gilding the mountain-tops and shedding his parting rays upon the group around the tomb, the stricken family, the weeping neighbors and friends, especially the women whom for some years past she had been in the habit of meeting at her weekly Bible-reading, and some of whom had walked each week for miles along the mountain roads, through storm and heat, to drink of the living waters which flowed at her touch.

Dr. Vincent, holding in his hand a little, well-worn volume, and standing at the foot of the grave, spoke substantially as follows:

I am glad, my friends, that I am not one of those who know God only as they find Him identified with the woods and fields and streams. If this were so, I should turn from the grave of this beloved friend, and go my way in utter heart-sickness and hopelessness; for Nature would but mock me to-day with her fulness of summer life. These forest-clad mountains, that waving grain, those woods, pulsating with the hum of insects and with the song of birds, all speak of life, while we stand here at the close of a precious and useful human life, to lay in the dust all that remains of what was so dear, and so fruitful in good.

But, thanks to God, we are not here as those who face an insoluble riddle. We believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and in the resurrection of the dead; and with this key in our hand, we stand here at the grave's mouth, and looking backward, interpret the lesson of this closed life; and looking forward, gaze with hope into the future. Thus Nature becomes our consoler instead of our mocker; a type, and not a contradiction of human immortality. Thus, and only thus, do we find ourselves at the standpoint from which Christ viewed nature when He said, "Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die it abideth alone; but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit"; the standpoint from which Paul viewed nature when he wrote, "That which thou sowest is not quickened except it die; and that which thou sowest, thou sowest not that body which shall be, but bare grain, it may chance of wheat, or of some other grain; but God giveth it a body as He willeth, and to every seed his own body. So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption. It is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness, it is raised in power. It is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body."

And thus too we can understand the words which I read from this little volume, the daily companion of our friend for many years, containing a passage of Scripture for every day in the year, and marked everywhere with her notes of special anniversaries and memorable incidents. Was it merely an accidental coincidence that, on the morning of the thirteenth of August, on which she exchanged earth for heaven, the passage for the day was, "I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, from henceforth, yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."