THE DISTINGUISHED DEAD OF MT. AUBURN. 57 with the approbation of the students, and the entire acceptance of the Corporation and Board of Overseers of Harvard University. He was distinguished for his intimate acquaintance with the classics, for profound, varied and accurate knowledge upon different subjects, and was regarded as one of the most conscientious teachers at the University. He displayed dignity of manner, was urbane, courteous, and universally popular with his class. distinguished as one of the finest classical | he filled for the long period of eighteen years scholars of the college. His first choice for a profession was the ministry, and he studied theology with a view of taking orders in the Lutheran Church; but this was during a period of great political ferment and excitement in Germany, which extended to the Universities. Dr Foller was one of the leading men among the liberals, and young Beckwho was a democrat from conviction, took sides with his friend Foller, as antagonists to the authorities, and incurred the displeasure of the government officials. In 1819 there was a great excitement in Germany, which was caused by the murder of Kotyebue by a fanatic named Sand, and although the latter was given up to the authorities and executed, there were some passages in a letter which was written by Prof. De Wette to the mother of the murderer that were construed against him by the officials of the Government, and he was deprived of his office. Professor De Wette now removed to Basel, in Switzerland, where he was elected to a Professorship, and Mr. Beck, who had accompanied his father-in-law, finished his Theological course at that place, and was elected a tutor. Dr. Follen also left Germany and for a period of time a lecturer at the University of Basel. The so-called Holy Alliance exerted great influence over the weak Governments of Switzerland, and they accused Dr. Follen of being a conspirator against the monarchical institutions of Germany, and demanded his surrender by the Government. Finding that Switzerland was an unsafe asylum for liberal minds, Drs. Follen and Beck embarked for New York on the 5th day of November, 1824. Dr. Beck soon engaged as a teacher at the Round Hill School, at North Hampton, Mass., where he remained for a number of years, and established an ex-: cellent reputation as a teacher. He subse- | quently established a school for boys at a town opposite West Point on the Hudson River. His reputation now increased, and his fame as a teacher in special departments of instruction extended to all parts of the country. He was elected to the Latin Professorship at Harvard University in 1832, which office After his retirement from the duties of the college, he devoted his leisure time to literary pursuits, the fruits of which were a volume entitled "The Manuscripts of the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter, described and collated." Says the Christian Examiner: "All that the libraries of Europe afford in the way of material for the restoration of the text of Petronius, so long obscure and corrupt, has been brought together and arranged by Dr. Beck, with the careful research and that masterly skill which have placed him among the best scholars of the age." After his arrival in this country, Dr. Beck married Miss Louisa A. Henshaw, who died in 1830. For a second wife he married her sister, Mrs. Theresa H. Phillips. Dr. Beck was a member of the American Oriental Society of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. He was at one time Representative from Cambridge to the Mass achusetts Legislature. He also held other ofices of trust, which were conferred upon him by the citizens of Cambridge and by the authorities of his adopted State. The degree of Doctor of Laws was conferred upon him by the College. The following remarks were extracted from a discourse delivered by the Rev. William Newell of Cambridge, upon the occasion of the death of Professor Beck: "Farewell, dear brother and friend, and God give us grace to honor thy blessed memory, to follow thy luminous example of uprightness and high-minded honor, of fidelity and zeal, of courage and steadfastness, in duty, of truthfulness and singleness of heart, of charity, kindness and courtesy, of active interest in every good cause, of love to man and love to God, of loyalty to our country, and of loyalty to the still higher claims of humanity and freedom, of justice and right." In a beautiful and secluded locality on Mimosa Path, in a lot owned by Dr. Beck, is a headstone with the following simple inscription "Charles Beck. Born 19th of -- The Heavenly View. Gone from the blight and the mildew of earth, Where all the senses are inlets to pain; Gone from its darkness, its discord and dearth, Into a home which is infinite gain; August, 1798. Died 19th of March, 1866." Gone from the day ever mingled with night, From the bare earth where the curse doth Gone from the beauty and bounty of earth, Gone from the scenes which bring grief to the eye, 66 ELLEN NARCOLI. you wish." on I should say so, Betsey, if To the White Mountains! What a happening! And with Dr. and Mrs. Narcoli for companions. I sit and think. Yes, I will go. Literature is a paying thing just now, the purse is full. I run my thoughts over my wardrobe, the black silk is in good order, there is time to make a fresh, new travelling dress and bonnet, the morning dress I have, a few dollars invested in boots, gloves, handkerchiefs and collars, and I am ready. "Betsey," says my mother, as on the twenty-third we sit putting the last touches to my travelling dress, "I don't think father is just well." 66 Gathered," I reply, "it is the least work." And I seem to lose all interest in dress, and wish I were not going. But notwithstanding what my mother has said I can see no difference in my father. He was a quiet, undemonstrative man always. As mother has said, they were growing old, but sometimes quiet, healthy people like them live to be very old. There is old Mr. and Mrs. Simpson over the way, what a nice old couple they are; he is eighty-nine and she a year or two younger. It does my heart good to see them at church stand up at the singing, both looking over the same hymn-book; it is more touching, and brings the tears to my eyes quicker, than either preaching or singing. I think this all over as I sit in my room, and by-and-by I hear my father's step on the stair coming up to bed. It is slow, it is true, but so I always remember it; soon after my mother's quicker tread and then the house is still. In a little time I forget the anxiety caused by my mother's words, and my thoughts go off to my friends whom I shall meet on the morrow. My trunk is in my chamber, and although I shall have ample time in the morning for all needed preparations, like a very child I must commence my packing this very night. This done, I hang the traveling dress over the back of a chair, and as I can think of nothing else to do, I go to bed. It is morning when I wake. Before I Not well?" say I, much surprised. have finished dressing I hear my mother "What is the matter?" "Some nights he is very restless, but he complains of nothing." "Why haven't you told me before. I will not go." "Yes, you will go, Betsey; how foolish!" "I don't think it is anything alarming, at least not at present. You know we are getting old, father and I, and of course we have our bad feelings. I have seen for two years past that father is not as strong as he used to be, and I too often feel that I am not as young as I once was, but what then? There is no need on that account of your giving up your trip to the White Mountains. And now are you going to have this ruffle plaited or gathered ?" step hurriedly across the entry and speak my, name. I open the door and see her pale wan face. "What is it, mother?" "It has come, Betsey." "What, mother?" "Come with me, child." Mother always calls me child when she is deeply moved. I go with her into her chamber and see my father lying very still but breathing very heavily, and seemingly unconscious. "What is it, mother?" "It is death, Betsey." "Why didn't you call me before?" "I had no time, child. I was wakened from a sound sleep by his saying, 'Betsey, good-bye.' It was like some one talking in sleep, and I turned towards him, and he was lying just as you see him now. He has not spoken since, he has not moved since, he will never speak or move again. O, my darling!" and she laid her face down to his and sobbed and wept. "Mother, mother, we must send for a doctor; it may not be death." "I have sent, Betsey. He will soon be here, but it will be of no use." And it is indeed of no use, he will never wake again in this world. My mother's grief is very quiet. She is a woman of a repressed nature, and only in secret do the great waves of sorrow overpower her. Neighbors come and go and are kind and pitiful, and Linda and Andrew come home, and all the mournful preparations necessary in the house of death are attended to. When the neighbors are all gone and Andrew and Linda have gone to their room, I go up to my chamber where my mother has been sitting. She looks up eagerly. "Is all done for the night, Betsey?" "I will go down then and see him." chamber, and seating her in a chair place myself at her feet. She buries her face in her hands. "Mother, dear mother, can I say anything to comfort you?” "Nothing, nothing!" "I am so sorry." "Sorry?" she repeats. "Yes, mother, that I can be of no comfort to you." "You are a comfort to me," she says, smoothing my hair, "for what have I now but you? what should I do without you? I' said wrong; you do comfort me." "We will comfort each other." "Yes, I know. Father, mother and children have been taken from me, but this, Betsey, this is a part of myself. Why, child, let me tell you, you can know nothing about it." "No, mother, I can never know." "Be thankful, Betsey. It will be a terrible experience spared you. Be as happy as you can without the blessing, comforting yourself with the thought that if you have it not you can never have it taken from you." "But mother, mother," I cry, “think of the years of wedded happiness and the joys of maternity; would you give them all up to be spared this bereavement ? " She does not answer for a time, her eyes dim with streaming tears, look far away with the look I have noticed since that only wid "God's finger touched him and he slept," ows wear. say softly. "Yes, dear," laying her hand on the cold hand of the dead and smoothing it with caressing touch. "We were very dear to "each other." Then she says, "Yes, we have been very bappy together, and though I may have said it were better not to have the blessing than to lose it, I said wrong. There is no better gift God gives us than to be a happy wife and mother." "And you have had, dear mother, the best good." "And having the best good how hard it is to lose it." "And it is so in this world, that from our greatest happiness springs our deepest sorrow. But we all know, mother, and you yourself know, that some day it must come to this, that one must be taken and the other left. God has been very good to you in that he allowed you so many years together." "But oh, if we could only have been taken together." 66 an eternity." But, mother, at best it is but a short | days. She is cheerful always, she never time, these few earthly years. compared to complains nor murmurs, for, as she says, what has she to complain of or to worry her? She has no cares, and she has a good daughter to take care of her. God has been very good to her, and although he has taken from her the best gift, she knows she has but to wait and it will be hers again. It may be, it may be," shaking her head sadly. "I cannot take in an eternity. I can only see the long, lonely years between me and the time when I shall be called. Yet I trust, I trust, that God is good even in this, but heart and flesh cry out, and it is hard to be comforted." The weeks pass into months, and life goes on quietly and peacefully with my mother and myself. Her step is slower, but it does not seem to be from any physical weakness, only that she seems to have no heart in any thing she does, excepting it is something my father loved to do or left undone. Those pursuits which formerly pleased her, seem to have lost their charm. She shrinks from the volubility of Mrs. Hatch and her daughters, and always when I see them coming I go down to relieve her as much as possible from their empty talk. "Betsey Sprague," Mrs. Hatch says to me one day when my mother is not by, "your mother is just mourning herself into the grave. She grows thinner and thinner every day of her life." "But she seems to have no ailment, Mrs. Hatch. She never complains." "No, that's the way it is. It was just so with Mrs. Jenkins. Her husband died in June. She didn't seem to take on so terribly at first, nothing like so bad as Mrs. Conant who got married again before the year was out, but she just grew thinner and thinner, for all the world like your mother, and before the snow blew she was dead. She hadn't an ache or a pain, but she ate no more than a bird, and she would sit all day quiet and cheerful-like, so that no one seemed to think she was sick, and almost before we knew it, she just seemed to melt away." My mother grows inexpressibly dear to me and our relations to each other seem to change. She speaks of it herself. "The waiting seems long, sometimes, Betsey, but I try not to be impatient. Every night when I go to bed, I think I am one day nearer to him, and lay me down and try to be thankful and content." Life is to her indeed a waiting, but in time it comes to an end. I cannot tell when the failure of her physical powers commenced, but commence it did, and slowly and surely went on, till one day when she had seemed no worse than on other days, she tells me to send for Andrew and Linda. And I send for them and she bids them good-bye, saying they had been good children, and must love each other to the end, and when one should be taken and the other left, they must not grieve too much, but wait and in God's time he would give them to each other again. And then she motions them to go, and she tells me what I cannot tell here and bids me good-bye. And I am alone. Father and mother are gone, and my sister has returned to her home. What is life to me henceforth? What have I to live for, and whom have I to comfort me? I have thought of this time, I knew it must come to me, but am I on this account any more prepared for it? I cannot tell. "When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take thee up." "Call upon the Lord in the day of trouble and he will comfort thee." I say these promises over to myself, and try to think I am comforted, but my heart is very sore and my spirit distressed within me. "You are the mother now, Betsey, I shall and, in that it is for myself, it is a selfish sorcall you 'child' no more." And she never did, it was always "dear." And she deferred to me in everything. My widowed mother! I scarcely know her for the lively, busy woman of former row. But does this thought lighten the dread loneliness, or make life any more endurable, or ease in any way the hunger of my heart? I do not try to hide it from my. self that it is for myself I am grieving and |