Rensselaer Union, Volume 8, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 October 1875 — Pleasures of Memory. [ARTICLE]

Pleasures of Memory.

There is something very touching in the fondness with which old age clings to the recollections of the past, when memory with her magic wand has called up the scenes of years gone by—years which, rounded and sealed, have lam since their dearth in the tomb of eternity. We have a venerable grand-aunt—Mrs. Betsy Parsons—whose unimpaired memory thus often delights those of -us who revel in the stories of a past generation, and one day we invited Mr. Chardon, who is collecting material for a forthcoming book, to come over and see the old lady and listen to some of her old-time stories. He brought with him Miss Peters, to whom he is engaged, and we introduced them to Aunt Betsy. “Chardon, Chardon,” murmured the old lady, as she scratched her head reflectively with a knitting-needle—* 1 lemme see. There was a Sam Chard’n lived over to the corner nigh to forty year ago—’member he stole some pork outer Deacon Haines’ cellar —hope ’twant you, was it?” —and the old lady smiled pleasantly, and Mr. Chardon, who is twenty-six years old and painfully modest, blushed violently as he said that he didn’t remember of ever doing anything of the kind. “ No—come to think of it, it couldn’t ’a be’n you—this ’ere Chardon was a dre’dful hansum feller, praps ’twas yer father, or mebbe yer uncle,” said Aunt Betsy, placidly, as she resumed her knitting.

This wasn’t very pleasant for Mr. Chardon, especially as Miss Peters, who had never been in our vicinity before, began to look somewhat dubious, and so we mildly suggested'to the good lady that Mr. Chardon was bom in Noblesboro’, a long way from the corner, and that he was going to write a book, * “ Law, yes,” said Aunt Betsy, “ curi’s I shouldn’t a’ known ye. I was brought up up to Nobleboro’, an’ ’member now all about yer family. Yer pa failed, didn’t he, when you wos goin’ on fer nineteen year old, an’ Nancy Cousins giv’ ye the mitten on ’count of it? That was jest afore you had the scrape with ” Just at this terrible crisis, and while Mr, Chardon’s face seemed as though a match might be lighted at it, and Miss Peters majestically gathered her shawl around her, we trod on the old lady’s foot with a desperate hope that the tide of recollection might be cut short. “O-w-w-w!” exclaimed Aunt Betsy, “ who’s that a treadin’ on my foot? don’t ye know no better ?” and she regarded us with such a vindictive glare over her spectacles that we have no hope of ever being remembered in her will. “ I think, Mr. Chardon, we had better be going,” said Miss Peters, in an impressive voice, rising from her seat. “ Don’t be in such a hurry, Miss—Miss —I don’t quite git your name,” said our worthy relative.

“ Peters,” we suggested, as the young lady stood undecided, and the wretched Mr.Chardon made a frantic effort to smile pleasantly. “ What, one of the Peterses to Sheepscot?” said the old lady, eagerly; “ the’re r’lashuns of mine.” “My grandfather and father lived id Sheepscot,” said the young lady, frigidly, “ but it was very many years ago.” contentedly, “ I ’member all ’bout ’em, an’ y’r mother too; she never freckled as you do, an’ her teeth was as white as yourn. Yourn ain’t false ones, be they?” said our relative eagerly, to which query Miss Peters shook her head faintly, and said she really must go. “ Why, I never see no one in sech a hurry,” remarked Aunt Betsy, detaining the young lady by her shawl, while Mr. Chardon looked as cheerful as though he had killed some one. “ How old be you ?” With some . hesitation the young lady murmured: “ Twenty-three.” “ Lemme see,” said the old lady. “ Sam, he marri’d yer ma—she was old Billy Bixby’s darter—in forty-five—l ’member p’ticklerly ’n account of Sam’s borryin’ $lO of my husban’ to go on a honeymoon with; you was born nigh about a year after, an’ now it’s seventy-five, an’ accordin’ to that you mus’ be, lemme see,” and Aunt Betsy commenced counting her fingers with a mathematical precision that would speedily have evolved thirty years from the past had we not contrived to recall her attention by telling her that Miss Peters was going, and that she had better say “good-by.” “ Wall, if you must go,” said our relative, reluctantly, “ I suppose you must. That’s a proper pooty dress you’re a wearin’, but what made the dressmaker cut it so scrimpin’? ’Taint big ’nuff round an’ it’s too tight.” “ You ain’t had a fever, nor nothin’, have ye?” continued the old lady, in a loud whisper, glancing at the young lady’s pull-back attire; “you look awful thin,” and, shaking hands cordially with Miss Peters and her escort, with a pressing invitation for them to call again soon, our good Aunt Betsy bade them “ adoo.” Chardon don't speak to us now, and Miss Peters looked straight before her as she passed us on Main street. What have we done?— Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.