IN MEMORIAM.

The poor little Chevalier! He died and became famous.

Births, deaths and marriages are the great events of a country town; the
prime novelties of a country newspaper; the salt of conversation, and
the soul of gossip. An individual who furnishes the community with one
or other of these topics, is a benefactor to his species. To be born is
much; to marry is more; to die is to confer a favor on all the old
ladies of the neighborhood. They love a christening and caudle--they
rejoice in a wedding and cake--but they prefer a funeral and black kid
gloves. It is a tragedy played off at the expense of the few for the
gratification of the many--a costly luxury, of which it is pleasanter to
be the spectator than the entertainer.

Occurring, therefore, at a season when the supply of news was
particularly scanty, the death of the little Chevalier was a boon to
Saxonholme. The wildest reports were bandied about, and the most
extraordinary fictions set on foot respecting his origin and station. He
was a Russian spy. He was the unfortunate son of Louis XIV and Marie
Antoinette. He was a pupil of Cagliostro, and the husband of Mlle.
Lenormand. Customers flocked to the tap of the Red Lion as they had
never flocked before, unless in election-time; and good Mrs. Cobbe had
to repeat the story of the conjuror's illness and death till, like many
other reciters, she had told it so often that she began to forget it. As
for her husband, he had enough to do to serve the customers and take the
money, to say nothing of showing the room, which proved a vast
attraction, and remained for more than a week just as it was left on the
evening of the performance, with the table, canopy and paraphernalia of
wizardom still set out upon the platform.