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.
In the midst of these things arose a momentous question--what was the
religion of the deceased, and where should he be buried? As in the old
miracle plays we find good and bad angels contending for the souls of
the dead, so on this occasion did the heads of all the Saxonholme
churches, chapels and meeting-houses contend for the body of the little
Chevalier. He was a Roman Catholic. He was a Dissenter. He was a member
of the Established Church. He must be buried in the new Protestant
Cemetery. He must lie in the churchyard of the Ebenezer Tabernacle. He
must sleep in the far-away "God's Acre" of Father Daly's Chapel, and
have a cross at his head, and masses said for the repose of his soul.
The controversy ran high. The reverend gentlemen convoked a meeting,
quarrelled outrageously, and separated in high dudgeon without having
arrived at any conclusion.
Whereupon arose another question, melancholy, ludicrous, perplexing,
and, withal, as momentous as the first--Would the little Chevalier get
buried at all? Or was he destined to remain, like Mahomet's coffin, for
ever in a state of suspense?
At the last, when Mr. and Mrs. Cobbe despairingly believed that they
were never to be relieved of their troublesome guest, a vestry was
called, and the churchwardens brought the matter to a conclusion. When
he went round with his tickets, the conjuror called first at the
Rectory, and solicited the patronage of Doctor Brand. Would he have paid
that compliment to the cloth had he been other than a member of that
religion "by law established?" Certainly not. The point was clear--could
not be clearer; so orthodoxy and the new Protestant Cemetery
carried the day.
The funeral was a great event--not so far as mutes, feathers and
carriages were concerned, for the Chevalier left but little worldly
gear, and without hard cash even the most deserving must forego "the
trappings and the suits of woe;" but it was a great event, inasmuch as
it celebrated the victory of the Church, and the defeat of all
schismatics. The rector himself, complacent and dignified, preached the
funeral sermon to a crowded congregation, the following Sunday. We
almost forgot, in fact, that the little Chevalier had any concern in the
matter, and regarded it only as the triumph of orthodoxy.
All was not ended, even here. For some weeks our conjuror continued to
be the hero of every pulpit round about. He was cited as a shining
light, denounced as a vessel of wrath, praised, pitied and calumniated
according to the creed and temper of each declaimer. At length the
controversy languished, died a natural death, and became "alms for
oblivion."
Laid to rest under a young willow, in a quiet corner, with a plain stone
at his head, the little Frenchman was himself in course of time
forgotten:--
"Alas! Poor Yorick!"
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