When the news of the serious illness of this valiant officer got abroad, my boy, there was an immediate rush of free and enterprising civilian chaps to his bedside.
One chap, who was an uncombed reporter for a discriminating and affectionate daily press, took me aside, and says he:
"Our paper has the largest circulation, and is the best advertising mejum in the United States. As soon as our brother-in-arms expires," says the useful chap, feelingly, "just fill up this printed form and send it to me, and I will mention you in our paper as a promising young man."
I took the printed form, my boy, which I was to fill up, and found it to read thus:
"biographical sketch of the late ——.
"This noble and famous officer, recently slain at the head of his —— (I put the word 'bed' in this blank, my boy), was born at —— on the —— day of ——, 1776, and entered West Point in his —— year. He won immortal fame by his conduct in the Mexican campaign, and was created brigadier-general on the — of ——, 1862."
These printed forms suit the case of any soldier, my boy; but I didn't entirely fill this one up.
Samyule was conversing with the chaplain about his Federal soul, when a tall, shabby chap made a dash for the bedside, and says he to Samyule:
"I'm agent for the great American publishing house of Rushem & Jinks, and desire to know if you have anything that could be issued in book-form after your lamented departure. We could make a handsome 12mo book," says the shabby chap, persuadingly, "of your literary remains. Works of a Union Martyr—Eloquent Writings of a Hero—Should be in every American Library—Take it home to your wife—Twenty editions ordered in advance of publication—Half-calf, $1.—Send in your orders."
Samyule looked thoughtfully at the publishing chap, and says he: