moves and changes during the last month or two considerably interrupted our communications and mail facilities, and Jones had not received the expected letters.  He became restless, petulant, and cross, and to use the homely phrase, “he was all torn up.”  Instead of the “human sympathy” and the “one touch of nature,” making the whole world akin, that philosophers and sentimentalists talk about, it should be “one sight of man’s misery”—­makes the whole world “wish him more miserable.”  It was through such feelings that induced Captain I.N.  Martin, our commissary, with Mack Blair and others, to enter into a conspiracy to torture Jones with all he could stand.  Blair had a lady cousin living near the home of Jones’ fiancee, with whom he corresponded, and it was through this channel that the train was laid to blow up Jones while said Jones was in the piazza engaged in a deeply interesting game of chess.  Martin was to be in the piazza watching the game, when Blair was to enter reading a letter.  Then something like the following colloquy took place: 

“Well, Mack, what is the news from home?”

“Nothing very interesting,” replies Blair.  Then, as a sudden recollection strikes him, “Oh, yes, there is to be a big wedding at Old Dr. Blanks.”

“You don’t say so?” (The game of chess stands still.) “And who is to be married, pray?” innocently enquires Martin.

“Why it will surprise you as much as it did me, I suppose, and I would not believe it, only Cousin Sallie says she is to be bride’s maid.”  (Jones ceases to play and listens intently.) “It is nobody else than Mr. ——­ and Miss ‘Blank.’”

Now, this Miss “Blank” is Jones’ intended.  Jones is paralyzed.  His face turns livid, then pale, now green!  He is motionless, his eyes staring vacantly on the chessboard.  Then with a mighty exertion Jones kicked the board aside and sprang to his feet.  Shaking his trembling finger in the face of Blair, his whole frame convulsed with emotion, his very soul on fire, he hissed between his teeth:  “That’s an infernal lie, I don’t care whose Cousin Sallie wrote it.”

Jones was nearly crazed for the balance of the day.  He whistled and sang strange melodies while walking aimlessly about.  He read and re-read the many love missives received long ago.  Some he tore into fragments; others he carefully replaced in his knapsack.

But those evil geniuses were still at work for further torture, or at least to gloat over Jones’ misery.  It was arranged to formally bury him, allegorically.  At night, while Jones was asleep, or trying to sleep on the piazza, a procession was formed, headed by Major Maffett, who was to act as the priest, and I must say he acted the part like a cardinal.  We had a little rehearsal of the part each was to play, and those who “couldn’t hold in” from laughing were ruled out, for it was expected that Jones would cut some frightful antics as the ceremony proceeded.  I was not allowed to accompany the