procession, as it was decided I could not “hold in,” and under no condition was there to be a laugh or even a smile; but I took up position behind the balusters and watched events as the shadows were cast before.  Major Maffett was dressed in a long dark overcoat, to represent the priestly gown, with a miter on his head, carrying Hardee’s Tactics, from which to read the burial service.  All had in their hands a bayonet, from which burned a tallow candle, in place of tapers.  The procession marched up the steps in single file, all bearing themselves with the greatest solemnity and sombre dignity, followed by the sexton, with a frying-pan as a shovel, and took their places around the supposed corpse.  Maffett began the duties by alluding to that part of the service where “it is allotted that all men shall die,” etc., waving his hand in due form to the sexton as he repeated the words, “Earth to earth and dust to dust,” the sexton following the motions with the frying pan.

I must say, in all truthfulness, that in all my life I never saw a graver or more solemn set of faces than those of the would-be mourning procession.  Captain Wright appeared as if he was looking into his own grave, and the others appeared equally as sorrowful.  Major Maffett gave out in clear, distinct tones the familiar lines of—­

  “Solemn strikes
  the funeral chime,
  Notes of our departing time.”

Well, such grotesque antics as Jones did cut up was perfectly dreadful.  He laughed, he mimicked the priest, kicked at the mourners, and once tried to grab the tactics.  The Major and his assistants pitched the tune on a high key.  Captain Wright braced it with loud, strong bass, while Martin and Sim Pratt came in on the home stretch with tenor and alto that shook the rafters in the house.  Then all dispersed as silently and sorrowfully as they had come.

In a few days Jones got a letter setting all things straight.  Martin and Blair confessed their conspiracy against his peace of mind, and matters progressed favorably thereafter between Jones and Miss “Blank,” but Jones confessed afterwards that he carried for a long time “bad, wicked blood in his heart.”

But soldiers have their tragedies as well as their comedies in camp.  It was here we lost our old friend, Jim George, the shallow-pated wit—­the man who found us the flour on the Potomac, and who floundered about in the river “for three hours,” as he said, on that bitter cold night at Yorktown.  It was also told of Jim, that during the first battle he was loading and shooting at the wounded enemy for all his gun was worth, and when remonstrated with by his Captain, Chesley Herbert, telling Jim he “should not kill them,” Jim indignantly asked, “What in the hell did we come to the war for, if not to kill Yankees?” But this, I think, is only a joke at Jim’s expense.  Nevertheless, he was a good solider, of the harmless kind, and a good, jolly fellow withal, taking it as a pleasure to do a friend a kindness.