It has not yet been our fortune to happen upon John Crawford the Zouave, in the search for whom we have stumbled upon Malvern Hill and its fearful panorama of bloodshed. As a member of the Advance Guard, he, was not likely to be absent from the fierce charge made by his corps at the close of that day; and he was not. It is at the very moment of the conclusion of that charge, that the quest becomes successful. John Crawford participated in that general advance, in the front rank of the Zouaves, in high health and spirits, and yelling quite as loudly and discordantly as any of his companions. This was not his first adventure with the bayonet, for he had gone unwounded through the determined charges of his corps, with the same deadly weapon, at Williamsburgh and Fair Oaks; and he had grown to have confidence in himself and in any body of men that used the modern footman's lance with the due ferocity. Though five years younger than his brother Richard, John Crawford looked older than he did even in his sickness; for the exposures of a year had browned his round and ruddy face, if it had not dimmed the brightness of his blue eye; and the heavy waved brown hair and moustache in which he retained so prominent a characteristic of his Gaelic ancestry of a hundred years before, added materially to the appearance of manly maturity. Were it a _preux chevalier_ sitting under this verbal lens for his photograph, there might be difficulty in proceeding farther in this description; for though your knight of old seems to have been splendidly oblivious as to the needs of clean linen, and able to wear one surcoat and one suit of armor for any length of time without becoming repugnant to the nose of his lady when brought-into the opportunity for an embrace,--yet the heroes of this day have sore need of occasional aid from the washerwoman, and even the tailor becomes necessary for the replenishing of worn-out and faded garments. John Crawford the Zouave--the truth must be told--though he showed very little shirt, showed that little in an unclean condition; and the baggy red of his trousers and the hanging blue of his jacket, both looked shabby and discolored. Not much more could be said in favor of the white and yellow turban with the dirty white tassel hanging behind, ostensibly worn on his head but really drooping on the back part of it, quite as much as were the ladies' bonnets two or three years ago when the suggestion was made that they "should be carried behind them in a spoon." And yet this soiled and uncombed man was a soldier--every inch a soldier--and had in him all the materials for the making of a hero.