University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV
HOW MR. CROW WAS TRIED FOR UNOFFICER-LIKE CONDUCT, WITH
OTHER INCIDENTS OF A FOREST PICNIC.

“This is a wicked world,” says the author of the MS.,
“and, in his pilgrimage toward a better, man must meet
with many things to shock and anger him. But there are
many pleasant things to look upon as well. I think one of
the pleasantest sights in the world is the innocent joy of
children. It is not necessary that a man should grow old
before he can experience this feeling of happiness, at seeing
young persons enjoy themselves; it is not necessary that the
head should grow white, the heart calm and philosophical,
the senses dulled to those delights which strong and excitable
youth takes such delight in. No; this feeling need not
await the annihilation of the fiercer passions, the dulling of
the heart,—to come then merely as a forerunner of old age,
which takes children on the knee and sighs over them, and,
at the same instant, over that bright childhood which, in
them, rises up again before the grandsire's eyes. I hold
that man made of coarse and rude stuff, who does not feel
his heart stir with pleasure at the innocent laughter of a
child,—who does not see in the child character some of that
primal light which streamed on Paradise, from the blue
heaven, yet undimmed by any cloud. Mr. William Shakespeare
has said, in his matchless writings, that the man who
has no music in his soul should not be trusted; and far less
would I trust the man who did not find, in the gay prattle
of children, a music sweeter than the harp of Æolus.”

Thus does the worthy author of the manuscript, from
which we take these veracious events, discourse upon his
love for children, which, as the reader may have observed,
has elsewhere appeared in this history. The sentiments of
the worthy gentleman are very well in their way, but we
may be permitted to doubt the propriety of prefacing with
such grave reflections, an excursion of the Cornstalk regiment
into the Effingham woods, for the purpose of holding
therein a picnic. Still, we have preserved this little paragraph
of our respected chief, and, having accurately transcribed
it from the discolored manuscript, will proceed to
speak briefly of the festival.

Sure never morn dawned clearer than that Saturday!
The very skies seemed rejoicing, and the birds were positively
delirious with delight. The streams sang too, and
rattled the diamonds in their beds with ceaseless glee, and
jumped up to the boughs which drooped down toward them,
and ran laughing by. In the fields the colts gambolled for
joy, the sheep tossed their heads, the cattle bells were tinkling,
tinkling, tinkling, and playing without musical notes to
guide them,—from mere improvisation—merrier melodies
than any in Don Juan or the Barber of Seville. The merry
May was laughing everywhere, and, not to be outdone, the
members of the Cornstalk regiment, stretched under the
lofty trees in a glade of the forest, laughed louder still.

They had been marshalled before the portico of Effingham
Hall, by that noble commander, Captain William
Effingham, who made them a speech, as usual. In the midst
of this speech, he had found the attention of his auditors
grow distracted: and then Captain Effingham had perceived,
at a glance, the cause of this movement. There issued from
the broad portal, a bevy of fair ladies—very youthful—and
at the head of them Miss Kate Effingham, whose face was
brighter than all the rest together. Miss Kate was clad in
a charming little dress of green, and on her glossy curls was
perched a snow-white gipsey hat, with fluttering ribbons:
her companions, rosy- cheeked like herself, were quite as
happy looking, and all brightened at their approach, for the
noble Cornstalk regiment was gallant and chivalric to the
echo. There was one gentleman who displayed a joy far
more extravagant than all the rest: Crow was his name, of

noble lineage and ancient ancestry; of undeserved misfortunes,
yet a noble soul: in a word, one of that great class of
poor gentlemen, of which Virginia has been proud always.
The joy of Mr. Crow may require explanation, for however
great his gallantry, that sentiment could not prompt the
enthusiastic somersets which he turned as the young maidens
issued forth. Behold the cause! Behind them came a
young African, bearing upon his shoulders a huge hamper—
a hamper which said plainly, “I am full of cakes, and pies,
and apples, and a thousand cates”—which positively groaned
for very fulness—which weighed the bearer down for very joy.
This made Mr. Crow rejoice: this filled him with sublime
anticipation—this caused him to utter the shrill scream upon
his fife, which made the little maidens stop up their ears,
and shout with laughter.

And so they have reached the glade in the forest, and
played by the stream, and laughed and ran, and gathered
flowers, and held the yellow butter-cups beneath their chins,
and blown away the thistle-down with puffed up cheeks, and
chased the striped ground-squirrels to their rocky nests; and
played, and laughed, and danced, and sang, until the very
forests echoed with their joyous shouts, their merry carol,
their exuberant, overflowing, wild, delirious, childlike, merry,
gay and joyous mirth, delight, and ringing jubilant laughter.

Tommy Alston is there, and many other Toms, and
Roberts, Williams, Johns and Jacks; and numberless Fannys,
Susans, Carrys, Ellens, Phœbes, Marys, and a Cynthia
to add her morn-like softness to the May. Mr. Alston and
Willie have forgotten their league offensive and defensive
against our poetical friend, the noble Earl of Dorset: they
are rivals: and they struggle for the privilege of waiting
upon Kate, and hunger for her smiles more than for any
hamper-smiles; and gather flowers for her, and pick out apple
seed for her to name, and when the candy with its poetical
mottoes is produced, contend who shall bestow upon the little
beauty the verses most indicative of burning love, and everlasting,
fond devotion.

For now the hour of noon has come, and they are stretched
upon a sunny bank, beneath a noble oak, whose leaves
but half shut out the sunlight; and the jolly hamper sits
upon a mossy rock, the centre of all eyes. They rifle it

with joyous laughter—taking out first a noble pie of birds
and fowl. They plunder this of its jellied contents, and without
solicitation the young maidens eat away, very unlike the
heroines of romance. This does not lower them however in
the opinion of their Corydons, who also bid adieu, for the
moment, to romance, and plunge their pie-crusts into willing
mouths, and talk inarticulately for that reason. Then they
pass on to the sweet things, and the pie is generously abandoned
to Mr. Crow, and his relative who beats the drum—
which useful instrument is hanging on a tree above them.
Mr. Crow's mode of eating is not so elegant as we might
expect in a gentleman of such high birth, and with such
grand and noble political ideas. He takes the brown crock,
which contains the picturesque debris of the rifled pie, and
carrying it to some distance, deposits it upon the ground, and
then sits down, extending his lower members upon each side
of it. Thus fixed, he can look down rapturously into the
recesses of the crock, and plunge his fingers in without difficulty.
He does this, and the rich savor causes his eyes to
roll like stars, his mouth to grin, his body to shake with
laughter. He sees approach, crawling, the disconsolate
young drummer, whose flag—but we refrain: he perceives a
hand held out: he hears a beseeching voice—but all these
things are unregarded. His rapturous eyes fixed on the trees
above, he does not deign to see. The drummer crawls up
to the pie with cautious movement; he extends his hand—
he grasps the finest morsel—ho! the hand of Mr. Crow darts
between—the eyes of Mr. Crow flash terrible lightning—the
face of Mr. Crow is charged with fury, and a gloomy rage:
the unfortunate drummer must wait until there is no longer
any thing left but a morsel of crust and a little gravy. This
much is generously abandoned by Crow, who, having finished
his first course, arrives at the laughing group stretched near,
by a series of somersets. He reaches the group just as Kate,
who is laughing rapturously, is about to put a small lump of
French candy into her mouth. Here was the opening for
genius: he squats behind her; he extends his hand; the
candy disappears, and Mr. Crow's eyes roll with delight, and
his cheek protrudes like that of a monkey who has stolen a
hickory nut, and endeavored to conceal it in his mouth.

This feat of Mr. Crow is considered audacious by the

indignant gallants: they lay violent hands on that gentleman:
but they call a drum-head court-martial, at the request
of the delinquent.

The criminal is arraigned according to the the rules of
war: he is called upon for his defence by the uproarious
group.

This call is not unanswered: Crow mounts upon a fallen
tree: he looks around him with the air of a great orator:
he scrutinizes the features of the Court of Inquiry and calculates
the chances of an acquittal: the chances are of an
azure hue.

Kate is called upon to testify, which she does laughing,
and to the effect that the prisoner is guilty. Crow endeavors
in vain to exclude the testimony, on the ground of incompetency
in the witness: his point is overruled by the court.

Other witnesses testify: the case is made out: he is
declared guilty, and then called upon to say why the sentence
and punishment should not follow.

Crow brightens at this: there is a last chance: and his
ideas are quickened to astonishing vigor by the sight of the
executioner trimming a grape vine.

He stretches out his hand persuasively: assumes a grave
and lofty attitude, and commences his defence. He bases it
upon three points:

I. He wanted the candy.

II. He liked the taste of it.

III. He did not take it.

He elaborates these points; makes a tremendous speech;
and winds up with a burst of eloquence which he fondly
hopes may avert the impending fate. In vain; popular prejudice
has warped the members of the court; he is declared
guilty of unofficer-like conduct; he is unanimously sentenced
to receive the bastinado.

Crow writhes, struggles, beseeches; in vain: he is tied
to a sapling with handkerchiefs, all the time uttering piercing
cries of anguish. He repents, he says: he do; he calls upon
Miss Kate Eff'nam to intercede for him, but that young
lady's prayers are unavailing; the grape-vine is raised;
Crow makes himself as small as possible; the instrument of
torture is about to descend; the crowd laugh; the punishment
for unofficer-like conduct is about to begin, when suddenly

Mr. Crow utters a loud exclamation, to the effect that:
“Ef there ain't Johnny Booker wid his old banjo!”

All eyes are suddenly turned to the spot indicated by
Crow's outstretched hand, and there, indeed, is seen Mr.
Booker passing, with his banjo beneath is arm. Crow reaps
the reward of his presence of mind, for the crowd immediately
rush towards Mr. Booker, and take him prisoner.
Mr. Booker is a relative of the fiddler at the Hall, and lives
at the Bowling Green. He is as great a master on the banjo,
as his relative is upon the violin. His face is the color of
ebony; his eyes roll; his lips protrude; a huge shirt collar
saws his ears.

He is good natured, and willingly consents to “rattle on
his banjo” in consideration of a portion of the feast. He
partakes of the remains of the hamper, assisted by Crow,
who has untied the handkerchiefs, and escaped; between
them they dispose of all that is left; then Mr. Booker tunes
his banjo and commences.

The party join hands and fly to the hilarious music around
the oak; the forest is full of laughter; the banjo player rolls
his eyes, sways about, pats his foot; the air is wild with the
uproarious rumble, as the flying fingers dart across the strings.
By and by Mr. Booker becomes wild with delight at his
own performance; he executes a pirouette over Crow, who
lying on the ground is rapturously imitating him with the assistance
of a piece of fence rail; he commences singing the song
which has brought his name and his dwelling-place down to
modern times, encircled by a halo of glory; he plays so fast
that the furious dance runs over itself, mingles its performances
in inextricable confusion, and finally stops from pure
inability to proceed.

The young ladies, half reclining on the ground, pant and
laugh, and declare that they never before had such a dance.
Mr. Booker bows in appreciation of this compliment, places his
banjo under his arm, seizes a chicken's leg, and goes on his
way rejoicing.

As they are still laughing and panting, they see a stalwart
gentleman riding upon a beautiful horse; and this gentleman,
who is singing and further amusing himself with twirling
his moustache, makes a most gallant salute with his hand.
Kate cries that it is Captain Waters, her friend and admirer,

and runs to shake hands with him, an infliction which the
laughing Captain submits to with great equanimity, after
which he disappears, singing.

Kate comes back and finds Willie furious; she quarrels
with him. Will repents, and solicits the favor of a reconciliation,
which is granted as soon as asked. Will, emboldened
by this, draws out his true love indenture, and
requests the favor of her signature. Kate laughs, and says
Willie is a goose; and as Jemmy Alston at the same moment
requests a song from her, she strikes up merrily:

and all are delighted with her arch eyes and laughing voice,
even down to Crow, who turns somersets for joy, and makes
the forest echo with his stunning laughter, and his wild
“hooras!”

Here let us leave the party as we found them—laughing;
and if the present history returns no more to that great
regiment with patriotic souls, and splendid banner, and immortal
fife-player more than all the rest, the reader must
not think that we have been guilty of neglect. Considering
the number of personages whose fortunes we must finish
narrating, the great regiment has occupied space sufficient.
In some future history, we hope to chronicle its warlike
achievements, and heroic deeds; especially the campaigns of
Mr. Crow, that great leader and fife-player of the Revolution.

At present, we must bid the Cornstalk regiment, even
Mr. Crow, a long farewell.