As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch.
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch.
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."
On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."
In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."
Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:—
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936); Nobel Prize in Literature, 1907
In his time, sermons were published in their entirety in newspapers and magazines. “Copybook Headings” refers to concise summations of sermons or proverbs or maxims. They were considered to reflect age-old wisdom and warnings and schoolchildren were required to copy them repeatedly in their notebooks (copybooks). These were considered moral education as well as penmanship practice. It’s a good idea to re-read the poem today.
“It began to dawn upon me uneasily that perhaps the right way to judge a movement was by the persons who made it up rather than by its rationalistic perfection and by the promises it held out. Perhaps, after all, the proof of social schemes was meant to be a posteriori rather than a priori. it would be a poor trade to give up a non-rational world in which you liked everybody, for a rational one in which you liked nobody.” — Richard Weaver, “Up From Liberalism” (1958)
“We must address broader issues, social boredom, wants, the mind, the heart — nothing to do with politics, or very little so.” — Russell Kirk
“The State exists simply to promote and to protect the ordinary happiness of human beings in this life. A husband and wife chatting over a fire, a couple of friends having a game of darts in a pub, a man reading a book in his own room or digging in his own garden — that is what the State is there for. And unless they are helping to increase and prolong and protect such moments, all the laws, parliaments, armies, courts, police, economics, etc., are simply a waste of time.” — C. S. Lewis
“And Judah and Israel dwelt safely, every man under his vine and under his fig tree, from Dan even to Beersheba, all the days of Solomon.” — I Kings 4:25
Earlier this year, I was asked whether social gears ground with difficulty living in El Pao, considering the differences between the Anglo and Spanish Americans not only in culture but, in some cases, also in class. The question forced me to pause and think back on my childhood in El Pao.
Upon reflection, and not meaning to be a Pollyanna about this, I must say that, in El Pao, I lived among the type of people I would ally myself with in the quest for the good life, that life of finding and pursuing your calling with all your might knowing that you will have the support, the criticism, and the encouragement you need to realize that life.
For those readers who grew up in small town America, I believe your experiences were most likely very similar to mine and to those of my childhood friends, especially early childhood.
Long before the television show, Cheers, gave us the refrain, “Where Everybody Knows Your Name”, I knew this to be the case, not in a bar, but in El Pao. We could name every person, not only in our school, but in every house. We could not get away with dialing the telephone and hanging up unless we did this only once or at most twice. Beyond that, you were very likely to be caught. Doors were left unlocked, your teachers knew not only your parents but every sibling and cousin, and upon your return from a long vacation or from an even longer absence for school, everyone knew all about where you were and how you had been doing.
No one expressed concerns when you and your buddies, rifle in hand, explored the surrounding jungles, unless you stumbled upon the secret dynamite depository, which we did on one occasion. However, once the national guard ascertained who we were, they let us go with a mild admonition, but not before they requested us to demonstrate our shooting skills (which duly impressed them, I might add).
Our friends included Venezuelans, Americans, Chileans, Cubans, English, German, Spanish, and Russian. From all “classes.” This was in addition to relatives, friends, and acquaintances outside the camp, who lived in San Félix, Puerto Ordaz, and Ciudad Bolivar, along the Orinoco, Puerto de la Cruz on the northern coast, Caracas, and more.
I do not recall hearing the social gears grind, let alone bumping into them, until well into my adolescence.
Those gears ground so smoothly for all those years because we, in a very real sense, lived in a classless society.
I do not mean there were no distinctions, for that will simply never be. We had distinctions, whether fathers, mothers, and children, or priests, pastors, and laity, or teachers and students, or bosses and subordinates, or general managers and miners, or heads of households and gardeners. Distinctions abounded all around us. We respected them; we gave honor to whom honor was due. But, paradoxically, we didn’t notice, let alone dwell upon them. And skin color did not even come into our thinking.
Recently, many years later, I’ve come into contact with childhood friends who, invariably, tell me that El Pao was a paradise to them. I can relate.
Why was all that collaborative, dare I say, loving, spirit buried under class and race warfare? Like Steve McQueen asks at the end of The Sand Pebbles, “What happened? What the [expletive] happened?”
Well, the man whose most famous publication, The Communist Manifesto, that strident, profane booklet, which, in my opinion, everyone should read, alongside the Bible (that way you know what both sides are thinking) is part of what happened. The Manifesto states, “The Communists … openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions.” Marx made it very clear that progress can only come by means of violence. For that to happen, the home and church must be destroyed. So, it calls the home a brothel, wives and mothers, whores, religion, an opiate, and more. UNESCO registered that insufferable screed to its “Memory of the World Programme”. Why am I not surprised?
The idea of class struggle was not new or original with Marx; what was unique was his re-writing of all of human history with class warfare at the center. The concepts in the Manifesto, published in February 1848, were reinforced with the publication, in 1859, of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life.
One would think that, with all the contemporary concern with racism, we would hear much more about Darwin’s contribution on “Favoured Races”. One would think so in vain.
As Engels said in his eulogy to Marx in 1883: “Just as Darwin discovered the law of evolution in organic nature, so Marx discovered the law of evolution in human history.” And each made organic nature and human history something ugly.
If you would like to see a contrast between pre and post-Darwinian/Marxist thinking, set aside some evenings to watch the BBC’s The Blue Planet. It is a strikingly beautiful production marred by its constant, almost unbearable allusions to death and sex time and time again. I watched every episode, but as each episode screened, something about it increasingly darkened the beauty that it supposedly intended to convey.
In contrast we have Gilbert White’s publication, The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, published in 1789 and never out of print. This parish parson, Gilbert White, spent his entire life in Selborne parish serving his flock and observing and drawing the different plants and animals and natural history of his region. It is an achingly and evocatively beautiful record reflecting the harmony of creation and how everything in nature “fits” perfectly, a reflection of nature’s God.
Both the BBC and White observed the same creation, the same nature. But one saw only blood and sex in the struggle for food and species preservation; the other saw harmony and beauty, reflecting the glory of the Creator.
I would say that my early childhood in El Pao was more akin to White’s Selborne, whereas my later adolescence, for a shorter period of time, saw more of Marx’s Manifesto, although not exclusively. I believe that anyone with a sense of beauty and love and harmony would prefer the former. And, notice, there was no politics in the former. Or very little so.
“Everything was politics. Too much politics. That’s no way to live.” — Mr. Tuohy, my parents’ friend, who later became my friend also, speaking to me about Chile after Allende’s ascent.
“The trouble with Socialism is that it takes too many evenings” — Sounds like Yogi Berra, but is attributed to Oscar Wilde
The popular show, Cheers, where everybody knows your name. Everybody in El Pao knew your name, with or without the bar. The Communist Manifesto (1848) The Natural History of Selborne, Folio Society edition School children in El Pao, circa 1955 Recess, El Pao circa 1960
The Home Page of this blog quotes the late great Whittaker Chambers as the source for its title: The Pull of the Land.
Although crediting Mr. Chambers for the title, I’ve said nothing about him beyond that. Going forward I hope to rectify this oversight, because, in probably the only sentence Arthur Schlesinger Jr. ever wrote with which I agree, “Whittaker Chambers has written one of the really significant American autobiographies. When some future Plutarch writes his American Lives, he will find in Chambers penetrating and terrible insights into America in the early twentieth century.”
Chambers was, and continues to be today, sixty years after his death, a controversial figure. He was a Communist spy, when Americans were told emphatically that no such thing existed. He then converted, after focusing on his infant daughter’s ear and submitting to his epiphany which insisted that such a marvel could not have come into existence absent an all-powerful God.
He went underground to avoid assassination by his erstwhile comrades and emerged publicly as a journalist, writing in The American Mercury and, most notably in Time and Life, two of the famous publications of Henry R. Luce, the others being Fortune and Sports Illustrated. Luce deeply respected and admired Whittaker Chambers, but he could not have anticipated the next, explosive era in Chambers’ life.
In 1948 he was subpoenaed to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC). However, this was not the first time he had come forward to alert the United States federal government of Communist infiltration in its highest echelons. Almost a decade earlier, he had spoken with a top State Department official, Adolph A. Berle, identifying Communist cells and names of individuals with critical access. Berle took the information to President Franklin Roosevelt, who promptly dismissed it, even though the Communists named included his special assistant, Lauchlin Currie, who would also become the president’s Special Representative to China, Alger Hiss, who would eventually go on to preside over the United Nations Charter Conference, and Victor Perlo, who had clearance at the secret bombsight project at the Aberdeen Proving Ground.
A cursory review of that decade reveals several of the earth shattering events of the 20th century, including the fall of China to Mao Tse Tung, the fall of the Iron Curtain across central Europe, and the creation of the United Nations on terms disadvantageous to the United States. One could bicker about “who lost” what, but one cannot ignore the role played by agents who had been identified by Chambers a few years before Pearl Harbor.
In his testimony in 1948, Chambers repeated his testimony and was promptly denounced by Alger Hiss who went to his grave denying his being a Communist agent. The contrast between the two men was dramatic. And instructive. Handsome, Ivy League, well-spoken, neat, fit vs. Crooked teeth, college dropout, mumbler, disheveled, poor health. President Harry Truman mocked Chambers calling him a “Red Herring” and refused to take action on the allegations.
Hiss was eventually convicted of perjury.
Allen Weinstein researched the case extensively, believing that Hiss was not a spy. But he, like many after reviewing the record, came to believe Chambers. The Venona Project whereby, after the fall of the Soviet Union, many, but not most, by far, files were deciphered and published, confirmed that Hiss was working for the Soviets, as testified by Chambers over four decades earlier. The list of Americans in the files was astounding. Hayden Peake, curator of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Historical Intelligence Collection has stated, “No modern government was more thoroughly penetrated.”
Every single name in Chambers’ testimony was in the Venona lists. And he is hated to this day by the usual suspects.
Whittaker Chambers wrote the deeply moving and genuinely classic American autobiography, Witness, from which I took the title to this blog.
He also wrote what many considered an explosive essay about the Yalta conference attended by Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and Joseph Stalin, the WWII allies, in 1945. Explosive because Stalin was our “ally” and the essay did not reflect positively about the Soviet Union’s intentions. The staff at Time and Life rose in outrage and a “delegation” visited Chambers’ editor to urge the essay not be published. The editor, T. S. Matthews was so shaken, that he held the piece for a week, but eventually proceeded to publish it. Time was inundated with what today we would call “hate mail” along with cancellation requests. How could Time question the motives of our faithful Communist ally?
The essay was “Ghosts on the Roof”. The murdered Czar and his family, descend “with the softness of bats” upon the roof of their old palace and meet the muse of history already there. They proceed to discuss the conference now unfolding beneath them and the Czar announces his unabashed admiration of Stalin and his own conversion to Marxism, “What statesmanship! What vision! What power!” he exclaims. “And now … the greatest statesmen in the world have come to Stalin. Who but he would have had the sense of historical fitness to entertain them in my expropriated palace!”
Sitting next to a gravely ailing President Roosevelt was Alger Hiss. Roosevelt would die 3 months later.
Three years later, when Chambers’ prescience could not be ignored, Time republished the essay, saying it was worth a second reading.
We’ll write more about Chambers in future posts.
Lauchlin Currie (1902-1993). Member of President Franklin Roosevelt’s “Brain Trust”. Alger Hiss (1904-1996). High ranking official in Roosevelt and Truman administrations. His guilt has been hotly disputed to this day. However, the overwhelming consensus among historians is that he was indeed guilty, as confirmed by the unanimous report of the bipartisan Moynihan Commission on Government Secrecy in 1997. Whittaker Chambers (1901-1961) A classic autobiography. A WWII US progaganda poster Franklin Roosevelt at Yalta, right of center in the photo. He was ailing at the time. To his left, our right, is Alger Hiss. Josef Stalin is in the shadows at left. “The President seemed placid and frail,” wrote Winston Churchill. Churchill’s bodyguard, Walter Thomson, in his memoirs, recalled seeing Churchill “weeping over the concessions Roosevelt made to Stalin at Yalta. ‘Why, Thomson, did they allow the president, almost dying on his feet, to be there…? All Europe will suffer from the decisions made at Yalta.'”
The Indian worker is poor, but he is free. His condition is preferable to that of the peasant in great parts of northern Europe …. — Alexander von Humboldt, circa 1800
… y el pobre en su choza, libertad pidió [And the poor man in his hovel, for freedom implored.]. — Venezuelan National Anthem, 1810
Well, which is it?
This blog has often referred to Humboldt (see Monster Aguirre and The Invention of Nature for but two allusions; the search bar will direct you to more). Humboldt was no royalist; he did not even pause for an irony alert to ponder that “modern”, progressive France denied him permits to travel for scientific inquiry, whereas obscurantist Spain did.
Nevertheless, he recognized that the poor in pre-revolutionary Spanish America were free and many were prosperous. He wrote that a Mexican peasant under the Spaniards earned five (5) times more than a peasant in India under the English. He further discovered that Nueva España (Mexico) provided twice more to Spain’s treasury than India, with 5-times the population, did to England’s. During his visit to Spanish America, Venezuelans consumed 189 pounds of meat per capita, compared to 163 pounds by Parisians. Mexicans consumed 363 pounds of bread per capita compared to 377 by Parisians. Miners earned 25 to 30 francs per week compared to 4 to 5 francs by Saxons.
Esquivel Obregón, a Mexican, wrote that a wage earner in his country could buy 38 hectoliters (a hectoliter is 100 liters) of corn and 2,300 kilograms of flour in 1800, but only 24 and 525, respectively, in 1908, after “independence.” These are not isolated figures, but they do signal the catastrophic decline of Spanish America’s standard of living and reflect the desolation caused by the “chimera of liberty”.
But no need to rely on a Humboldt or an Obregón. What did Simón Bolívar himself write in 1829, a year before he died?
“From one end to the other, the New World is an abyss of abomination; there is no good faith in [Spanish] America; treaties are mere paper; constitutions, books; elections, combat; liberty, anarchy; life, a torment. We’ve never been so disgraced as we are now. Before, we enjoyed good things; illusion is fed by chimera … we are tormented by bitter realities.”
So one must wrestle with the fact that “the poor man in his hovel” most certainly was not imploring for freedom. He was free and prosperous.
Much, much more was going on at the time, but the overarching canopy was the French Revolution and its atheistic concepts which sought to disparage all that went before, including one’s own history. A 19th century Colombian diplomat wrote perceptively,
“In the codices [Spain was notorious for documenting everything. These codices are treasure troves for those willing and able to research largely unread tomes waiting to be rediscovered] known by me, the history of the Conquest and of the vice-royalty was recorded…. Three centuries of a patriarchal empire whose glories were echoed in palaces, pulpits, taverns, Indian colloquiums, and in royal audiences…. Then the violent winds blew and our ship ran aground on the Oedipus reefs where the desire to assassinate the fathers, to destroy the moorings of common ethics and religion which bound diverse cultures and civilizations to one tongue, one culture, and one loyalty to common principles, exalted the passions and drove men to madness.”
That diplomat went on to say, “…the degree of destruction and depopulation experienced in these lands compares with my vehement desire that someone, one day will love the Truth enough to divulge what I have observed and written.”
Readers of this blog know that I love Venezuela, the land of my birth. It is a land of heartbreaking beauty and one that has absorbed many rivers of blood since the early 19th century and is even now suffering greatly. The way back to sanity, prosperity, liberty, and peace begins with the Truth.
Readers should also see significant parallels to current events in the United States. George Washington, in his Farewell Address, addressed similar matters as were addressed by that Colombian diplomat, including the need for a common religion and common culture to bind together diverse peoples. The current, unbridled rush to deny anything good in our founding, and especially to denigrate our common religion, is very similar to the temper which became prevalent in Spanish American elite circles in the early 1800’s.
In both, Truth is the first casualty and all else follows, beginning with ordered liberty.
To restore and preserve our ordered liberty, we must recover and speak the Truth. Pilate tarried not for an answer when he asked, “What is truth?”, but turned away from Truth Personified, Who stood before him.
Unlike Pilate who inquired and did not await for a reply, we must do differently.
And the Truth will set us free.
17th century Spanish American art from Peru Colonial house in Venezuela Colonial street in La Guaira Colonial architecture, Caracas
I had promised to write about Simón Bolívar off and on, because “it is simply impossible to consider Venezuela … without grappling with Bolívar ….”
Bolívar possessed attributes that are worthy of admiration and imitation. But we must recognize that he also encompassed much that is not so worthy. Horribly so.
One fact we must deal with is his utter, dispassionate cruelty documented in contemporary journals and letters, including some in Bolívar’s own hand.
This post addresses Bolívar’s War to the Death Decree (Decreto de Guerra a Muerte) [Decreto]. This decree and the resulting bloodbath has to be addressed by Bolívar’s many admiring biographers and Venezuelan textbooks because it is simply too well known to be ignored. As I grew up in Venezuela I accepted at face value that the Decreto was issued in reaction to a “war to the death” on the part of the Spaniards.
That explanation was easy to accept given the Lascasian view of Spain so prevalent, even to this day, in South and North America (Bolivar). In addition, the unbelievably horrible depredations of “royalist” José Tomás Bove are well documented (Bove) and certainly help explain how a furious Bolívar might react with his own sanguinary actions.
However, a cursory review of the timelines and some additional study of easily-available documents — Bove’s actions took place after the Decreto and Bove was loyal to no one but his marauding, killer hordes; so much so that the Spaniards had moved to depose him — clearly show that Bolívar could not have used Bove as justification. Indeed, Bove’s name appears nowhere in the Decreto. How could it? He was practically an unknown at the time it was promulgated.
To understand the genesis of the Decreto, one need only consider the genesis of the South American wars for independence: The French Revolution (Bastille).
The Caribbean had already seen a “War To the Death”. It took place in Haiti, a nation which today shares an island with the Dominican Republic and which has never fully recovered from its own decree.
Bolívar’s Decreto was an adoption of the Haitian revolutionary model which had declared a “war to the death” on the French. To be clear: this was a decree calling on all inhabitants to “exterminate” every single French or European man, woman, and child on the island.
Jean-Jacques Dessalines, as bloodthirsty a man as has ever lived, succeeded in ridding Haiti of the French. He and his troops entered villages, encouraging the people to go to their churches to ensure their and their children’s safety. He and his men would then proceed to bayonet, decapitate, eviscerate, and otherwise torture the French, careful to leave the women and children for last for rape and abuse. In his presence, his troops burned at least one priest alive because the cleric dared to denounce Dessalines’s actions as Satanic.
Whenever you read or hear hagiographies of Jean-Jacque Rousseau , always remember: by their fruit ye shall know them. One fruit is his namesake, Jean-Jacques Dessalines, who, in 1806, was brutally murdered and dismembered.
In 1804, Dessalines proclaimed himself Jacques I, Emperor of Haiti. He died a mere two years later, but not before he received the great Venezuelan, Francisco de Miranda. In that audience, Dessalines urged Miranda to do as he had done: proclaim a war of extermination on the Spaniards and Europeans. Miranda, to his eternal credit, declined to do so.
However, less than a decade later, Bolívar did take the advice and in 1812 the Decreto was drafted although formally proclaimed in June, 1813. Nevertheless, ever the man of action, Bolívar had previously ordered his men to kill without quarter and to incarcerate those who were not in uniform. In his letter to the congress in Nueva Granada, he wrote that he had traversed lands, cities, and towns, “where all Europeans and Canarios without exception were executed.”
And how were they executed?
The gory events in Caracas and La Guaira, where his loyal commander, Juan Bautista Arismendi, murdered 886 prisoners who had languished in execrable conditions for a year, provides an answer. They were pulled out of jail and summarily shot. He then ordered between 500 and 1,000 sick and disabled from hospitals and, to save powder, had them beaten to death with clubs and boards. The coup de grâce was by means of large rocks crushing the heads of the dying. He then ordered ladies to be dressed in white and dance among the bloody bodies as they awaited the rapine of Arismendi’s men.
Bolívar wrote about this to the Congress in Nueva Granada.
In a letter written a month before his death in December, 1830, Bolívar wrote:
“1. America is ungovernable, 2. he who serves a revolution, plows the sea, 3. the only thing one can do in America is emigrate, 4. this land will fall into the hands of an unbridled multitude who will then fall under petty tyrants of all colors and races 5. from which the Europeans will not deign to rescue us. 6. If it were possible for an area of the world to return to primitive chaos, this would be America.”
Despite his care about his physical appearance, Bolívar was one of the least self-aware men in history, never acknowledging his own role in thrusting great portions of South America into chaos.
A Venezuelan historian writes:
“Bolívar’s vocation was equivocal, his character mercurial. He proclaimed liberty and imposed tyranny. He praised civility and waged terror. He exalted fraternity and encouraged fratricide. He revered Spanish-American unity, but his wars destroyed the institutions that would have preserved it … Of that grand civilization that had successfully functioned for centuries, only the memory remained in a continent of men in conflict with men in the name of ghostly principles.”
One reason it is necessary to know one’s history is because that helps to understand how one got to the present and what path to trace towards the future. Venezuelans are no different than Americans in that they too seek peace and unity — not uniformity, but unity. In the United States that unity is achievable by a return to our traditions, which are not difficult to discern. Sources such as Bradford’s Journal, the Mayflower Compact, the Christian bases of our colonial governments, Washington’s Farewell Address, and more speak to us today.
In the case of Venezuela, her traditions, although a bit more difficult to discern, can be re-discovered with the removal of several generations of accumulated underbrush, including the hagiography bathing Simón Bolívar. One can begin with Bolívar’s own lament about “centuries of civilization” having been destroyed by his wars. What was that civilization? Can its foundations be rediscovered and improved?
I think they can.
Jean-Jacques Dessalines, Emperor of Haiti (1758-1806). Enraged by a priest who classified his slaughterhouse actions as “Satanic”, he ordered his men to burn the priest alive as he watched. Engraving (1806) illustrating Dessalines holding the severed head of a French woman. He was murdered that same year. Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-1778). He loved children. Except his own — he left 4 or 5 in foundling homes because he refused to care for them. Yet he insisted on telling the rest of us how to live. And his philosophy is very much with us today. By their fruit ye shall know them. Francisco de Miranda (1750-1816). Before Bolivar, he sought independence from Spain, but not for the same revolutionary reasons. Miranda lived in the United States and met George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, Samuel Adams, and Thomas Jefferson, among others. A soldier, statesman, scholar. He was betrayed by Bolivar, handed to the Spanish, and died in exile in Spain, aged 66. The portrait is by Martin Tovar y Tovar, a famous Venezuelan painter. Sketch of Simón Bolívar made from life by José María Espinoza in 1830, his final year.
