w recruit, still wears the national dress of his order,
which has not yet been tattered and torn from him by long service; and
he is the envy of the motley troop. But the lack of uniformity in no
wise detracts from valor, nor does it diminish the gayety of these
terrible lancers as they lie idly grouped about the flickering fires.
Half-a-dozen circles are absorbed in as many games at cards; others
are swallowing greedily some improvised fantastic tale; and some are
singing, in wild, irregular cadence, the favorite songs of the Plains.
Their example soon becomes contagious, and group after group chimes in
with the uproarious chant. Listen! From the farthest extremity of the
encampment comes a querying solo:--

"De todos los Generales cual es el valiente?"

and from five hundred throats the response is thundered:--

"Mi General Paez con toda su gente!"

Again the solo demands:--

"De todos los Generales cual es el major?"

and the tumultuous answer is vociferated:--

"Es mi General Jose con su guardia de honor!"

And who may be the valiant General, the General with his guard of honor,
excelling all the rest? This, we learn, is the guard of honor; the
General is Jose Antonio Paez, little Jose Antonio who killed the
highwayman and betook himself to cattle farming on the Plains! Now,
however, he is the famous Llanero chieftain, favorite champion of
Venezuela, brother-in-arms of Bolivar, who allows him, alone of all
the military leaders, the privilege of an especial body-guard. Since
1810,--for five years,--he has been fighting constantly in his country's
service, and has won himself fame while our eyes have been turned in
other directions. Look! he is standing there, at the entrance to his
hut, while the chorus yet echoes among the palm-branches. Scarcely of
middle stature, certainly not more than five feet four in height,--but
broad-shouldered, muscular, with a constitution of iron, equal to
perpetual exertion, capable of every fatigue. His countenance is open
and prepossessing, his features rounded, forehead square, eyes piercing
and intelligent. Like his men, he wears a motley garb,--part Spanish
uniform, part costume of the Llanos; and he leans upon a lance,
decorated with a black bannerol, which has carried death already to
innumerable Loyalist hearts. Thus Jose Antonio Paez stands before us, on
the banks of the Apure, in the twenty-fifth year of his age.

He has perhaps been hitherto too much neglected by us,