The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 12, No. 335, October 11, 1828

In 1823, colonel Miller, was promoted to the rank of general of brigade, and in the same year he became chief of the staff of the Peruvian army. In 1824, he was introduced to Bolivar. On the 13th of June he crossed the Andes to take the command of 1,500 montoneros (a body of men very similar to the Guerillas of Spain,) who occupied the country round Pasco. The difficulties of this service, and the perils of a campaign in the Andes, may be well inferred from the following passages:—

It often occurred during the campaign of 1824, that the cavalry being in the rear, were, by a succession of various obstructions, prevented from accomplishing the day’s march before nightfall. It then became necessary for every man to dismount, and to lead the two animals in his charge, to avoid going astray, or tumbling headlong down the most frightful precipices. But the utmost precaution did not always prevent the corps from losing their way. Sometimes men, at the head of a battalion, would continue to follow the windings of a deafening torrent, instead of turning abruptly to the right or left, up some rocky acclivity, over which lay their proper course; whilst others who chanced to be right, would pursue the proper track. The line was so drawn out, that there were unavoidably many intervals, and it was easy for such mistakes to occur, although trumpeters were placed at regular distances expressly to prevent separation. One party was frequently heard hallowing from an apparently fathomless ravine, to their comrades passing over some high projecting summit, to know if they were going right. These would answer with their trumpets; but it often occurred that both parties had lost their road. The frequent sound of trumpets along the broken line—the shouting of officers to their men at a distance—the neighing of horses, and the braying of mules, both men and animals being alike anxious to reach a place of rest, produced a strange and fearful concert, echoed, in the darkness of the night, from the horrid solitude of the Andes. After many fruitless attempts to discover the proper route, a halt until daybreak was usually the last resource. The sufferings of the men and animals on those occasions were extreme. The thermometer was generally below the freezing point, amidst which they were sometimes overtaken by terrific snow-storms. These difficulties and hardships were not so severely felt by the infantry, for, unincumbered with the charge of horses, it was an easy matter for them to turn back, whereas it was often impossible for the cavalry to do so, the path on the mountain-side being generally too narrow to admit of horses turning round. It happened more than once, that the squadron in front, having ascertained that it had taken a wrong direction, was nevertheless compelled to advance until it reached some open spot, where the men were enabled to assemble, and wait for the hindmost of their comrades, and then retrace their steps. After having pursued this plan, the troops have met another squadron following the same track; and, under such circumstances, it has required hours for either to effect a countermarch. In this complicated operation many an animal was hurled down the precipice and dashed to pieces, nor did their riders always escape a similar fate.

In the mountainous regions of the interior, nature presents difficulties which, though of a different description, are equally as appalling as those experienced on the coast. The sheds erected at pascanas (or halting places) in the vast unpeopled tracts of the bleak mountain districts, and on the table lands, were inadequate to afford shelter to more than a small number, so that the greater part of the troops were obliged to bivouac sometimes in places where the thermometer falls every night considerably below the freezing point, and this throughout the year; whereas it often rises at noon, in the same place, to 90 degrees. It may be readily imagined what must have been the sufferings of men, born in, or accustomed to, the sultry temperature of Truxillo, Guayaquil, Panama, or Cartagena. The difficulty of respiration, called in some places la puna, and in others el siroche, experienced in those parts of the Andes which most abound in metals, was so great at times, that, whilst on the march, whole battalions would sink down, as if by magic, and it would have been inflicting death to have attempted to oblige them to proceed until they had rested and recovered themselves. In many cases life was solely preserved by opening the temporal artery. This sudden difficulty of respiration is supposed to be caused by occasional exhalations of metalliferous vapour, which, being inhaled into the lungs, causes a strong feeling of suffocation.

During certain months of the year, tremendous hail-storms occur. They have fallen with such violence that the army has been obliged to halt, and the men being compelled to hold up their knapsacks to protect their faces, have had their hands so severely bruised and cut by large hail-stones as to bleed copiously.

Thunder-storms are also particularly severe in the elevated regions. The electric fluid is seen to fall around, in a manner unknown in other parts of the world, and frequently causes loss of life. Such storms have often burst at some distance below their feet, as the army climbed the lofty ridges of the Andes.

The distressing fatigues of the most difficult marches in Europe cannot perhaps be compared to those which the patriot soldiers underwent in the campaign of 1824. From Caxamarca (memorable for the seizure and death of Atuhualpa) to Cuzco, the whole line of the road (with the exception of the plain between Pasco and the vicinity of Tarma, twenty leagues in extent, and the valley of Xauxa) presents a continuation of rugged and fatiguing ascents and declivities. That these difficulties do not diminish between Cuzco and Potosi may be inferred from the following fact:—

When general Cordova’s division marched from Cuzco to Puno, it halted at Santa Rosa. During the night there was a heavy fall of snow. They continued their march the next morning. The effects of the rays of the sun reflected from the snow upon the eyes, produces a disease, which the Peruvians call surumpi. It occasions blindness, accompanied by excruciating pains. A pimple forms in the eye-ball, and causes an itching, pricking pain, as though needles were continually piercing it. The temporary loss of sight is occasioned by the impossibility of opening the eye-lids for a single moment, the smallest ray of light being absolutely insupportable. The only relief is a poultice of snow, but as that melts away the tortures return. With the exception of twenty men and the guides, who knew how to guard against the calamity, the whole division were struck blind three leagues distant from the nearest human habitation. The guides galloped on to a village in advance, and brought out a hundred Indians to assist in leading the men. Many of the sufferers, maddened by pain, had strayed away from the column, and perished before the return of the guides, who, together with the Indians, took charge of long files of the poor sightless soldiers, clinging to each other with agonized and desperate grasp. During their dreary march by a rugged mountain path, several fell down precipices, and were never heard of more. General Miller suffered only fifteen hours from the surumpi, but the complaint usually continues two days. Out of three thousand men, General Cordova lost above a hundred. The regiment most affected was the voltigeros (formerly Numancia), which had marched by land from Caracas, a distance of upwards of two thousand leagues.

General Miller’s share in the triumph of Junin was witnessed by Bolivar, in August, 1824; and at the victory of Ayacucho, which terminated the war in Peru, general Miller was foremost in the thickest of the fight.

We are now drawing near to the close of our outline of the general’s brilliant career. At the conclusion of the war in 1825, he was appointed prefect of the department of Potosi, with a population of 300,000 souls. He was going on prosperously in his labours of peace, in improving the condition of the natives, who had for three centuries been writhing under the most infamous oppression, when his health required that he should visit Europe. In October, 1825, he resigned his honourable office, and obtained leave of absence to return to his native country, bringing with him an unsolicited testimonial from Bolivar, of his heroism in the campaign of 1824. General Miller is now in England, and in circles where his merit is known, he is received with the highest respect.

In our hasty sketch, we have glanced at only a few of the difficulties with which General Miller was beset in his several enterprises in the cause of South American independence. His career, though extending but to seven years, is one of unparalleled interest, as well to the general reader, as to the more calculating observer of the rise and progress of infant liberty. His exploits have none of the daring or bravado of mere adventures, but they are examples of sterling courage which have few parallels in the annals of modern warfare. On his quitting Potosi for England, it is mentioned that he was overwhelmed with testimonials of popular affection. We live in too advanced a state of refinement to appreciate the ecstasy which his labours in the great and glorious cause must have inspired among the native population of the scene of these exploits; but as a fellow-countryman, we have reason to be proud of his name, and of the high rank it will hereafter occupy in the records of human character. He has laid the foundation of the happiness of thousands, and sincerely do we wish that he may yet live many years to witness the successful progress of the cause to which he has so gloriously contributed.

We recommend such of our readers as take interest in genuine records of glowing patriotism, to turn to general Miller’s “Memoirs”—for such volumes of exhaustless variety and importance are seldom met with in these days of flimsy literature.

THE ANECDOTE GALLERY

LORD BYRON’S INTERVIEW WITH A MONK

[For the following graphic sketch, acknowledgment is due to the last No. (5) of the Foreign Quarterly Review, where it is stated to be copied from Pouqueville’s Travels in Greece. There is too much romance in it for out sober belief, and for the credit of Pouqueville—who by his statements has misled thousands—we ought to state that he gives it as the production of another pen. However, a marvellous story never loses by travelling; but—

Vires acquirit eundo.

Of course, it is easy enough for any enthusiast to put such words as the following into the mouth of a man who has been reviled and attacked by thousands; but we hope, for the credit of the reading world, that such stories as the following, seldom find implicit credence. There may, however, be some foundation for the following romaunt, and probably the incident, however slight, was too tempting to be sent forth to the world unadorned. If Lord Byron ever uttered such words as are here attributed to him—”I am still an Atheist“—it must have been in a fit of the most malignant obstinacy that ever distorted and disgraced the human mind—or perhaps in that spirit of malicious banter with which he was accustomed to torment his best and nearest friends. That such was his genuine sentiment, we can never bring ourselves to believe; and whatever standing is possessed by us in the world, should willingly be staked upon this point. As a romance of the pen, and not as a pure narrative of facts, we trust the following will be received; for, as such alone is it presented to our readers.]

Lord Byron during his stay at Athens, lodged at the Capuchin Convent. The Reverend Father Paul had found favour in the sight of this surprising genius;—his age, his profession, his gentleness, had gained him the affection of that nobleman in such a manner, that he devoted himself to him with all the caprice of his character. Wearied with everything, oppressed by his familiar demon, Byron came one day to find Father Paul, and request his hospitality.

The monk on seeing him reminded him of the words of the last conversation they had had together—”You cannot convince me, I am still an Atheist.” Instead of replying, Byron requested the Father to permit him to inhabit a cell, and relieve him from the ennui which poisoned his life. “While uttering these words,” said Father Paul, “he pressed my hands, and called me his father; the locks of his hair, dripping with perspiration, covered his forehead; his face was pale, his lips trembled: dared I to ask him the cause of his melancholy?”—“My father, all your days are like each other; as for me, I shall always be a traveller.”—“Have you no country? If the feeling of absence causes your sorrow, depart; my prayers and good wishes will accompany you to England.”—“Speak not to me of England; I would rather be dragged in chains on the sands of Libya, than revisit places imprinted with the curse which I have given them. The injustice of men has made England odious to me; it has separated us for ever; after the death of man, however, if it be true that the soul survives, I should be delighted to inhabit it, as a pure spirit. This mystery is only known to God.”—“Well, if you have renounced your country, take care to give your mind occupation, without too great exertion of your fancy. Is it the fault of the Creator if men are misled by false doctrines? God never predestined their perfect knowledge. Think you that peace of mind, and health of body can be the lot of him, whose life is perpetually in contradiction to that of other men? His reason is perverted who doubts the infinite power of God, and the man inscribed on the list of Atheists must be necessarily unhappy.”—“Atheist! Atheist! This is then the end of your consolation to me! It is thus that you call your son! Minister of that God who reads the hearts of men, learn, my reverend father, that it is beyond your power to discover an Atheist, even if his own mouth made you the hypocritical confession. An Atheist it is impossible to find—to admit his existence is to outrage the Sovereign of the World, who, in perfecting his noblest work, did not forget to engrave there the name of its immortal Author. Passions may arouse doubts; but when the Atheist questions himself, the evidence of a God confounds his incredulity, and the truth of the sentiment which fills his thoughts absolves him of the crime of Atheism. It is easy for you, my father, never to murmur against the Author of your being; you, who, in the gentle quiet of a life exempt from storms; have acquired the conviction that the sun of your old age will illumine the same scenes as did that of your youth. As for me—thrown on the earth like a disinherited child, born to feel happiness, and never finding it—I wander from climate to climate, with the sentiment of my everlasting misery. Since reason has unfolded to me the feeling of my wretchedness, nothing has yet tempered the bitterness of my distress. Fed with the hate of men—betrayed by those whose kindness I compared to that of angels—attacked by an incurable disease, which has swept away my ancestors—tell me, man of truth, if murmurs excited by despair can characterize an Atheist, and bring upon him the anger of Heaven. Oh! unhappy Byron!! if after so many mortal trials thy last hope of salvation is taken from thee—well!!”—Here the voice of my lord faltered.

His gloomy silence lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. All on a sudden he rose from his chair with eagerness, and walked round the room, stopping before the holy pictures which adorned it. A moment after he came to me, and said, “Do you remember that you promised a month ago to give me certain things which you possess?”—“I possess very little, and that little has nothing which can tempt you: however, speak!”—“I remember the words of your answer, and you can no longer refuse me anything.” Then he advanced towards a corner of my room, and taking down a beautiful crucifix which I had brought from Rome, he placed it in my hands. I offered it to Byron, saying, “This is the consoler of the unhappy.” He seized it with transport, and kissing it several times, he added, with eyes bathed in tears, “My hands shall not long profane it, and my mother will soon be the guardian of your precious relic!”

To griefs congenial prone,More wounds than nature gave he knew,While misery’s form his fancy drewIn dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.Goethe—Foreign Review.

THE GATHERER

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.SHAKSPEARE

ON LORD GROSVENOR’S ANNUAL INCOME

Our journals, which tell us of ev’ry one’s matters,From the king on the throne, to the pauper in tatters;Say his lordship possesses, if rightly I scan ‘em,Two hundred and seventy-two thousands per annum.On this statement I’ve latterly ventur’d to ponder,And deduc’d calculations, with diff’rence as under:I suppos’d was his income five thousand a week,(Of the surplus remaining I shall not now speak2)By close computation I found it came nearTo seven hundred and twenty, for each day’s arrear.Intent on the subject reducing it lowerI found thirty pounds was the draught for each hour.Pursuing my theme, for amusement was in it,There were ten shillings sterling for each fleeting minute,And for ev’ry pulsation of time, called a second,“According to Cocker,” two-pence must be reckon’d.PERCY HENDON.

In the churchyard of Carisbrook is the following epitaph on a loving couple:—

Of life he had the better slice,They lived at once, and died at twice.Frost is the greatest artist in our clime;He paints in nature, and describes in rime.

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1

Dr. Fuller relates the following anecdote of this divine:—Dr. Reynolds, who held the living of Lavenham, having gone over to the Church of Rome, the Earl of Oxford, the patron, presented Mr. Copinger, but on condition that he should pay no tithes for his park, which comprehended almost half the land in the parish. Mr. Copinger told his lordship, that he would rather return the presentation, than by such a sinful gratitude betray the rights of the church. This answer so affected the earl, that he replied, “I scorn that my estate should swell with church goods.” His heir, however, contested the rector’s right to the tithes, and it cost Mr. Copinger £1,600. to recover that right, and leave the quiet possession of it to his successors.

2

There remains the sum of £12,000 which I have not treated on in order to avoid fractional parts.