Chronology.
On the 26th of June, 1541, Francis Pizarro, the conqueror of Peru, was assassinated. He was born at Truxillo, in Spain; his birth was illegitimate, and in his youth he was a keeper of hogs. Becoming a soldier, he went to America, and settled at Punama, where he projected the prosecution of discoveries to the eastward of that settlement. By means of an expedition, which he solicited, and was intrusted to command from the court of Spain, he entered Peru when the empire was divided by a civil war between Huascar the legitimate monarch, and Atahualpa his half brother. Pretending succour to Atahualpa, he was permitted to penetrate twelve days’ journey into the country, and received as an ally by Atahualpa, whose confidence he rewarded by suddenly attacking him, and making him prisoner. The exaction of an immense ransom for this king’s release; the shameful breach of faith, by which he was held in captivity after his ransom was paid; his brutal murder under the infamous mockery of a trial; the horrible frauds by which he was inveigled to die in the profession of the christian faith, without being able to comprehend its tenets; and the superaddition of other acts of perfidy and cruelty, will render the name of Pizarro infamous so long as it exists.
His assassination was effected by the friends of Almagro, his original associate, with whom he had quarelled, and whom he caused to be executed when he got him into his power.
Copenhagen-house
Copenhagen-house
In olden times, so high a rise
Was, perhaps, a Tor or beacon ground
And lit, or ’larm’d, the country round,
For pleasure, or against surprise
There is a cobler’s stall in London that I go out of my way to look at whenever I pass its vicinity, because it was the seat of an honest old man who patched my shoes and my mind, when I was a boy. I involuntarily reverence the spot; and if I find myself in Red Lion-square, I, with a like affection, look between the iron railings of its enclosure, because, at the same age, from my mother’s window, I watched the taking down of the obelisk, stone by stone, that stood in the centre, and impatiently awaited the discovery of the body of Oliver Cromwell, which, according to local legend, was certainly buried there in secrecy by night. It is true that Oliver’s bones were not found; but then “every body” believed that “the workmen did not dig deep enough.” Among these believers was my friend, the cobbler, who, though no metaphysician, was given to ruminate on “causation.” He imputed the nonpersistence of the diggers to “private reasons of state,” which his awfully mysterious look imported he had fathomed, but dared not reveal. From ignorance of wisdom, I venerated the wisdom of ignorance; and though I now know better, I respect the old man’s memory. He allowed me, though a child, to sit on the frame of his little pushed-back window; and I obtained so much of his good-will and confidence, that he lent me a folio of fragments from Caxton’s “Polychronicon,” and Pynson’s “Shepherd’s Kalendar,” which he kept in the drawer of his seat, with “St. Hugh’s bones,” the instruments of his “gentle craft.” This black-letter lore, with its wood-cuts, created in me a desire to be acquainted with our old authors, and a love for engravings, which I have indulged without satiety. It is impossible that I should be without fond recollections of the spots wherein I received these early impressions.
From still earlier impressions, I have like recollection of the meadows on the Highgate side of Copenhagen-house. I often rambled in them in summer-time, when I was a boy, to frolic in the new-mown hay, or explore the wonders of the hedges, and listen to the songs of the birds. Certain indistinct apprehensions of danger arose in me from the rude noises of the visitors at Copenhagen-house itself, and I scarcely ventured near enough to observe more than that it had drinking-benches outside, and boisterous company within. I first entered the place in the present month of June, 1825, and the few particulars I could collect concerning it, as an old place of public entertainment, may be acceptable to many who recollect its former notoriety. Speculators are building up to it, and if they continue with their present speed, it will in a few years be hidden by their operations.