THE CID OF SPAIN. RODRIGO DIAZ DE BIVAR, better known in history by the appellations of Cid (Lord), or the Campeador (Champion), holds the same high place in the annals of Spain, as Wallace and Tell in the chronicles of their respective countries. The Cid was born at Burgos, in the year 1026, in the reign of King Ferrando of Castile, a part of which province was all of Spain that had been then recovered from the Moors. An insult offered to young Rodrigo's father, Diego Laynez, the head of a noble house, first brought to light the future champion's prowess. The author of the aggression was Count Don Gomez, the Lord of Gormaz, a mighty man at arms (to use the words of an old Spanish chronicle, translated by Mr Southey), one who gave his voice first in the Cortes, and was held to be the best in the war (with the Moors), and so powerful that he had a thousand friends among the mountains.' Observing that his father, a man advanced in years, was pining grievously under a sense of the dishonour that had been thrown upon him, Rodrigo, though then a mere youth, buckled on the sword that had been the sword of the famous Mudarra in former times,' and, undismayed by the formidable character of Gomez, challenged him to single combat. The insulter fell, and his head was carried by the victor to the feet of old Diego, who thereupon embraced his son, and placed him above himself at table, saying, that he who had brought him home that head, should be the head of the house of Laynez.' peach the people of Zamora, the great as well as the 6 This first incident in the history of the Cid was immediately followed by another of still greater interest and importance to his future life. Ximena Gomez, the young daughter and heiress of the slain count, presented herself before the Castilian king, and having stated that Rodrigo had killed her father, prayed his majesty to command him to make atonement by taking her to wife, that she might be enabled to grant him her hearty pardon,' which she could only give to him if placed in the endearing relation of a husband. This singular request, upon which the celebrated French play of the Cid is based, was acceded to by both the king and Rodrigo, and the marriage was concluded accordingly. About the same time Rodrigo may be said to have begun his career of public renown, by vanquishing, with the aid of his personal followers, five petty Moorish princes or chiefs, who had made joint encroachment on the Castilian frontiers. So humbled were the Moors by their defeat, that they submitted to become for the future the vassals of the victor. From the unsettled state of the Moorish and Castilian borders, opportunities for similar exploits were of continual occurrence, and the cross-hilted sword that had been the sword of Mudarra,' was so frequently and so successfully wielded by Rodrigo, that he became, in a few years, the terror of the Moors, who were the first to apply to him the name of 'Cid,' afterwards rendered by him so famous. While his reputation was thus waxing great, his sovereign Ferrando died, and a period of civil commotion succeeded. The eldest son of the deceased king, Alfonso's hatred soon found a plea for banishing the Don Sancho, jealous of his brothers, who had been left unpalatable oath-giver from his dominions. The dejoint heirs to the kingdom with himself, threw them into parture of the Cid from his native Castile has been the prison, and besieged his sister, Donna Urraca, in the city theme of many a mournful chant, and indeed his conof Zamora, which had fallen to her share. While en- duct on the occasion seems to have been both affecting gaged in this siege, Sancho was treacherously slain, and and dignified. Assembling the many friends and retainhis death was followed by a remarkable scene, highly ers whom his military fame had drawn about him, he put characteristic of the times, and which is worthy of notice, himself at their head, to go and seek his fortune in the though it does not bear immediately on the Cid's his-wars with the Moors. As he was about to depart,' says tory. The Cid having refused to bear arms against the old chronicle, 'he looked back upon his own home; and Donna Urraca, because he had been brought up with when he saw his hall deserted, the household chests unher, and remembered the days that were past,' a stal- fastened, the doors open, no cloaks hanging up, no seats wart knight, Diego Ordonnez, was selected by Sancho's in the porch, no hawks upon the perches, the tears came army to impeach the people of Zamora for the king's into his eyes, and he said, 'My enemies have done this.'' murder, or at least for having received the author of Then, in the true spirit of the times, he knelt down, and the deed within their walls. Having summoned Arias, prayed for strength to destroy all the Pagans,' and to the governor, to the battlements of the city, Ordonnez win from them wherewith to requite those that followed appeared before the walls in armour, and in the follow- and helped him. But the most affecting scene took place ing words impeached the people of the place, after accus- on his passing through his native Burgos, the inhabitants ing them of harbouring the assassin :- For this I im- of which had been strictly enjoined by the king not to receive or entertain him. When the champion, at the head of his armed warriors, and accompanied by his sorrowing wife and children, rode through the streets of Burgos, no human being was to be seen. One little girl only appeared at the door of his hotel, and told him the king's orders, on which he turned away in silence, and rode onwards to the church. There he paid his devotions to the Virgin, and then with his train he departed from the solitary and pitying city. The Cid's finances were, at this time, in a low state, and he was at a loss how to equip himself with necessaries for his first campaign with the Moors. In this emergency, say the romances, his faithful wife took off her garland, glistening with precious stones, which had once been worn by Moorish princes, and put it into his hands, saying, Take it, my Rodrigo, it will supply thee with gold.' We shall give the rest of this scene as it appears in a poetical translation in the Quarterly Review : 'Sola and her little sister, Daughters of the noble Cid, Clamoured loud around Ximene; Kiss'd his cheeks and stroked his beard.' power, and enabled him greatly to harass the Moorish Perhaps we should not have noticed this incident, which does not appear in the regular history of the Cid, had it not been for our remembrance of the fact, that, in the analogous case of Wallace, every additional light thrown on that hero's history tends to corroborate the For many long years did the Cid live honourably in statements of Blind Harry and other romancers. So it Valentia, still warring frequently, and always successfully, may be with the incidents in the romaunts on the Cid. against the Moorish usurpers of his country. He gave The garland being thus preserved, the wants of the Cid his daughters in marriage to two youths of high rank, were at last supplied in a way which his poverty, it is pro- called the Infantes of Canion. These princes, however, bable, and not his will consented to. Covering up in a costly were unworthy men and cowards, and disgraced in all way two chests, filled with nought but old iron, the Cid respects their lofty lineage. Ultimately, upon suspicion sent them by one of his attendants to two wealthy Jews, that the Cid was instrumental in bringing about what who, being persuaded that they contained treasure, made was really an accidental exposure of their dastardly spirit, an advance upon the chests of six hundred marks, pro- these princes revenged themselves by cruelly beating and mising at the same time to retain them unopened for a deserting their wives, Ruy Diaz's daughters, in a wild full year. Though the truth respecting their contents forest, where they were found half dead, and brought became afterwards known, the Cid saved his honour by back to Valentia. The Cid's anger was fearfully aroused redeeming them before the year expired. When furat the story of their injuries, and he brought a complaint nished with necessaries, indeed, by means of the loan, in person against the offenders in the Cortes, or parliathe Cid was not long in improving his fortunes, and in- ment of Castile. He shaped his complaints into three creasing a thousand-fold his warlike reputation. It is counts. He first demanded restitution of his two good not our purpose to describe in detail the numberless ad-suords, Colado and Tizone, which he presented on their ventures of the Spanish champion and his followers dur-marriage-day to his base sons-in-law. This request was ing his long campaigns against the Moors, whose women complied with. The Cid next demanded restitution of learned to still the cries of their infants with the name the portions given along with his daughters. To this also the Infantes were reluctantly forced by the Cortes to agree. The third demand of Ruy Diaz, however, was the most appalling of all to the Infantes. He insisted on personal satisfaction with the sword for the wrongs done to in the midst of which Count Don Garcia, uncle to the Inhis daughters. A stormy altercation ensued in the Cortes, fantes, said to his nephews, Come away, Infantes, and let us leave the Cid sitting here; he lets his beard grow, and thinks to frighten us with it.' The Cid was not slow in retorting. What hast thou to do with my beard, count? Never son of woman hath taken me by it, never son of Moor or Christian hath plucked it, as I did yours in your castle, count, when every boy in my host had his pull at it.' The Infantes and their uncle were ultimately compelled to fight three of the Cid's knights, and, being defeated, were found guilty of treason. Subsequently, the two daughters of Ruy Diaz were married a of the terrible Campeador. Let the following spirited Their shields before their breasts, forth at once they go, second time to princes of the highest rank-the Infantes, namely, of Arragon and Navarre. After returning to his city of Valentia, the Cid spent the remainder of his days as peacefully as the times would admit. When he was far advanced in life, Valentia was again besieged by the Moors. In a vision, according to the old chronicles, the Cid was warned of his approaching decease, but was told at the same time that he was destined to defeat the Moors even after his death. After preparing calmly for his dissolution, and directing his household to return to Castile, carrying his body with them, this noble baron yielded up his soul in the seventy-third year of his life.' By virtue of a balsam rubbed over it, his body bore as fresh and fair an appearance as when in life, and of this his followers took advantage. They tied the body to a frame of wood, and placed it in the saddle, on the back of the good horse, Bavieca, fastening a drawn sword at the same time in the hand of the dead Cid, and dressing him in a garb cunningly painted so as to resemble armour. Having done this, Ximena and her numerous retainers issued from the city, and the Moors, terrified at the imagined presence of the great Campeador, were easily broken and routed. On reaching Castile, the body of the Cid continued to look so fresh and comely that Ximena would not put it in the grave, but, with the consent of the people, placed it on a famous ivory throne (taken from the Moors), by the side of the cathedral altar of Toledo. In this situation the remains of Ruy Diaz were kept for ten years, when the virtues of the preservative balsam failed, and it was found necessary to remove the Cid to a sepulchral vault. Here the corpse remained for some time, still seated on the ivory chair, but finally it was laid in the earth, in the chapel of the monastery of Cardena. In this monastery, also, Ximena spent her latter days, and here also Bavieca was honourably tended until its death, being never bestrode by man after it had borne the dead Campeador, of whose living adventures it had been the faithful and constant companion. POEMS, BY LORD ROBERTSON.* SOME weeks since the public were not a little taken by surprise to find a new volume of poetry announced, with the title given below. And, indeed, the avocations of the writer-long noted as an accomplished and witty lawyer, with an extensive practice at the bar, and more lately as a judge in the Court of Session-did not seem well fitted to suit him for the companionship of the Muses. Yet it is surely meet that men should occasionally abstract themselves from the dry details of everyday life, by falling back on the world of feeling and fancy within them; and it must be gratifying to learn that the laborious avocations of the learned lord have not stifled in him the love of nature common to all, and the high thoughts and bright fancies consequent on that attachment. The whirl of busy life,' we are glad to know, has not prevented Lord Robertson from wandering, as Milton did, 'Where the muses haunt Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, As the work before us may not fall into the hands of many of our readers, we will endeavour to furnish them with a slight idea of its contents. It is chiefly, we learn, the result of a continental excursion, during the autumn of last year, amongst the grandeurs of nature and art in Switzerland and Italy; short reflections in blank verse on the most striking objects met with in the course of the tour constituting the staple of the volume. Originality in the well-trodden field traversed by the author, and the delineation of which has occupied so many eminent pens, both in prose and verse, was scarcely to be anticipated; nor can we aver that Lord Robertson excels in the elaboration of novel or striking ideas or imagery. The writer has been unable wholly to divest himself of the recollection of Childe Harold's magnificent descriptions and imaginings, the echo of that overshadowing genius often vividly coming back on us from the perusal of the learned senator's pages. Passing over this, and occasional faults of style, there is still left much fine description of scenery, couched in language always eloquent and often poetical, and many just and beautiful reflec tions; while over all are thrown the hues of a highly refined and cultivated mind, filled with an ardent admiration of external nature, ever prompting the writer to obey the impulses of adoration due to the great Creator! of all. The contrast between the perishable works of man and those of his Maker, is finely brought out in one of these 'Leaves from a Journal,' entitled 'The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci,' which is, in our opinion, one of the best pieces in the volume :— 'Defaced, retouch'd, dilapidated, torn, And like the ceaseless tide of human life Leaving thee mould ring with the dust from which The means are human though the art divine; And Titian's tenderest touch, Rubens' bright glow, The holy rapture of Raphael, the grace Of Carlo Dolce, or of Guido calm, Give me, then, Nature's never-dying hues, One of the pieces, on the present desolate condition of Pompeii, reminds us of the terse and emphatic style of 'Fountains and baths are dry; ended the sports, The actors rest, the wrestlers struggle not, The volume is wound up by a series of Fragments,' the first and longest of which is a supposed interview * Leaves from a Journal, and other Fragments in verse. By between Milton and Galileo, conceived in a lofty strain Lord Robertson. London: John Murray, Albemarle Street. befitting the subject. We regret that space will not permit us to extract a portion of these Fragments;' and we dismiss the present offspring of Lord Robertson's muse with the hope that leisure may ere long be afforded him to tread fresh fields and pastures new' in the domains of poesy. THE CURATE AND HIS BRIDE. In a remote and narrow vale in the West, that runs down into the sea, stands a very minute church and tower. The latter is so concealed from the view of the passenger by the sloping banks, that he finds his feet almost about to plant themselves on the pinnacles ere he has gained a sight of the body of the turret. And when he has descended to the walls beneath, he perceives his head to be nearly on a level with the roof of the church, and stoops low in order to gaze through its narrow windows. All grey and lonely the edifice stands, there being only two lowly and neat cottages, seated on two green knolls, and tenanted by peaceful people, and these stand at some distance from the church. The low gate that opens into the little garden before the door, the few cows and scattered sheep that graze beside, and the patches of cultivated ground on the neighbouring slopes, prove that the dwellers do not eat the bread of idleness. In this glen, and in one of these cottages, dwelt the curate of the church he was not the owner of the dwelling, or the flock; happy indeed would he have felt had this been the case he was only a lodger with the petty and industrious farmer; and was not a native of the place, but a stranger from a distant scene. His former rank in life could not have been considerable, nor his prospects flattering, else he would hardly have journeyed the distance of two hundred miles to enjoy this remote cure of fifty pounds a-year; and how could he possibly spend more, was the question he often asked himself during the first twelve months. The sloping beach close by, at whose foot the sea in general slept calmly, afforded him at any time a meal of excellent fish; the cottagers kept a dairy, whence came his daily supply of delicious milk and cream; there was always an abundance of excellent salt pork, of their own feeding, ranged temptingly on the rafters of the kitchen; and occasionally a fat fowl was killed by way of accompaniment. This luxury the cottagers would not so often have allowed, but for the sake of their lodger, whose frame and habits were the very reverse of robust. The annual sum which he paid for these comforts made no fatal invasion on his stipend. His chamber was exquisitely neat and clean, perfumed in the season with thyme and rosemary; it was small, but healthfully situated, for one window looked out on the rich and smiling banks, and the other far to seaward. And here it was sweet to sit and read, and then pause amidst his reading, and pensively gaze on the hushed or troubled deep-and what object so boundlessly and beautifully inspiring? There were other enjoyments of a more elevated character, to the attainment of which this deep retirement was highly favourable. Earth offered few fascinations to tempt the curate from the lowly yet delightful feelings and duties of his charge. To stand beside the bed of sickness and death, and pour consolation there; to visit the remotest dwellings of his parish, on the wild hillside or on the sea-beat coast, and to deal sincerely and faithfully with the scattered people, among whose thin population might be found every shade of vice and virtue-these were his daily cares-his daily pleasures. A career such as this was certain to bring peace and comfort to the mind; and the solitary man felt this deeply and dearly; and often, in his chamber, the tear streamed from his eye, and a look of exquisite pleasure lighted his features, when he thought how Providence had blessed him, and how secure and happy was his condition. By his care and prudence he found, at the close of the year, that he had sufficient money remaining to purchase a valuable addition to his scanty stock of books, as well as a new suit of black, which he much wanted. It was on a fine morning when he first put it on, and walked up the narrow glen to his grey church: he had returned the evening before from the market-town at ten miles' distance, where he had gone to purchase some favourite volumes; and still he found a surplus of his last year's income. He had never before known such conscious and glowing independence; abundance seemed to open on his future years, and he smiled as he saw his parishioners around the porch, fix their looks with surprise on his altered and gentlemanly appearance. A few days after, he received an invitation to dine with a rich farmer in the adjoining parish. He was somewhat surprised at this, as the inviter lived on bad terms with his own minister, and had studiously avoided showing him the least hospitality. He went, however. The house stood in a valley, at about three miles' distance from his own, and was a substantial and excellent dwelling, for the whole of the domain on which it stood belonged to the farmer. The visiter was struck with the appearance of wealth in every apartment; it was the first dwelling of the kind he had entered since his arrival; and he was greatly pleased, as well as flattered, with the pointedly kind and friendly reception of the family. A numerous party was invited, among whom were a few of his parishioners, but the greater number were strangers; and when he sat at the profusely covered table, surrounded by well-dressed guests, he could not help thinking of the contrast his own humble peasant's board presented, at which he sat with the family every day. The glass circulated briskly, the conversation became gay and free, and he was surprised at himself; for his voice rose as clear, and was listened to as attentively, as that of the richest farmer present. Even the daughters of some of the guests, who certainly did not want their share of pride, gave kind and approving glances. The young and obscure pastor had an eloquent eye, and a voice of a silver tone-things that go far with the female heart. It was late ere the party separated: and the curate traced his way home with a slow step, for the night was beautiful, and his mind and fancy were strung to the highest excitement. It was a fatal hour for his peace when he went to that dwelling: had he known the dark and troubled hue it would cast over his prospects, hitherto so calm and clear, he had forsworn the company of the world for ever. The path that led along the shore to the vale of the wealthy farmer soon became familiar to his foot; and the entertainment of that day was only the prelude to many a friendly visit and hearty welcome. The farmer had two daughters, to whom he had given an expensive education, and had omitted, in fact, no means of rendering them suitable matches for any man in the western country, whether opulent farmer or long-descended squire with a curtailed rental. He spoke at times of the fortune he intended to give them on his decease, as well as their portion on the wedding-day. And did the lowly curate of Saint Kylas aspire to one of these richly dowried damsels? He scarcely dared own it to himself, or why his foot wandered so often to the dwelling; in justice be it said, that ere he thought at all of the money, the frank and kind manners and spirit of the girl had created a warm attachment to her. And the feeling was so new and exciting-it broke so beautifully on the monotony of his life in the glen-that he loved to indulge it. The father, in the mean time, thought little more of the curate; but was pleased when he saw him enter his house, for he liked his character and conversation, and felt that complacency towards him also, with which men of affluence and luxury often regard those who have equal and superior talents to themselves, but are compelled to take their stand on the side of the gulf of poverty, and look wistfully and vainly beyond. This sentiment was nearly akin to pity, perhaps; but there was real friendliness also in the farmer's feelings towards his new acquaintance. Of the two daughters the elder was the object of his regard; it was doubtful if she liked the man as well as she did the companion; for she was a bloom ing, tall, and bright-eyed girl, while he was a meek, retired, though very interesting personage; and his whole bearing and manners, in spite of his poverty and scanty field of observation, were those of a gentleman. the curate had known human nature better, even in his confined sphere; and when the farmer raised his head, and fixed his eye full upon him, without uttering a word, he read in that glance more of the dark and mysterious history of the human heart, than the deathbed scenes of repentance, guilt, and fear, which his scanty parish had ever given him. In silence they took their oars, and now pulled more rapidly towards the land: and there they summoned two or three fishermen to convey the burden they had rescued to a neighbouring cottage; this being done, they parted for the night. The feelings of the youthful pastor, when he again entered his peaceful dwelling, were of a strange and mingled character. He would have sought repose, but it fled from him; and, harassed and wearied, he rose with the early dawn, and opening the window that looked out on the glen, he sat beside it, inhaling the fresh and pure air. Hitherto, on rising from his bed, he had loved to open the southern window that looked out on the deep, but this morning he withdrew from the spot, and turned his glance, with a sickening feeling, from the calm, blue surface of the sea: his love for that scene was at this moment changed into loathing. An hour had scarcely elapsed, and the tenants had but just risen, when a low knock was heard at the door below, and quickly afterwards the farmer entered the apartment. His night, too, it was evident, had been sleepless, for his features were disturbed and haggard, and his eyes quick and restless. He closed the door fast, sat down beside his companion, took his hand, and spoke in a broken and hurried tone. The latter listened painfully and sadly, for why should this man's words be deprecating and beseeching? No crime had yet been committed; it was still in his power to restore the rich property to the magistrates, and, when the body should be surveyed, to allow the spoil to be produced also. But the rich man, who might call the whole valley his own, whose barns and storehouses were full, had had a fearful conflict with himself: all night he strove with the demon of rapine, and had at last yielded. The sight of the rare and precious stones that he had laid on his table, and gazed on again and again, was resistless: it was for his daughters' sake, he said to himself. What a brilliant dowry should he now be enabled to give them! How beautifully would the smallest portion of this glittering array become their tall fine forms and fair skin! But an event happened soon after, that placed all the parties in different relations to each other. The farmer kept a boat in the cove below his dwelling, in which, during the fine evenings of summer, he was fond of rowing out to sea for a few miles, and spending part of the night in fishing. On one of these evenings in July, there being no wind, and the sea perfectly calm, he invited the curate, who had dined that day at his house, to accompany him in the boat, with his eldest daughter. They rowed from the shore to a fishing-ground about two miles distant; and after throwing their lines without much success, and the moon shining brilliantly, they pushed out about a mile farther. Here they had excellent sport, pulling up at almost every cast some of the fine fish of the coast. While they were thus occupied, the night waned almost unperceived; and it was very late ere they thought of returning. At last the small anchor was reluctantly hauled on board, and they rowed leisurely in-shore: not a single boat save their own could be seen, and the soft and slow splash of their oars was the only sound that broke on the calm of night, save at intervals their own cheerful voices. On a sudden the oar of the farmer struck against some heavy substance: and an exclamation of surprise was uttered. They ceased rowing, and looking earnestly over the side of the boat, saw clearly a human body floating on the wave. The curate, not without shrinking, caught hold of the garments, as the boat now struck the form, and drew it, all near and distinctly, within their view. It was a fearful sight, and the girl shrieked, and covered her face with her hands: not so the father, whose eye was fixed on the corpse; he bent over the side of the boat, and laid as strong a grasp on the matted and faded garments as if they had been those of a drowning man, whose life he was saving. The pastor gazed on his companion and then on the dead in astonishment, and recoiled instinctively. 'We must secure this body,' said the low but earnest voice of the father. For God's sake do not take it on board!' said the daughter. It must be done,' was the stern and brief reply: it must have Christian burial;' and with the utmost exertions of the two men, and after having more than once slipped from their hold, it was at last lifted on board. The hand of the farmer was grasped on that of the corpse; and to the quick eye of the curate, the brilliant light of the moon falling on the living and the dead, revealed the cause of the farmer's eagerness to redeem their prey from the waves. The cold and swollen hand was covered with jewels; and this was not all: for around the breast, closely fastened by a sash, the hand of the captor soon drew forth a small silken bag, that, on being opened, offered several rare and precious stones to the sight. It was unknown at the time who the drowned man was; but in the unhappy disclosure that afterwards took place, it was discovered that he was a Spaniard, and had come from South America. He had evidently been a man of superior condition, as was seen by his dress. The boat lay motionless on the sea; the oars hung idly over the side; and not a word was spoken, for no one dared to speak, while the farmer slowly wrung from the clammy fingers their glittering ornaments, with a deliberation and coolness that ought only to have belonged to a practised villain; and then, depositing the rings in the small bag that contained the other stones, he placed it carefully in his bosom. The For some time these flattering visions shrouded the feelings of his child were spared the horror of this sight, darker part of the picture: he would not appear that day for, unable to bear the aspect of the dead, she turned her at the frugal board of the cottagers; and when evening look fixedly on the wave. Once only, on averting it for an came, he took himself sternly to task, for his criminal instant, she caught a glimpse of the heartless work: her silence, and resolved to walk over to the valley, and adfather, with a fixed and pale aspect, bending over the fear- dress himself to the better and more generous feelings of ful and eyeless dead, and transferring its possessions to his friend. He found him walking alone in his garden, his own bosom. She uttered a stifled scream, but was apparently lost in thought; and then he spoke to him in saved the more miserable feeling of despising her parent, a low tone, but firmly and boldly, of the dark treachery for she thought he was only rescuing these valuable proposed, and urged him to make redress, ere the corothings, in order to save them for the right owner. But | ner's inquest was held on the body, or even on the very And now he spoke of his daughter; and the look of horror passed slowly from the aspect of the listener: a burning flush came there, and he trembled-for he felt the power of the words-the father was offering him his child! And when the words ceased, he made no answer, but felt his hand grasped with a hard, kind, and prolonged pressure of a desperate yet confiding man. The latter rose at last, bade him good morning, and returned to his own home. The minister felt that he had rather grapple with the fiercest temporal ills, than with his own reflections: Is there any burden so heavy to bear as a guilty and fearful secret?' was a question he often put to himself. And then he thought of all the father had said: of the proposal so dear and delightful, that he had never hoped to hear from those lips; gratitude for a moment filled his heart at this generosity. The richly dowried, admired girl of the valley, was to be his bride; the poor, portionless curate, with a pittance barely sufficient for his existence, might now live in enjoyment and plenty, and be master of a dwelling as comfortable and luxurious as that of the owner of the territory. |