We must now return to our little party, who were setting out on their
excursions towards the _glen_, that is to say, a deep and narrow opening
between the hills which bound the dale.
John had no sooner assisted Helen to mount Bob, than Mr. Martin made his
appearance, accompanied by Mrs. Martin, who came to see them set off, she
being detained at home that morning, arranging some household affairs,
which required her presence, and which would not admit of delay. After
wishing them good bye, and giving Helen many charges to be careful, and
keep a firm hold of her bridle, Mrs. Martin returned into the house, and
the travellers proceeded to follow the windings up towards the glen, where
David Little's cottage stood. Nothing can exceed the beauty of this walk.
The holm extends above a mile above Mr. Martin's house, divided by a large
and rapid river, on each side of which hills rise, almost as high as the
eye can reach, covered with rich, smooth verdure, up to the very top, and
seeming to shut out the inhabitants of the valley from all communication
with the rest of the world. As Mr. Martin and the young people proceeded
leisurely along the road, he related to them several stories, which
occurred to him at the moment, and which he thought would interest and
amuse them. He told them that, in former times, before Scotland and
England were united, there were continual wars between the _Borderers_,
or inhabitants of the country on each side of the border dividing the two
kingdoms; and that, in order to check the English from coming over, and
plundering the Scotch of their sheep and cattle, one of the Scottish
kings, named James, was said to have brought a family of seven brothers,
of the name of ELLIOTT, from the Highlands, a stout and hardy race, whom
he settled all along the borders of Scotland; "and the Elliotts," said he,
"my dears, who, you know are now so numerous all through the Dale, are
said to be descended from these seven brothers." Mr. Martin was going on
to tell of Johnnie Armstrong, who was one of the great chieftains of those
times, and was a sad enemy to the English, when John, who had been
listening with great eagerness to all he had heard, cried out, "Oh!
Johnnie Armstrong! I have heard of him sir, all the Dale knows about him.
He was a great robber, was he not? I remember, my father used to sing some
old songs about him to me; and I think I could repeat parts of the verses
myself, if Miss Helen would like to hear them, and you, sir, would give me
leave." "Certainly John," answered Mr. Martin, "I am sure Helen will like
to hear them much."
John cleared his voice, and after considering a little while, began the
following old ballad:--
Some speak of lords, some speak of lairds,
And such like men of high degree;
Of a gentleman I sing a song,
Sometime called Laird of Gilnockie.
The King he writes a loving letter,
With his own hand so tenderly,
And he hath sent it to Johnnie Armstrong,
To come and speak with him speedily.
The Elliotts and Armstrongs did convene,
They were a gallant company;
"We'll ride and meet our lawful king,
And bring him safe to Gilnockie."
They ran their steeds on the Langholm holm,
They ran their steeds with might and main;
The ladies looked from their high windows,
God bring our men well back again.
John stopped here and said, "he did not remember the whole ballad, for it
was very long, but he knew that the story was that Johnnie was deceived by
the king, who only wanted to get him into his power, by enticing him out
of his own country; and having succeeded in this, he caused poor Armstrong
and all his followers to be hanged. He would try," he said, and "remember
the last two verses, which gave an account of Armstrong's death."
Farewell, my bonny Gilnockhall,
Where on Esk side thou standest stout!
If I had lived but seven years more,
I would have gilt thee round about.
Because they saved their country dear
From Englishmen, none were so bold,
While Johnnie lived on the border side,
None of them durst come near his hold.
Just as John had finished his ballad, they turned out of the main road, up
a narrow path, into the glen. On their right hand a small clear brook, or,
as it is called in Scotland, a _burn_, ran down among the brush-wood; now
hid from view, now showing its white foam, bursting over the stones which
obstructed its passage. The walk from this till our little party reached
David's cottage was extremely beautiful, amongst natural woods, varied
hills, and bold rocks, over which the burn kept continually pouring, with
a loud but pleasing noise. A wooden bridge, which might, indeed, more
properly be called a plank, was thrown across the burn at the narrowest
part, and rested upon the rock on each side, a little above which stood
the remains of an old watch-tower. Altogether the scene was so beautiful,
that, whilst Helen dismounted, and John endeavoured to coax Bob across the
bridge, Mr. Martin took out his sketch-book and made a drawing of it.
When they had crossed to the other side, the road took a winding turn
amongst the hills; and their minds were so impressed with the grandeur of
the scenery, that, from the time they quitted the bridge, they ceased
speaking; only pointing out to each other, as they advanced, any new
beauty that suddenly presented itself. The cottage was built about half a
mile above the bridge, on a shelving bank, which they could only reach by
ascending a little path with steps cut in the rock. At the bottom of these
rude stairs Mr. Martin desired John to fasten Bob to the stump of an old
tree, which grew conveniently near it. When they reached the top of this
ascent, they found a small clay-built hut, thatched with furze, erected
close under the shelter of an immense rock, which hung with frowning
grandeur over it, and seemed to threaten to crush it and its inhabitants
to pieces. About a hundred square yards of ground were cleared from the
surrounding brushwood, part of which David had cultivated, as a little
garden, and had planted it with vegetables, as an assistance in the
support of his family. The rest formed a pasture, in the middle of which
was feeding a goat, confined from ranging far by a cord fastened to one of
its feet, and tied to a piece of wood driven into the ground.
On Mr. Martin's appearance, the shepherd's dog set up a loud and shrill
bark. Two or three ragged children ran into the house, calling out, that
"the _Minister_ was come," (the name which the Scottish clergy generally
receive from their parishioners). On hearing this joyful information,
their mother soon appeared, and having obtained silence, both from the dog
and the children, proceeded to welcome her visitors in the most hospitable
manner, assuring Mr. Martin that her husband had greatly desired this
favour. She added, that the surgeon had seen him that morning, and had
assured her that, could he refrain from fretting, and be left undisturbed,
he did not doubt of David's being able to walk in a few months as well as
ever. "That, I fear," continued she, "is next to impossible; for when he
sees his dear little children going without their usual food, which they
are now obliged to do, as I cannot get more for my work than will supply
them with one good meal a day, he must fret and regret his being laid
aside, and prevented from going to the hill to earn their suppers for
them. However, Sir, I am glad that you are come, for I am sure a word from
you will comfort him, and make him easier than he has been since he met
with this unlucky accident." Mr. Martin immediately went into the hut,
desiring his daughter and John to wait for him on the outside.
While the worthy clergyman was with David, Helen remained talking with his
wife. The children were so shy, that they could not be prevailed on to
come forward and speak to her, but stood wrapping their little heads up in
the corner of their mother's apron, taking a sly peep at the strangers,
when they thought they were not observed. Helen at last recollected her
basket, and asked John to give it to her. As soon as she began to unfold
the snow-white napkin in which her present was wrapped, the little heads
gradually approached nearer and nearer to the basket; and when Helen took
out a few cakes of _parliament_(a kind of gingerbread very common in
Scotland), and gave each of them one, the little creatures began jumping,
shouting, and clapping their hands with delight. She then presented to
their mother a loaf of bread and a bottle of currant wine, which last, she
said, she was desired to tell her was for herself, as wine was not good
for David. "No, no, Miss Helen," said Mrs. Little, "that will never do. I
cannot think of drinking our good madam's wine myself, I assure you; I
will just put it by the spence, (_spence_ means _cupboard_) till David
is beginning to get about again, and then I think it will help to
strengthen him." "Do what will give you most pleasure, Mrs. Little," said
Helen; "I dare say my mother will be satisfied."
She had scarcely finished speaking, when she felt a little hand take hold
of hers. It was the eldest of the shepherd's children, a boy about seven
years old. When he found that she observed him, he pulled her gently down,
to whisper to her, that if she would like to see his hen and chickens, he
would show them to her. "The chickens," he said, "were only two days old,
and were very pretty creatures." Helen replied, that she should like to
see them much. Away skipped Tom, as fast as he could run, to the end of
the cottage, and lifting up an old rug, that lay over a coop, displayed
the young brood and their mother to the admiring eyes of the visitors. Tom
was quite delighted to find the lady amused with any thing he had to
exhibit, and told her, that if he succeeded in rearing them, he would ask
his mammy's leave to come down himself to the _Manse_ (the name always
given to the parsonage house in Scotland), and bring her a chicken as a
present; for they were all his own; his daddy had given him the hen long
ago, and he had watched and fed her, all the time she was sitting, with
part of the porridge which he got for his own breakfast. Helen asked him
how he could spare any of his porridge, as she supposed that, now his
father was sick, he got nothing else to eat all day. "Oh," said he, "it is
but little she eats; and though, to be sure, I am sometimes very hungry,
and could eat it all myself. I keep thinking how happy I shall be if I can
have some pretty chickens to give my mammy to lay eggs; for, then, you
know she can sell them up at the hall, next August, when the English
gentry come. The English," continued he, looking up at Helen with a very
grave face, "must be very fond of eggs; for do you know they gave my mammy
a whole white shilling for a dozen last year." Helen thought as Tom did,
that the English must indeed be fond of eggs, if they gave so much money
for them. She had never seen her mother give more than fourpence or
fivepence a dozen; and she thought she would ask, when she got home,
whether it could really be as Tom said.
Whilst they were looking at the chickens, the dog, that had been lying at
the door, rose leisurely, shook himself, and walked after them. He stood
close by Helen, wagging his tail and looking pleased; but when she stooped
down to take one of the chickens in her hand, he began to growl at a
terrible rate. "Down, Colly, down!" said Tom; "he won't bit you, Miss, for
he is the best natured creature in the world; he is only afraid you may
hurt the chicken. We always liked Colly very much, but now more than ever;
for it was he, poor fellow, that came and told mammy that daddy had fallen
down." "Stop, Tom," cried Helen, "take care what you say. How could a dog
_tell_ any body what had happened to your father? Do you know what a
naughty thing it is to fib?" "Yes, I do know very well, Miss, that it is
wicked to tell fibs;" answered Tom, stoutly, "but mammy can assure you,
that what I am saying is true." "Yes, indeed," said his mother, "Tom
speaks the truth; though perhaps he should not have used exactly the word
_told_, for the dog certainly did not speak, he only barked. If you
please, I will tell you what he did; and then I think you will believe
Tom, and love poor Colly too."
"It was in the evening of last Wednesday se'nnight: David was just come
home from the hill, where he had been with his sheep. He was wet and tired
with being out in the rain all day; and I had just got him some dry
clothes, and made up a nice blazing fire, to boil some potatoes for his
supper. The two youngest children had climbed up on his knee, poor things!
Tom and Colly were lying at his feet on the hearth. We were saying, what a
dreadful night it was. The rain and wind were beating against the cottage,
and making it almost shake; when, between the blasts, I thought I heard
the sound of a voice, calling David. I listened, and very soon there came
a violent knocking at the door. Who can be out at this time of night, and
in such weather? said I, as I went to open it. 'Make haste, David,' said
Peggy Oliphant, our master's little herd-girl, as she stepped into the
house. 'Come away as fast as you can: there is a horse ready saddled for
you, down at the farm; for our master is taken dangerously ill, and my
mistress thinks, if he has not immediate advice, he will die before
morning; so she begs you will lose no time in riding to Langholm, for Mr.
Armstrong. It is a dreadful night, to be sure, she says, to send you out;
but it is a work of necessity.' David scarcely waited to hear her out. He
took his _maude_ (a woollen plaid cloak which the shepherds wear), and
wrapping it closely round him, set off as fast as he could run, telling me
to put the children to bed, and he would be back as soon as he could. He
would soon ride to Langholm; it was not more than four miles and a half;
and he would gallop all the way. Well, Miss, away he and Peggy went; and I
sat waiting and listening all night, but no David appeared.
"I had just dropped into a kind of sleep, when I was awakened by Colly
barking most piteously. Up I jumped, glad to think that David was come
back; but, on opening the door, only Colly was to be seen. The moment he
beheld me, he took hold of my apron, and tried to draw me out of the
house. I could not think what he wanted; and pulling my apron from him,
went back towards the fire to stir it; but before I could get half way to
the fire place, Colly had laid hold of me again, pulling very hard, and
looking up in my face, howling. I then began to think that something must
be the matter; so I determined I would go with him, and see what it was.
He held me fast till he got me down the steps, and then he ran a little
before me, looking back every minute, to see if I followed him, and
running on again, till we were about half a mile down the glen. Oh, Miss!
I shall never forget the fright I felt when I saw my master's horse
standing grazing by the road side, and the saddle turned quite round under
him. I began, then, to run after Colly, as fast as my trembling limbs
would let me; and in about five minutes I came to the place where my poor
husband was lying on the grass. Colly was standing close to him, licking
his hand, just as if he had been telling him that help would soon come to
his relief. David tried to make the best of his misfortune to me, and said
he did not think he was very much hurt; only his leg was sprained, he
believed, for he could not walk. He bade me go directly to the farm, and
get some of the men to come and carry him home. I did as he desired me;
and the men servants very readily went to his assistance. Just as I was
leaving the farm, Mr. Armstrong, who had been up with our master, came out
into the yard, and seeing the men running, asked me what was the matter.
He very kindly said he would go with me to the cottage, and see where
David was hurt; and very well it was that he did so, for when we got
thither we found that David had fainted from the acute pain he felt when
they began to move him. As soon as we got him into bed, he recovered
himself a little, and Mr. Armstrong then found that his leg was _broken_,
not sprained as he had told me. You may be sure that this was bad news for
me. The setting of the bone put him to great torture, but he bore it
better than could have been expected; and Mr. Armstrong now says he will
do very well, if he be properly taken care of; and to help us to get what
was necessary, he was so kind as to give us half a crown out of his own
pocket; God bless him for his goodness to poor distressed creatures as we
are! He has seen him every day since; and I am sure I do not know what
David and I can ever do to shew our gratitude towards him."
"Now," cried Tom, "Miss Helen, what do you think of Colly? Did I not tell
the truth?" "Yes, my dear, I think you meant to do so; but my mamma always
bids me be sure to be very particular how I express myself when I am
relating a story, for fear of being misunderstood; and if you had said
Colly barked to let your mother know that your father was hurt, then I
should have understood you better, and not have suspected you of an
untruth, which I am very sorry for having done. I think Colly deserving to
be loved very much, by every body that hears the story. I will tell it to
papa and mamma; and I am sure they will admire Colly's sagacity and
affection for his master."
Mr. Martin now made his appearance at the door of the cottage, and called
to John to make haste and get the pony ready, as he thought they would
have time to go up the river, as far as Craigie Hall, one of the oldest
family seats in Eskdale. The gardener had promised to give him some
curious flower seeds, and the time was now come for saving them. He
therefore, took leave of Mrs. Little; Helen shook hands with Tom, and bade
him be sure to remember his promise of coming to the Manse to see her.
"That I will," cried Tom, "and bring my chicken with me whenever it is big
enough to leave its mother, if mammy will give me permission."--