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Danny
Excerpt from Danny
Busily through the crack there came a knight ly babe in tabard of clouded silver; halted on a lion's skin; and stood there with uplifted head and the shy delightful dignity of one gentleman doubtful of his welcome at the hands of another.
Busily through the crack there came a knight ly babe in tabard of clouded silver; halted on a lion's skin; and stood there with uplifted head and the shy delightful dignity of one gentleman doubtful of his welcome at the hands of another.
462 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1902
About the author
Alfred Ollivant
87 books5 followersAlfred Ollivant (1874–1927) was an English novelist best known for his children's classic Bob, Son of Battle. Ollivant also wrote about a dozen other novels ranging from small-scale cautionary tales to grand historical epics.
Alfred Ollivant was born in Nuthurst, Sussex, in 1874 and became an author after a horse-riding injury ending his brief military career. Bob, Son of Battle, his first novel, was published in 1898. Set in rural Cumbria, in northern England, the novel centers on a suspected sheepkilling collie Bob.
Even though most of the book's dialogue is written in the Cumbrian dialect, it gained a popular following in the United States. Ollivant even published a sequel, Danny, in 1902. He was also a short story contributor to The Atlantic Monthly and the Boston Evening Transcript. Alfred Ollivant died in London on January 19, 1927.
Alfred Ollivant was born in Nuthurst, Sussex, in 1874 and became an author after a horse-riding injury ending his brief military career. Bob, Son of Battle, his first novel, was published in 1898. Set in rural Cumbria, in northern England, the novel centers on a suspected sheepkilling collie Bob.
Even though most of the book's dialogue is written in the Cumbrian dialect, it gained a popular following in the United States. Ollivant even published a sequel, Danny, in 1902. He was also a short story contributor to The Atlantic Monthly and the Boston Evening Transcript. Alfred Ollivant died in London on January 19, 1927.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
May 23, 2026
I found Danny, originally published in 1902, to be a somewhat confusing read. The heavy dialect makes it difficult at times to follow what is happening, which significantly impacts understanding of both the plot and the relationships between characters. There are quite a few figures to keep track of—the Laird, his Lady (who may even be his daughter) Deb, the warden Robin and his wife, and another Lady seeking revenge along with her son. With so many overlapping storylines and unclear motivations, I often felt uncertain about what direction the narrative was meant to take.
That said, I do appreciate Ollivant’s melodramatic and richly descriptive writing style. There is a strong emotional undercurrent throughout the novel, particularly centered on themes of grief and attachment. The relationships—especially the Laird’s devotion to his Lady and her connection to Danny—carry heavy emotional weight, even if the plot itself feels meandering.
One of the more interesting aspects of the book is how Danny is portrayed. He is rarely referred to simply as a dog; instead, there is a multitude of names or descriptions, with the most common being the “Grey Knight,” giving him an almost mythic presence in the story. While it seems, he is intended to be some type of terrier—possibly a Dandie Dinmont—the descriptions don’t always align clearly with the breed. His characterization as a fierce hunter fits the terrier nature, although that attribute brings with it the threat of severe punishment if he kills protected animals, adding tension to his role.
Ultimately, while I can admire the writing style and emotional tone, the story itself did not fully engage me. In comparison, Ollivant’s Bob, Son of Battle is much more accessible and compelling, and I would strongly recommend that book instead. Danny is more best suited for readers with a high tolerance for dialect-heavy prose.
I will just leave you with some excerpts to riddle out:
“O, show it in!” said the Laird.
“May I?” said she, with leaping eyes, and opened the door delicately.
“Danny !’”’ she called, bent, and enticed with slim long fingers. ““Hss! hss! Danny, wee man |”
Busily through the crack there came a knightly babe in tabard of clouded silver; halted on a lion’s skin; and stood there with uplifted head and the shy delightful dignity of one gentleman doubtful of his welcome at the hands of another.
The grey man eyed him with grim unwelcoming stare.
‘‘What is he?” he asked.
‘A Dandie, of course,” said the lady, ‘‘Isn’t he a duck?”
“I’ve seen uglier,” allowed the Laird.
“May I then?” asked the lady, with quick, anxious eyes.
““What?”
“Why, keep him?”
“Why should ye?”
“Never content but when he’s killing,” muttered the Woman. ‘In my time I have known many males, and most of them bloody, but Ive never known the like of him for it. Robin’s scarce his match.”
“We all have our failings,” snapped the lady, ‘“‘and you particularly, Deb.”
“And have I been away three times since the Sabbath massacreeing God’s creatures?’ cried the Woman.
The Woman’s throat was haggard, and her face grey as the evening.
“Then she smiled—and she just said—Good night, Deb. Kiss,’ and I kissed her . . . and she was awa. . . . Just, ‘Good night, Deb,’ she says, ‘Kiss,’ . . . and I kissed her, and she was awa.”
She gulped.
“He would never touch a morsel till she bid him; and now, she will not be there to bid him any more. And what will I?”
The Laird answered nothing.
“He bided awhile,” continued the Woman, wailing; “‘then he just looks at me and goes back to the bed and cuddles her slipper. And there he lies and looks, and lies and looks, and will not stir for me. And what will 1?”
“Let him bide,” said the Laird briefly; and he was let bide.
He is as your Honour. The Lord has denied him the gift of tears. God gave Woman the heart to sorrow, and tears to ease her of her sorrow; to man He gave no heart and no need of tears; to dogs, and your Honour, He gave the self-same heart to mourn, and forgot to give them the comfort of tears: for it is all one with you and Danny. He speaks none, nor greets none; and he dwines and dwines because of the sorrow which cannot away in water.”
From far away on the height of Lammermore, it came to them, that voice of Lamentation. Over the birch-woods, borne on sorrowful wings it floated, long-drawn and low as Love’s swan-song. Down in the village they heard it amid tolling bells; across Burn-Water it traveled, anguished still; by the Ferry lingered, and the boatmen there knew it for Danny mourning his heart: away as faithfully as ever did man-lover for his mistress; then it fared forth and lost itself on the comfortless cold bosom of the sea.
Keen as a sword, wary as Ulysses, fiery as Saladin, there was never such a Warden of the Marches to do stern justice on the outlaws of the wilderness. He could be patient as a cat and as still; he could be stealthy as a fox, shadowing his enemies; and when the stalking time was past and the time for the onset came the fury of the Lord gat hold of him. He smote upon his enemies like a tempest; he overwhelmed them like an avalanche of stars. The greater the odds the greater the glory, that was the grey knight’s creed; there was nothing so great but knight-like he attempted it; nothing so small but he slew it out of courtesy.
If Danny would but come, and together they could mark Her home-in the heart of the thicket ; then he had Her beyond hope of escape. For Danny the Warrior, Knight of the Shield of Snow, Danny, Valiant Heart, Danny, Lover of the Faithful eyes, Danny, the Bayard of the Northern Chivalry, would hold her fast forever, if need be, and if need be would spend himself in the cause as gayly as ever did Cavalier for his King, or true Knight for his Lady; and while his Warden held Her there faithfully, he the Laird, would hurry home for Robin and the gun.
That said, I do appreciate Ollivant’s melodramatic and richly descriptive writing style. There is a strong emotional undercurrent throughout the novel, particularly centered on themes of grief and attachment. The relationships—especially the Laird’s devotion to his Lady and her connection to Danny—carry heavy emotional weight, even if the plot itself feels meandering.
One of the more interesting aspects of the book is how Danny is portrayed. He is rarely referred to simply as a dog; instead, there is a multitude of names or descriptions, with the most common being the “Grey Knight,” giving him an almost mythic presence in the story. While it seems, he is intended to be some type of terrier—possibly a Dandie Dinmont—the descriptions don’t always align clearly with the breed. His characterization as a fierce hunter fits the terrier nature, although that attribute brings with it the threat of severe punishment if he kills protected animals, adding tension to his role.
Ultimately, while I can admire the writing style and emotional tone, the story itself did not fully engage me. In comparison, Ollivant’s Bob, Son of Battle is much more accessible and compelling, and I would strongly recommend that book instead. Danny is more best suited for readers with a high tolerance for dialect-heavy prose.
I will just leave you with some excerpts to riddle out:
“O, show it in!” said the Laird.
“May I?” said she, with leaping eyes, and opened the door delicately.
“Danny !’”’ she called, bent, and enticed with slim long fingers. ““Hss! hss! Danny, wee man |”
Busily through the crack there came a knightly babe in tabard of clouded silver; halted on a lion’s skin; and stood there with uplifted head and the shy delightful dignity of one gentleman doubtful of his welcome at the hands of another.
The grey man eyed him with grim unwelcoming stare.
‘‘What is he?” he asked.
‘A Dandie, of course,” said the lady, ‘‘Isn’t he a duck?”
“I’ve seen uglier,” allowed the Laird.
“May I then?” asked the lady, with quick, anxious eyes.
““What?”
“Why, keep him?”
“Why should ye?”
“Never content but when he’s killing,” muttered the Woman. ‘In my time I have known many males, and most of them bloody, but Ive never known the like of him for it. Robin’s scarce his match.”
“We all have our failings,” snapped the lady, ‘“‘and you particularly, Deb.”
“And have I been away three times since the Sabbath massacreeing God’s creatures?’ cried the Woman.
The Woman’s throat was haggard, and her face grey as the evening.
“Then she smiled—and she just said—Good night, Deb. Kiss,’ and I kissed her . . . and she was awa. . . . Just, ‘Good night, Deb,’ she says, ‘Kiss,’ . . . and I kissed her, and she was awa.”
She gulped.
“He would never touch a morsel till she bid him; and now, she will not be there to bid him any more. And what will I?”
The Laird answered nothing.
“He bided awhile,” continued the Woman, wailing; “‘then he just looks at me and goes back to the bed and cuddles her slipper. And there he lies and looks, and lies and looks, and will not stir for me. And what will 1?”
“Let him bide,” said the Laird briefly; and he was let bide.
He is as your Honour. The Lord has denied him the gift of tears. God gave Woman the heart to sorrow, and tears to ease her of her sorrow; to man He gave no heart and no need of tears; to dogs, and your Honour, He gave the self-same heart to mourn, and forgot to give them the comfort of tears: for it is all one with you and Danny. He speaks none, nor greets none; and he dwines and dwines because of the sorrow which cannot away in water.”
From far away on the height of Lammermore, it came to them, that voice of Lamentation. Over the birch-woods, borne on sorrowful wings it floated, long-drawn and low as Love’s swan-song. Down in the village they heard it amid tolling bells; across Burn-Water it traveled, anguished still; by the Ferry lingered, and the boatmen there knew it for Danny mourning his heart: away as faithfully as ever did man-lover for his mistress; then it fared forth and lost itself on the comfortless cold bosom of the sea.
Keen as a sword, wary as Ulysses, fiery as Saladin, there was never such a Warden of the Marches to do stern justice on the outlaws of the wilderness. He could be patient as a cat and as still; he could be stealthy as a fox, shadowing his enemies; and when the stalking time was past and the time for the onset came the fury of the Lord gat hold of him. He smote upon his enemies like a tempest; he overwhelmed them like an avalanche of stars. The greater the odds the greater the glory, that was the grey knight’s creed; there was nothing so great but knight-like he attempted it; nothing so small but he slew it out of courtesy.
If Danny would but come, and together they could mark Her home-in the heart of the thicket ; then he had Her beyond hope of escape. For Danny the Warrior, Knight of the Shield of Snow, Danny, Valiant Heart, Danny, Lover of the Faithful eyes, Danny, the Bayard of the Northern Chivalry, would hold her fast forever, if need be, and if need be would spend himself in the cause as gayly as ever did Cavalier for his King, or true Knight for his Lady; and while his Warden held Her there faithfully, he the Laird, would hurry home for Robin and the gun.
Displaying 1 of 1 review