What's that you say? Buchan, author of "No Man's Land" and "The Wind in the Portico" wrote a full length novel in that same style. That's correct, and since it's so old, it's easy to get hold of a very cheap copy! The main character is a young minister who moves to a little Scots village, and has a fight on his hand against the local pagans, led by some of the elders of his own church. Luckily this is one of Buchan's ministers - the man is superbly fit, he speaks amazing Greek and Latin, and he's ready for anything... Or is he? Apart from the interesting diversions explaining why burial sites aren't consecrated, and why Christians can't just remain secure in their saving, the folowing are the three best parts of the book for me:
(mar thuirt Ruiridh mu dheiridh mar sin, 's dochas gum biodh litir do luchd ionnsachadh nas fhearr orm.)
“ My mouth shaped the word "Melanudrigill," and I knew that I saw Woodilee as no eye had seen it for three centuries, when, as its name tells, it still lay in the shadow of a remnant of the Wood of Caledon, that most ancient forest where once Merlin harped and Arthur mustered his men. . . . “
…
“Woodilee was a mere clearing in a forest. This was the Silva Caledonis of which old writers spoke, the wood which once covered all the land and in whose glades King Arthur had dwelt. He remembered doggerel Latin of Merlin the Bard and strange sayings of True Thomas--old wives' tales which concerned this sanctuary. He had grown up beside it and had not known of it, and now he had come back to a revelation. Silva Caledonis! Up the Rood water lay the house of Calidon. Were the names perhaps the same? “
(Perhaps liking the main character really is important in books)
“But as the road twined among the birches David's mood became insensibly more pagan. He could not resist the joy of the young life that ran in his members, and which seemed to be quickened by the glen of his childhood. Death was the portion of all, but youth was still far from death. . . . The dimness and delicacy of the landscape, the lines of hill melting into a haze under the moon, went to his head like wine. It was a world transfigured and spell-laden. On his left the dark blotch which was Melanudrigill lay like a spider over the hillsides and the mouths of the glens, but all in front and to his right was kindly and golden. He had come back to his own country, and it held out its arms to him. "Salve, O venusta Sirmio," he cried, and an owl answered.”
(And this main character is amazing)
“ Years later I got the tale out of many books and places: a folio in the library of a Dutch college, the muniment-room of a Catholic family in Lancashire, notes in a copy of the second Latin edition of Wishart's Montrose, the diaries of a captain of Hebron's and of a London glove-maker, the exercise book of a seventeenth-century Welsh schoolgirl.”