by John Buchan
Hope had risen again in the Cluniac’s breast. It seemed that here was a penitent. He approached the bed with a raised crucifix, and stumbled over the whimpering monkey. The woman’s eyes saw him and a last flicker woke in them.
‘Begone, man,’ she cried. ‘I have done with the world. Anton, rid me of both these apes. And fetch the priest of St Martin’s, for I would confess and be shriven. Yon curate is no doubt a fool, but he serves my jesting God.’
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
The Keeper of Cademuir, or On Cademuir Hill
Afternoon
An Individualist
A Captain of Salvation
A Journey of Little Profit
Politics and the May-Fly
The Herd of Standlan
Streams of Water in the South
At the Article of Death
At the Rising of the Waters
Prester John
The Moor Song, or The Rime of True Thomas
A Reputation
Comedy in the Full Moon
The Earlier Affection
The Black Fishers
Summer Weather
The Oasis in the Snow
Gideon Scott
The Far Islands
No-Man’s Land
The Watcher by the Threshold
Fountainblue
The Outgoing of the Tide
The Kings of Orion
The Knees of the Gods
The Company of the Marjolaine
A Lucid Interval
The Grove of Ashtaroth
The Lemnian
Space
The Green Glen
The Riding of Ninemileburn
Divus Johnston
Basilissa
The King of Ypres
Fullcircle
Watches of the Night
The Shut Door
Nemesis
The Green Wildebeest
The Post
The Loathly Opposite
Tendebant Manus
Ship to Tarshish
The Last Crusade
Sing a Song of Sixpence
The Wind in the Portico
The Frying-pan and the Fire
Skule Skerry
Dr Lartius
The Magic Walking Stick
Ho! The Merry Masons
The Strange Adventures of Mr Andrew Hawthorn
The Wife of Flanders
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
A Captain of Salvation
A Journey of Little Profit
A Lucid Interval
A Reputation
Afternoon
An Individualist
At the Article of Death
At the Rising of the Waters
Basilissa
Comedy in the Full Moon
Divus Johnston
Dr Lartius
Fountainblue
Fullcircle
Gideon Scott
Ho! The Merry Masons
Nemesis
No-Man’s Land
Politics and the May-Fly
Prester John
Ship to Tarshish
Sing a Song of Sixpence
Skule Skerry
Space
Streams of Water in the South
Summer Weather
Tendebant Manus
The Black Fishers
The Company of the Marjolaine
The Earlier Affection
The Far Islands
The Frying-pan and the Fire
The Green Glen
The Green Wildebeest
The Grove of Ashtaroth
The Herd of Standlan
The Keeper of Cademuir, or On Cademuir Hill
The King of Ypres
The Kings of Orion
The Knees of the Gods
The Last Crusade
The Lemnian
The Loathly Opposite
The Magic Walking Stick
The Moor Song, or The Rime of True Thomas
The Oasis in the Snow
The Outgoing of the Tide
The Post
The Riding of Ninemileburn
The Shut Door
The Strange Adventures of Mr Andrew Hawthorn
The Watcher by the Threshold
The Wife of Flanders
The Wind in the Portico
Watches of the Night
The Poetry
Portland Place, London — Buchan’s home from 1912 until 1919.
The plaque commemorating the author’s residence at Portland Place
A New Year’s Hymn
1887
To Thee, Our God and Friend,
We raise our hymn to-day;
Oh, guard and guide us from above
Along life’s troubled way.
A year has passed away,
Another has begun;
Oh, keep us safely by Thy power,
Until life’s race is run.
Our hope is stayed in Thee,
No other friend so near;
Thou art a very present help
To such as do Thee fear.
Oh, make us, Lord, to walk
Within the narrow way;
Give unto us Thy saving grace,
That we may never stray.
The mercies, Lord, are great
Which Thou to us hast given;
They meet us at each turn in life,
To lead us on to heaven.
Like to the morning mist,
Earth’s glory soon shall die;
Oh, lead us onward till we reach
Our happy home on high.
By a Scholar
The Piper
I
Where has the Piper gone to-day?
Does he still linger at our sides?
Or does he sojourn far away
In other lands by other tides?
Forsooth I think he is not far,
In mart and lane and crowded street:
Amid the traffic’s roar and jar
We hear the tripping of his feet.
II
He passes through the stately hall
Where strong-browed sage in council sits,
At junketing and carnival
Amid the throng his shadow flits.
He plays amid the cloisters dim,
To men of woe and men of laughter,
And whether it be catch or hymn
They lightly rise and follow after.
III
He plays to lad, he plays to lass,
To youth, to those whose years are riper,
To maiden smirking at the glass,
This whimsical and curious Piper.
To weary men at desk or loom
He pipes of field and bowery hollow.
They bid adieu to dusty room,
And set them out and onward follow.
IV
And to poor poets he has played,
And unto them his note is kind;
For they like him have somewhat strayed;
They are according to his mind.
He leads them out by dale and hill,
Green country lane and flower-clad mead in,
To where they wander at their will
And find a new and better Eden.
To some he pipes a noble tune
Of lordlier lands across the sea,
Of coral coast and still lagoon,
Of heath and hill and desert free.
And as they rise with dauntless soul
And haste to do his high behest,
And riding as the seasons roll
They proudly pass from East to West.
VI
To all at last the Piper plays
With eldrich guise and mournful song;
To men he brings the end of days
And they must haste and march along.
To some his tune is dim and sad,
To others fraught with happy wonder.
To maid and hag, to sage and l
ad
He pipes his tune and plays them under.
VII
So if you hear at even tide
Or when the mom is freshly risen,
By woodland path or riverside
Or in the city’s dismal prison,
A sound so quaint and queer and high,
A mingling strange of grief and laughter,
Then know the Piper passes by,
So get you out and follow after.
The Autumn of the World
I
The Spring was bright and shining as a flower;
More green the grass than any green before.
The woodlands dripping with the fallen shower
Shone like great jewels; and, when as of yore
The year had passed the Summer’s dusky door,
Strange colours richer than the Orient dyes
Dwelt in the tulips and the roses’ store,
And weird lights passed at even and sunrise
O’er the translucent blue of the fair Summer skies.
II
The Autumn came; the yellow-headed stalks
Bent in the wheatlands with their weight of com;
The apples hanging o’er the orchard walks,
The peaches rosy with the flush of mom,
The russet pears, the wild-fruits on the thorn,
Were larger, riper, than in elder years;
The great red berries which the rose adorn,
And the soft apricot the south-wall rears
Shone like a young maid’s face when her true love appears.
III
Yet when the harvest sheaves were gathered in,
And when men sought to crush the golden grain,
No need was there for flail or threshing din,
The husk was empty; nought did there remain.
Then loud the grieving o’er the fruitful plain,
For every fruit so fresh and fair of hue
But dust and ashes did within contain;
Nor any food was found the whole world through,
Then fell on every man harsh pain and bitter rue.
IV
Meantime strange sounds were borne along the air,
Now of men singing, now the cry of woe,
Now as when some old lion from his lair
Sends his last roar across the forest low.
And evermore the sorrow seemed to grow;
Hard voices and black forms the skies affright;
While in the cities low winds to and fro
Made fearful moaning eke by day and night,
And like lost faces passed dim shapes and phantoms white.
V
The dank leaves dripped and rotted on the trees,
And glowed in gaunt effulgence of decay,
Nor shaken were the boughs with pleasant breeze,
But silent still and deathly quiet alway.
In the lush grass, made with loathsome spray,
Thick fungus growths made foul the laden air.
All woodland flowers had fled in dire dismay;
Here bloomed no heath nor gold-rod standing fair,
But dull green creepers twined and coiled like dead men’s hair.
VI
And oft at even ere the sun was set,
And men were weary with the awesome day,
The world grew black though darkness was not yet,
And, as the sun went down the western way,
Athwart the dim expanse of endless gray
Huge clouds of crimson, like a coronal,
And strange, bright colours hung in close array;
Then all men shuddered at the last year’s fall,
And waited sick at heart till came the end of all.
An Old Flower Garden
I
When the fairy-footed Spring,
Rising like a maiden,
Cometh swift on airy wing,
With the bounties laden;
When her dainty lips have kissed
Darkness from the hollow —
Clothed in mist of amethyst —
Rise and let me follow.
II
In my garden by the heath,
Near the moorlands hilly,
Where from out her grassy sheath
Riseth up the lily,
By the green, old, border ring,
‘Neath the elm-trees shady,
Let us sing unto the Spring,
“Welcome thou, my Lady.”
III
Sparrows chatter in the eaves;
Linnets sing in hedges;
Blackbirds pipe among the leaves,
Warblers in the sedges.
Snowdrop shy and crocus bright
Glimmer in the border.
Daffodillies stand upright,
Gay in gallant order.
IV
Mazed like pale Persephone
‘Mid Sicilian bowers,
Droops the white anemone
‘Mong the ruddy flowers.
Clouds of blossom, pink and white,
Iris-stately warden —
Springtide flowers, a goodly sight,
In my shadowed garden.
An Evening by the Sea
I
Some men love the dawning
When the mom comes out of the sea;
And some the yellow noontide
When the sun shines merrily.
But give me rather the evening
In the little, grey, Northern town,
When over the firth and the harbour
The sun goes down.
II
The white clouds drift to the
Southward
Like wings of an angel quire.
The long-ribbed hills to the
Westward
Glow like a furnace fire;
And down on the shimmering sea-plain,
That jewelled mirror of light,
Crimson and carmine and purple,
The hues of the night.
III
The quaint red roofs of the hamlet,
The sea-grey harbour wall,
The shingle, pebbled and shell-strown,
The dark cliffs, jagged and tall,
The fishermen’s bronzed brown faces,
The fair fisher lass by their side
Are bathed in the mellow sunlight
Of the golden eventide.
IV
And often I dream that yonder,
Beyond the red sea haze,
Is that wonderful El Dorado
Men sung of in former days;
Where is heard the sound of dead voices,
And many a fair face greets,
And boys and girls are singing
And playing in the streets.
The Happy Valley
I
I know a vale among the long blue hills
Which cast their shadows o’er the waves of Clyde.
From the brown slopes where no man ever tills
Its golden pastures stretch on either side
The river running wide,
By lichened stone and willowy copses going,
Fed by the waters of a thousand rills
From the high rocks and mountain lakelets flowing.
II
At noon the shadows sleep upon the grass,
Where the slim harebell and pale woodruff grow.
Stray sungleams creep among the blossoming mass
Of hawthorns past and wild rose trailing low;
While alway to and fro
Dart swift-winged swallows from the South lands coming,
And honey-laden bees the waters pass,
And make the dead air living with their humming.
III
By the deep pool whereto the river glides
Grow irises and mint and lilies rare,
And sometimes leaping in the shining tides
The trout, red-speckled, riseth to the air;
And o’er the margin fair
Hang h
azels and green birks the current lining,
Busking in shadow all the flower-clad sides
With woodbines, ivy and sweet-briars intwining.
IV
O’er the gray rocks the white-flowered brambles climb,
And lady-ferns their dainty fronds upraise.
The breeze is fragrant with the scent of thyme
Borne downward from the healthy mountain ways;
And in the Summer days
The eglantines their delicate odours mingle
With the sleep-soothing fragrance of the lime
Which shades the stream in every dell and dingle.
V
Sometimes an angler, climbing the cascade
O’er which the river seeks the distant plains,
Makes of the roots and heath and escalade
And wins the vale, wherein he straightway gains
Much fish for all his pains;
But on returning he is straight forgetting
The teeming river and the pleasant glade,
Remembering but the sorrows it besetting.
VI
Sometimes a shepherd, seeking his strayed flocks,
Wanders by chance into this happy land,
And, wearied with the mountains and the rocks,
Lies down and slumbers by the river strand;
And dreams of golden sand,
And, waking, finds his charge about him lowing,
And drives them home, while memory ever mocks,
For of the place and path he is unknowing.
Plato
I picture thee as one with high
Broad brow and gaze divinely keen,
With a great gravity of eye,
And wondrous quietude of mien,
With kindly tone and pleasant speech,
