Books with author George Douglas Brown

I rrHE frowsy challlber-nlaid of the" Red Lion" had just finished washing the front door steps. She rose from her stooping posture, and, being of slovenly habit, flung the water from her pail, straight out, without moving from where she stood. The smooth ronnd arch of the falling water glistened for a lllOlnent in miJ-air. John Gourlay, standing in front of his new house at the head of the brae, could hear the swash of it when it fell. The morning was of perfect stillness. The hands of the clock across "the Square" were pointing to the honr of eight. They were yellow in the sun. Blowsalinda, of the Red Lion, picked up the big bass that usnally lay within the porch and, carrying it clumsily against her breast, moved off rOllnd the corner of the public house, her petticoat gaping behind. Halfway she met the ostler with whom she stopped in amorous dalliance. He said something to her, and she laughed loudly and vacantly. The silly tee-hee 'echoed up the street. A About the Publisher Forgotten Books is a publisher of historical writings, such as: Philosophy, Classics, Science, Religion, History, Folklore and Mythology.Forgotten Books' Classic Reprint Series utilizes the latest technology to regenerate facsimiles of historically important writings. Careful attention has been made to accurately preserve the original format of each page whilst digitally enhancing the difficult to read text. Read books online for free at

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It is only within comparatively recent years that the homely stories in the mouths of the country people have been constituted a branch of learning, and have had applied to them, as such, the methods and the terminology of science. No doubt a very noteworthy gain to knowledge has resulted from this treatment, a curious department of research has been opened up, and light has been cast upon various outside things of greater importance than the subject of study itself. But, side by side with this gain to knowledge, is there not, involved in the method of treatment indicated, a loss to the stories themselves? Classified, tabulated, scientifically named, they are no longer the wild free product of Nature that we knew and loved: they are become, so to speak, a collection of butterflies in a case, an album of pressed wild flowers. No doubt they are still very interesting, and highly instructive; but their poetry, their brightness, the fragrance which clung about them in their native air, their native soil, is in large measure gone! Well then, with all due recognition of the value of the labours of the scientific folklorist, the comparative mythologist, whose work I would not for one moment be understood to undervalue, is there not room, even at the present day, to study these stories from another point of view, and that the simplest and most obvious one the point of view, I mean, of the story teller pure and simple? One would hope that the time had not yet come when the old tales, considered on their own merits, have entirely ceased to charm; and it is an undeniable fact that there are still persons among us who would regard it as a real and personal loss could they be made to believe that the ideal hero of their childhood, as he falls heroically, in a bloody battle, wounded to the death, is in reality a myth, or an allegory to embody the setting of the sun; and who would even feel themselves aggrieved could they be brought to realise that the bugbear of their baby years their own particular bugbear is common also to the aborigines of Polynesia. So great is the power of early association. Well then, my proposal is to consider the Tales of the Scottish Peasantry simply from the literary, critical, or story teller's point of view, from the point of view, that is, of persons who actually tell them, to whom they are actually told. I suppose that most nations, whilst their life has remained primitive, have practised the art of storytelling; and certainly the Scotch were no exceptions to the rule. Campbell of Isla, who wrote about thirty years ago, records that in his day the practice of story telling still lingered in the remote Western Islands of Barra; where, in the long winter nights, the people would gather in crowds to listen to those whom they considered good exponents of the art. At an earlier date, but still, at that time, within living memory, the custom survived at Poolewe in Ross shire where the young people were used to assemble at night to hear the old ones recite the tales which they had learned from their fore fathers. Here, and at earlier dates in other parts of the country also, the demand for stories would further be supplied by travelling pedlars, or by gaberlunzie men, or pauper wandering musicians and entertainers, or by the itinerant shoemaker or tailor "Whip the Cat" as he was nicknamed, both of which last were accustomed to travel through thinly populated country districts, in the pursuit of their calling, and to put up for the night at farm houses, where, whilst plying their needles, they would entertain the company with stories. The arrival of one of these story tellers in a village was an important event. As soon as it became known, there would be a rush to the house where he was lodged, and every available seat on bench, table, bed, beam, or the floor would quickly be appropriated. And then, for hours together just like some first rate actor on a stage the story teller would hold his audience spell bound.

France 1961. Operation Ponctuelle: the name given to top level assassinations of Gaullist Ministers. Two men lie in wait in a basement garage underneath the Boulevard St. Germain for the Minister of Special Affairs, their aim to kidnap their target and use him as a bargaining chip in the internecine strife that is tearing France apart. All goes to plan until one of the men reveals his true nature. First the four bodyguards die, then the Minister, then his girlfriend, whose tip off made the operation possible. The other man looks on in horror as a monster is born, a killer more ruthless than all the other players in the deadly war. Soon the fragmented security services are on the look out for the assassin, codenamed Diderot. But in the boiler room paranoia all are fair game, as the police, the army and top secret Maurice Bureau rip each other apart in the search for Diderot. Only an Englishman holds the threads which will unravel the enigma that is Diderot. But for Harry Metcalfe, differing motives of love, friendship and revenge mean that the job in hand is a difficult one, and the chances of his survival in the balancing act even slimmer.; Gripping espionage thriller from the man hailed as the next Frederick Forsyth.

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First there was Peter Wright - now the spectre of another tell-all British Intelligence officer haunts the government. Greville Sixsmith, a once powerful intelligence executive, retires to Melbourne to write his memoirs, memoirs so potentially explosive that his flat is watched night and day by members of the Australian and British Secret Services. . and by members of the Provisional IRA who have been tipped off that the memoirs contain the identity of a British mole at the top of their organisation. Little do they realise that the British have installed Sixsmith in order to feed them false information. That is until they break into his flat and torture the truth from Sixsmith himself. The one surviving IRA man sets off across Australia in order to tell his controller that the memoirs are a hoax. Hard on his heels are two Intelligence officers who will do anything to stop him. . .

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