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Samuel Brohl and Company
by Victor CherbuliezAbel Larinski was in a dreadful state. The gun of his invention had come up badly; and after revision, worse still. He repaired to the post office to inquire for a letter he was expecting from Vienna. He found it, and returned to shut himself up in his chamber, where he tore open the envelope with a feverish hand. This letter, written in a more peculiar than felicitous French, was the reply of the Jew banker. It read as follows: "I wish to tell you quite freely what I think. I did believe in your gun, but I believe in it no longer, no one believes in it anymore. When strong, it was too heavy; when you made it lighter, it was no longer strong. What came next? You know it burst. Beware how you further perfect it, or it will explode whenever it becomes aware that anyone is looking at it. This accursed gun has eaten up the little you had, and some of my savings besides, although I have confidence that you will, at least, pay me the interest due on that. It grieves me to tell you so, M. de Comte, but all inventors are more or less crack-brained, and end in the hospital. For the love of God, leave guns as they are, and invent nothing more, or you will go overboard, and there will be no one to fish you out."
The Bittermeads Mystery
by E. R. PunshonThe Bittermeads Mystery is a golden age murder mystery, published in 1922 but reading more like an early Edwardian novel. There is the usual convoluted plot, manly man heroes, gentle beauties, and plenty of cold grey eyes. There are moments when the story is in danger of sinking below the weight of heavy-handed clues, but never to the point of being boring. <P><P> From the beginning: "That evening the down train from London deposited at the little country station of Ramsdon but a single passenger, a man of middle height, shabbily dressed, with broad shoulders and long arms and a most unusual breadth and depth of chest. Of his face one could see little, for it was covered by a thick growth of dark curly hair, beard, moustache and whiskers, all overgrown and ill-tended, and as he came with a somewhat slow and ungainly walk along the platform, the lad stationed at the gate to collect tickets grinned amusedly and called to one of the porters near."
Bucolics (in English)
by VirgilAlso known as The Ecloques, this is the first of the three major works of the Latin poet Virgil.