The Shadow of Great Britain

373: Chapter 224: The Pinnacle of 19th Century Literature (5K6) 373: Chapter 224: The Pinnacle of 19th Century Literature (5K6) When the first ray of morning light streamed through the window onto the living room of 36 Lancaster Gate, Arthur had already been sitting at the small coffee table beside the bookshelf, holding a cup of Earl Grey tea as he began his routine holiday reading.

However, today his reading material was neither his favorite illustrated novels and satirical comics nor the new papers from the Royal Society, but instead a whole box full of letters from readers.

As a magazine primarily featuring fictional stories, “The British” always had an extremely active readership.

Whether it was Arthur, the Great Dumas, Disraeli, or even Dickens, Mr.

Eld Carter, who had disappeared indefinitely due to a round-the-world voyage, causing “Robin Hood” to pause, all had received quite a few concerned letters from readers.

Moreover, Mr.

Darwin, the author of “Monkey’s Story,” who had disappeared along with Eld, naturally also captured the high attention of the readers.

Several people even jokingly claimed that Robin Hood might have eloped with the monkey.

If we set aside the facts, at least in terms of direction, the readers’ guess was quite accurate.

Arthur casually took a letter from the box, glanced at it, and quickly set it aside.

From the three neatly arranged piles of letters in front of Arthur, he clearly intended to sort them into different types.

Agares, while playing with, said in puzzlement, “What are you doing?

Suffering from occupational illness?

Haven’t you had enough of the various file classifications at the Police Intelligence Department?

Come on, Arthur, at least do something fresh on your day off.”

“Isn’t this fresh enough?”

Arthur, unconcerned, continued to sort, “If there were only three types of files in the Police Intelligence Department, I would be thankful.

Personal files, group information, lengthy but unfocused routine reports from undercover detectives, along with key situation analyses for special missions and some seemingly trivial but potentially useful scattered retained information.

However, since you don’t like it, it’s okay to check out something else.

Benjamin is planning to visit the White Club this weekend to connect with the key members of the Tory Party, so the manuscript for next issue’s ‘The British’ was left for me to review.

Besides, I also have to arrange the articles for the ‘Economist’ supplement.

Taking this opportunity, it’s a good time for me to see if the quality of the submissions has improved after the increase in circulation.”

Having said that, Arthur casually dragged another cardboard box closer to him from beside the sofa chair.

He opened a manuscript and the more he read, the more he furrowed his brow, soon shaking his head and putting down the manuscript, “Another admirer of Alexander, they must not think that merely describing a lobster shell in detail can recreate ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’?

Full of cheese, vegetable soup, sizzling roast meat, and wobbling pudding, perhaps instead of ‘The British’ pages, London’s restaurant kitchens would suit him better.”

Red Devil, propping up his chin, picked through the manuscript box disdainfully for a while.

Suddenly his red nose twitched, as if he smelled something delicious, and Agares’ eyes lit up, pulling out a piece of manuscript, “Oh!

My dear Arthur, what do you think of this one?

I guarantee, it’s definitely not a mediocre piece.”

Arthur took the manuscript from Red Devil’s hands, and while opening the envelope, he couldn’t help but tease, “Do devils read differently from humans?

We all use our eyes, why do you insist on using your nose?”

“No, no, no, Arthur.” Agares, with his eyes closed, shook his finger, “Although I haven’t seen what’s written inside, I can smell that this manuscript comes from a delicious soul.

You know, in the devil’s olfactory rating system, delicious often means great.

A literary piece created by a great soul can’t be too bad.”

Arthur opened the letter, saying, “Really?

I remember you also said that Alexander’s soul smelled quite fragrant, like freshly baked hot white bread with foie gras, and it would be even better if you could have a bottle of champagne at that time.

But unless you carefully read Alexander’s envelope, who knows whether inside is full of swear words, newly learned recipes, or great works like ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’?”

“I don’t care about those, that’s your job as an interim editor.”

Red Devil opened the liquor cabinet in the study and took out a bottle of champagne, shaking it vigorously, “I’m concerned about having the champagne now, when will you serve me the white bread smeared with foie gras?”

Arthur shrugged, “You go and discuss it with him, but even if he agrees, I don’t think I can find an oven or roasting oven big enough to fit him in London for now.”

After Arthur finished speaking, he turned his gaze back to the stack of thick correspondence in hand, “He didn’t disappear, just underwent a metamorphosis by the seawater, turned into a magnificent treasure.

Hmm, using Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’ as an introduction?

Judging by this wedge, could this story be a tragedy?”

Arthur’s gaze moved downward, then suddenly paused, because he saw the title of this dramatic poem.

The title wasn’t long, but he stared at it for a good ten seconds.

Arthur spoke softly, “‘Prometheus Unbound’?”

The Red Devil, cradling a champagne flute, couldn’t help but whistle upon hearing that, “Oh!

That’s a fine piece, Percy Bysshe Shelley’s posthumous work.

Sadly, this manuscript was never published in London due to political reasons.

Arthur, your ‘The British’ has really scored this time.

Just flaunting Shelley’s name alone will at least ensure that the likes of ‘Blackwood’s’ and ‘Monthly Review’ dare not attack ‘The British’ on its literary merit during its serialization period.”