1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Meanwhile, in a luxurious villa in London's West End.

A portly gentleman sat at the dining table, enjoying a hearty breakfast. He was Mr. Bob Griffin, the owner of several large match factories in London.

He was also holding a copy of the London Express.

As a respectable gentleman, he usually only reads The Times, but recently that guy named Michel has become so popular that even his mistress is talking about him, so he has to pay attention.

When he saw "Sleepyhead", his brows furrowed only slightly.

A poor, pretentious writer who feigns illness.

This kind of thing happens every day, what's so special about it, what's there to write about? These poor, pretentious writers are just being pretentious.

As for the ending of the story, he believed it was merely the writer's fantasy.

Even if these workers had ten times the courage, would they dare to burn down the factory?

But when he saw the reader's letter next to him signed "Patriot," his expression changed instantly.

It wasn't just anger, but more of a sense of panic.

Every word in that letter sounded like something he'd said to his friends at the club. But when those words were printed in black and white in a newspaper, and placed next to a novel, the meaning completely changed.

This is blatant provocation; it's putting these factory owners on the spot!

After all, some things can be said in private, but should never be brought up in public.

Once public opinion takes hold, he, as the head of London's largest match factory, will inevitably be the first to be affected.

"Damn it! What idiot wrote this letter? Isn't this just asking for trouble?" Mr. Bob angrily slammed the newspaper on the ground, scattering the expensive white bread covered in butter all over the floor.

And this guy named Michel, couldn't you have written something like a textile factory or a coal mine? Why did you have to write a match factory!

He's just bad, but he's definitely not stupid.

Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to start from scratch and amass such a large fortune.

He could sense that an unseen storm was brewing over London.

"Butler! Prepare the car!"

Bob roared, "I'm going to the Reform Club! I'm going to meet other people! We can't let these writing bastards keep doing this!"

-----------------

The air at the Reform Club was different from other places, filled with the aroma of expensive cigars and brandy.

Or rather, the taste of extravagance and debauchery.

This is another heart of London's power, where heavy red velvet curtains shut out all the noise and filth outside.

This club was only established last year and focuses on attracting "newly rich industrialists," breaking the old rule that traditional clubs exclude businessmen. It quickly became one of London's top clubs.

The reason is simple: the Whig Party is behind this club, and its founder is Edward Ellis, the former Whig whip and one of the key figures behind the 1832 parliamentary reforms!

The so-called Whip is a position within the Whig Party responsible for discipline, and it is considered a high-ranking and powerful position.

It can be said that although the Reform Club was only recently established, it has tremendous influence in Britain, with even cabinet ministers standing behind it.

Bob strode across the hall, his face grim, a stark contrast to his usual friendly, fake-smiling demeanor.

Guided by memory, he went straight to the most comfortable corner by the fireplace.

Sure enough, there, several prominent figures from London's industrial sector were sitting together, talking in hushed tones.

"Jonathan, have you read today's London Express?" Bob didn't even bother with formalities, simply placing a newspaper on the small oak round table.

The man seated at the head of the table was none other than Jonathan Wright, the textile tycoon. He owned several of London's largest textile mills, and his wealth and influence far surpassed Bob's.

The "Lightning Street Textile Factory" where William worked was part of his vast textile empire.

He slowly put down his crystal wine glass, not looking at the newspaper, but simply raising his eyelids to glance at the furious Bob.

"Oh? Is it that tabloid for the common people? A true gentleman wouldn't read such a third-rate tabloid."

Jonathan's voice carried a condescending arrogance.

"What's wrong, Bob? Did they say someone burned down your match factory again?"

A few people around him let out a low chuckle.

Bob's face turned a deep purplish-red.

"This is no joke, Jonathan! A guy named Michelle wrote a story called 'Sleepy.'"

"A story?" Wright chuckled, picked up a cigar cutter, and meticulously processed the cigar in his hand.

"A story scared you this much? Bob, you're more timid than the women in your factory."

"This is no ordinary story!" Bob's voice rose involuntarily.

"He's portrayed us as murderers! Now the entire lower class of London is being incited! Look at this!"

He angrily pointed to the letter next to him, signed "Patriot".

"On the Necessity and Moral Superiority of Child Labor? What idiot wrote this?! Isn't this putting us on the spot?!"

Jonathan glanced at the headline, and then he smiled.

It was a laugh that came from the bottom of his heart, full of contempt.

"My dear Bob, you're getting more and more confused. What's wrong with this letter? Isn't it a blessing from God to give those peasant kids a job? It's better for them to learn discipline and obedience in a factory than to become thieves and hooligans on the streets."

"As for the 18-hour workday, isn't that normal? It's their blessing. In my opinion, this 'patriot' gentleman is absolutely right."

Jonathan paused for a moment, lit the cut cigar over the candle flame, took a deep drag, and exhaled puffs of smoke with relish.

"As for their anger, let them be angry. Will anger turn into bread? Will anger make them pay their rent? Don't panic, Bob, it's just a few rats squeaking in the gutter. Tomorrow morning, they'll still be back at the machines, generating profits for us."

"You..." Bob was so angry he couldn't speak.

He finally realized that he and Jonathan Wright were not on the same level at all.

Wright was an arrogant man, arrogance ingrained in his very being. He disdained to understand the thoughts of those at the bottom of society and completely ignored the power of public opinion. In his view, as long as the machines were running and profits were growing, nothing else mattered.

"But, Jonathan, times have changed."

A slightly younger factory owner standing nearby couldn't help but speak up, a hint of worry on his face.

"Newspapers are gaining more and more influence, and those members of the government always like to use us as a topic to win votes."

"Then let them talk," Wright waved his hand dismissively.

"Give those congressmen a little more money and shut them up. As for the newspapers, if they get too loud, just have someone smash their printing presses. It's that simple."

Simple?

Bob felt a chill run down his spine as he looked at Wright's face, which was etched with an air of self-righteousness.

He knew he could no longer count on these fools who were blinded by wealth and power.

He has to figure it out himself.

That author named Michelle, and that editor-in-chief named Michael, aren't they trying to incite public opinion? Then let's make their voices disappear completely!

Bob didn't say another word and turned to leave the club.

Instead of going home, he had the coachman turn into an inconspicuous alley and stop in front of an unremarkable law firm.

Half an hour later, Bob walked out of the office, his anger gone, replaced by a relieved calm.

He spent a considerable sum of money to contact an official working in the Ministry of the Interior through this well-connected lawyer.

The gentleman promised to "remind" the head of the London Express to make them understand how important it is to "maintain social stability".

After doing all this, Bob got into the carriage and returned to his villa.

"Pass the word down," he ordered his steward.

"From today onwards, security at all factories will be doubled. Any workers are prohibited from gathering or discussing newspapers within the factory premises. Anyone found carrying a copy of the *London Express* will be immediately dismissed and permanently banned from employment!"

The steward shivered and hurriedly bowed and scraped as he went to relay the order.

Bob stood at the window, watching the thick smoke rising from the factory, a cold smile playing on his lips.

He wanted to show those kids that in the face of real money and power, a pen is nothing but something that breaks easily.

Michelle LeBlanc, right?

He wanted to completely ruin that name in London!

Thank you so much to reader "White Food Trash" for the monthly pass!