1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Several weeks of intense, "special forces-style" deadline-writing left Michelle physically and mentally exhausted, but also filled his wallet to an unprecedented level.

With money, Michelle finally felt more confident.

He could finally stop living in fear and trepidation around his landlady, and even started considering moving to a new place with windows.

That day, Michel slept soundly until the afternoon. He stretched and made a series of creaking sounds.

Another advantage of waking up in the afternoon is that you don't have to wait in long lines at public restrooms, so you can brush your teeth comfortably.

Yes, with money, Michelle was finally able to maintain her daily brushing habit, just like in her previous life.

The Victorian-era toothbrush looks similar to the one Michelle had in her previous life, only the materials are slightly different. The handle is made of bone or wood, while the bristles are made of horsehair or pony hair.

As for toothpaste, it is called "teeth cleaning agent". The simplest of these pastes are just some ash or salt, which are sold at store counters.

In fact, most toothpaste is a polishing agent that has been flavored and stained.

Of course, if you want to be a little more luxurious, there are also different toothpaste flavors to choose from.

Let me give you a few examples of the best-selling toothpastes that Michelle saw in stores.

Camphor toothpaste powder: Prepare 1 pound of talcum powder and 2 drachmas of camphor. Moisten them with a little red wine, then grind them into powder. Finally, mix them thoroughly with the talcum powder.

"Myrrh toothpaste powder: 1 pound of cuttlebone powder, 2 ounces of myrrh powder."

"American tooth powder: 8 drachmas each of coral, cuttlebone, and blood dwarf, 4 drachmas each of charred alum and sandalwood, 8 drachmas of orris root, 0.5 drachmas each of clove and cinnamon, and 8 drachmas of rose rock. All are ground into powder and then mixed together."

So in the end, Michelle chose coal ash as her "toothpaste." Not because she was poor, but because coal ash was the closest material to modern toothpaste. It has the softest texture of all abrasive materials and can remove plaque and tartar without damaging the teeth and gums themselves.

It is also very easy to clean and will not leave any residue. Even if you accidentally eat a little bit occasionally, it will not matter.

Unlike other "toothpastes", this one is not something that could cause sudden death if ingested.

(Victorian-era toothpaste, yes, back then it was believed that toothpaste the color of the gums was the healthiest.)

After a quick wash, he was pondering whether to go downstairs to buy two black breads or splurge on some hot food at the pub.

Suddenly, a series of urgent knocks sounded on the door.

Michelle's heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively thought it was the landlady coming to collect the rent again.

But then he realized that he had already paid off the rent he owed last week, including next month's rent.

So, who could it be?

He opened the door, and there stood an unfamiliar child holding a letter.

"Excuse me, is this Mr. Michel? This is a letter from Mr. Dickens for you."

Dickens's letter?

Michelle took the letter with some surprise and opened it.

The handwriting on the letter was bold and unrestrained, full of Dickens's own enthusiastic style.

The letter was simple: Dickens invited him to go for a nighttime stroll through London to see the city's other side under the gaslight.

A nighttime stroll through London?

Michelle became interested.

He had been in this era for almost a month, but had spent most of his time huddled in that dilapidated corner of St. Giles, his knowledge of London limited to a small area from the East End to the newspaper office and Dickens's house.

However, if I remember correctly, strolling through London at night was also one of Dickens's particular hobbies.

He needs to wander the streets of London at night to find inspiration for his work. This is a habit he developed in childhood; when he worked as a child laborer in a black shoe polish factory, he would walk in the night after get off work.

Good or bad weather has almost no effect on him; in fact, he gets even more excited when the weather is bad.

Whenever it was foggy, rainy, or snowy, he would wander into the most unfamiliar areas, writing down a sentence or half a sentence he heard as he walked, or standing in front of a shop and listening intently, or glancing at the strange decorations of another shop, or following a pair of shady young men and women.

And so, after a long evening walk, he reconnected with London, and his work became much easier the next morning.

In the evening, Michelle met Dickens at the entrance of a coffee shop, as agreed.

The great writer did not ride in his carriage today, but prepared to walk. He looked energetic and in high spirits.

"Michel, my friend! You've finally arrived!" Dickens gave him a warm hug.

"Ready? Tonight, I'll take you to see a real London!"

"With pleasure," Michelle replied enthusiastically.

With a true "Londoner" like Dickens leading the way, he was even more interested in strolling through London that evening.

They walked along the wide street toward the west side.

As I walked forward, the surrounding scenery underwent a dramatic transformation.

The narrow, muddy alleyways have disappeared, replaced by flat, clean gravel roads.

Along both sides of the road, tall Georgian-style townhouses stand side by side, their stone facades gleaming softly in the evening glow. Black wrought-iron railings enclose exquisite courtyards, and the gleaming brass door knockers are engraved with intricate family crests.

As darkness fell, the gas lamps along the streets were lit one by one.

The gaslights in the western district were noticeably more densely packed, with one every twenty yards or so. Their milky white shades refracted the light into a soft, bright glow, illuminating the entire street.

"See those clubs?" Dickens asked, pointing to a brightly lit building in the distance.

"St. James Street, the gathering place of London's most powerful men. White Club, Brooks Club, countless high-class clubs are here... They drink brandy, smoke cigars, and can decide the life or death of a bank or the course of a railway with just a few words."

Michelle looked in the direction he pointed and could vaguely see the figures of the gentlemen inside through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows.

They sat around a mahogany table, with oil paintings on the wall whose details were indistinct...

They continued on their way and arrived at the famous Bond Street.

Although some shops have closed, the gaslights in the shop windows are still on, like little stages displaying the wide variety of goods inside.

The latest Parisian lace gowns, pocket watches handcrafted by Swiss artisans, necklaces studded with enormous diamonds, and soft hats adorned with ornate ostrich feathers.

Dickens pointed to a hat and introduced it to Michelle: "See that one? It costs a full five pounds. An ordinary clerk's monthly salary is only enough to buy one of these hats."

Michelle remained silent.

He recalled the days when he lived in fear over a few shillings of rent.

Even with my current royalties, it seems I can only buy a few hats per article?

Damn rich people.

Then they passed through St. James's Park, where several elegant swans swam gracefully in the moonlight on the lake.

The gaslights on the shore illuminated the strolling aristocratic couple; the man wore a dark tailcoat, and the woman had an expensive fur draped over her shoulders.

This place is full of poetic charm, as beautiful as a painting.

At the end of the park, a magnificent building is brightly lit, with a tall bronze statue standing in front of it.

"That's Apsley Estate, the Duke of Wellington's residence," Dickens said, his voice lowering slightly.

"The Achilles statue at the entrance was cast from French cannons captured during the Battle of Waterloo."

Michelle gazed at the statue, its outlines sharply defined under the lights.

After a long while, he finally uttered a soft sigh.

"The glory of heroes is ultimately bought with the blood of the poor."

The West End’s prosperity and extravagance seemed to Michelle to have a touch of bloodshed.

They didn't linger, but continued forward.

Dickens turned a corner, and the two left the brightly lit avenue, plunging headlong into the increasingly dense darkness ahead.

That's where the real London is.

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