1836: I Became a Literary Giant in Great Britain

Just around the corner, the light and bustle have already faded away.

The bright gaslights on the street were gone, and the surroundings darkened, with only the light from the wealthy neighborhood in the distance barely outlining the road.

The sound underfoot was no longer the crisp sound of the stone slabs, but the dull thud of footsteps in the mud.

A smell mixed with horse manure and coal smoke wafted over, making Michelle wrinkle her nose.

"Welcome to another London," Dickens said with a hint of sarcasm.

A horse-drawn carriage passed by, kicking up mud and water that splashed onto a figure huddled by the roadside.

The man neither dodged nor cursed; he simply numbly raised his head, stretched out a withered hand, and mumbled something indistinctly.

By the dim light, Michelle saw that it was a middle-aged man in tattered clothes with empty eyes, seemingly engrossed in some kind of pleasure.

As for what they ate, those who know, know.

It can only be said that the choices made by the poor to cope with heavy pressure are always similar in every era.

For example, in the Victorian era, poor families often added opium-containing medications to the infants' food. This was because the medication could make the infants drowsy and quiet.

This is essential for poor families because wages are so low that everyone in the family has to work, leaving no time specifically for baby care. The baby, drowsy after taking the medication, naturally saves on caregiving time.

In this era, 30% of infants die from drug abuse.

Here's a hellish joke: drug resistance should be cultivated from childhood.

(You know the ingredients of those "baby health supplements" back then)

They didn't stop, but silently continued forward.

Michelle discovered that scenes like this were commonplace in the area.

On the street, a young woman knelt on the ground, holding a baby wrapped in rags in her arms.

She kept kowtowing to passersby, blood seeping from her forehead, but all she received in return were a few coins occasionally tossed to her.

"Isn't it pitiful?"

"But her own children have probably starved to death long ago." Dickens's voice was somewhat cold, and his usually lively face was devoid of any expression.

"The baby in her arms is probably an abandoned infant left at the church entrance. Holding a child makes it easier for her to beg for money."

As for whether this child will be treated well, the answer is obvious.

There are still experts? How can they even play like this?

Are people's bottom lines really this low in this era?

Michelle didn't stop it or pay attention. He rescued the baby, but then what? He couldn't raise the baby anyway.

All he seemed to be able to do was remain silent.

As night deepened, some small, thin figures began to appear on the street.

They were a group of children.

A shoeshine boy who looked no more than seven or eight years old followed behind a gentleman who was walking hurriedly, holding a worn-out shoe brush, humbly begging for the job of shining shoes, even if it was only half a penny.

The gentleman impatiently waved his cane, shooing him away.

In the distance, an even smaller figure was pushing a coal cart, much taller than himself, up a steep slope with great difficulty.

Every step the child took required all his strength, his small body bent into an arc by the weight of the coal cart.

Dickens stopped, took a few pennies from his pocket, and went over to the boy pushing the coal cart, putting them into his hand.

The child was stunned, his dirty face full of astonishment, seemingly unable to believe that he would have such good luck, and quickly thanked Dickens.

Perhaps it was because he had been caught in the rain himself, and he wanted to hold an umbrella for others. Dickens had a deep compassion for children throughout his life, and he always carried a lot of pennies with him when he went out.

Dickens gave the child a long look, then turned and continued walking.

"It's no use. I can help him once, but I can't help him for a lifetime." His voice was full of helplessness.

Thinking about the rampant child labor situation, Michelle's fist hardened.

Currently, over 30% of factory workers are child laborers, or even more.

Even though the British government introduced legislation a few years ago stipulating that child laborers could only work 48 hours per week, many factories still ignore this regulation.

Why has the use of child labor become so widespread? Because with the use of machines, child laborers' productivity is almost the same as that of adults, but their wages are only one-fifth, and they are easier to control.

The most terrifying thing is that Gresham's Law (bad money drives out good) applies here. Factories that don't use child labor will soon go bankrupt due to cost issues. So everyone starts to act inhumanely, competing to see who can lower their moral standards.

Having low moral standards may not guarantee wealth, but having high moral standards will definitely lead to bankruptcy. That's the messed-up world we live in.

The phrase "Victoria Select White Feathers" came to Michelle's mind again.

These children are victims of this cruel selection mechanism.

Their childhood was taken away, their lives were exploited, they were used like consumables, and then discarded at will.

Michelle finally understood why Dickens later wrote works like "Oliver Twist," "A Tale of Two Cities," and "David Copperfield."

Because these bloody realities unfold before his eyes every day!

A complex mix of emotions surged within Michelle.

He felt that what he had written before was still too mild.

Compared to this hellish scene before my eyes, the power of words seems so pale and powerless.

They passed the dock by the river.

The tide of the Thames had not yet receded, and the icy water lapped against the muddy riverbanks.

Even in the dead of night, there are still many figures bent over on the riverbank.

They were a group of scavengers, mostly barefoot children and thin women.

They trudged through the cold mud, searching for anything they could exchange for money among the floating garbage in the river, using the faint light from afar.

A boy plunged his entire arm into the icy river to retrieve a piece of coal that had sunk to the bottom.

When he finally scooped the coal out, he was shivering from the cold, his teeth chattering, but he held the wet coal tightly to his chest and smiled.

This piece of coal might be enough to buy him a piece of black bread that would keep him alive until tomorrow.

The dock watchman, carrying a wooden stick, would come by from time to time and roughly drive them away.

The scavengers scattered, only to regroup once the watchman had gone far away.

Michelle watched all of this in silence, feeling suffocated.

"Michelle, sometimes I really admire you."

Suddenly, Dickens turned his head, his gaze burning.

"Your work has drawn more attention to the fact that, in addition to the prosperity of the West End, there are still many people in the East End of London who are on the verge of starvation."

"In my opinion, you are the 'conscience of London'."

Hearing Dickens's praise, Michel felt a little unworthy.

He knew he was merely a conveyor of great works.

Finally, they stopped in front of a huge and gloomy building.

The building had towering walls and narrow windows, creating an atmosphere of extreme oppression.

"We've arrived." Dickens' voice was chillingly cold.

"here it is......?"

"Poorhouse"

They stopped a short distance from the iron gate of the workhouse.

Although the gates of the workhouse were tightly closed, the area outside was crowded with people.

The old man, dressed in tattered clothes and wrapped in moldy burlap, had his lips turn purple from the cold wind.

A young mother holding her pale and emaciated baby; the baby's cries had become hoarse.

There were also a few teenagers huddled together in a corner, trying to draw a tiny bit of warmth from each other.

They are all waiting.

They waited for dawn so that the heavy iron gate of the workhouse could be opened a crack for them.

Looking at the scene before him, Dickens's expression was ashen.

"The new Poor Law stipulated that in order to enter a workhouse and receive relief, one had to accept their conditions."

"Husbands and wives must be separated, and children and parents must also be separated. All able-bodied people must perform heavy labor in the facility in exchange for two meals of thin porridge a day."

"Even so," he said, pointing to the crowd waiting in despair outside the door.

"They were still willing to come in. Because outside the door lay certain death. Inside, at least there was a bowl of porridge to keep them alive."

Michelle peered through the gaps in the iron bars.

In the courtyard, under the dim light of an oil lamp, some figures could be vaguely seen carrying something, and occasionally the stern shouts of the foreman could be heard.

It didn't seem like a place to help the poor; it was more like a factory of blood and gore...

P.S.: This is a setup chapter, so I'll update more. I've written a whopping 8000 words today, and I'll continue into the main story tomorrow!

Please continue to vote with monthly tickets and recommendations to follow the author's updates!

Furthermore, these are all true records, which only shows that Great Britain has always been inhumane.