Chapter 19
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 019
Chapter Title: Drawing the Sword of Benevolent Rule
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As everyone knows, I've experienced a wide range of cultures.
Living as a 21st-century civilized person, I constantly realized just how different the cultures of Korea, China, Japan, and Taiwan were from one another—despite sharing some common ground, the gaps were enormous.
But now...
I've been dropped into the 19th century.
And not just in one country either—I've been bouncing back and forth between the polar opposites of Britain and Joseon.
Ah...
Compared to the nations of the 21st century... do they really have that much cultural difference? Nah, doesn't seem like it.
The 19th century was a massive crevasse that no amount of my prior experiences could bridge, no matter how hard I tried. Differences between Korea, China, and America? Ideological clashes? Ethnic sentiments? They don't even register against the 19th century.
Take North Korea, the most isolated country in the world, as an example. Even a brutally oppressive, utterly insane regime like that stubbornly shoves "democracy" into its official name to claim it's a democratic nation, and the clothes they wear aren't all that different from anywhere else.
- Aren't Islamic cultures a bit different?
Those folks wear jeans and listen to pop music just like everyone else. Western culture has infiltrated the entire globe. Don't bring up extremists who shoot women for not wearing proper chadors. Even the tribes in Amazon documentaries throw on T-shirts once the cameras stop rolling.
Anyway, the reason I'm bringing this up is simple.
It's because there are countless cases in this era that are utterly incomprehensible without being immersed in the 19th-century European mindset—like some demonic village vibe.
Ireland.
The little island nation next to Britain.
Whenever England grew strong, it always invaded its upstairs neighbor Scotland and next-door Ireland to seize hegemony over the British Isles. Ireland had endured centuries of their invasions, conquests, and exploitation.
Then came the dawn of modernity, symbolized by the Industrial Revolution and imperialism.
Ireland became a living laboratory for British colonial and imperial meta-experiments—a literal test case.
"The invisible hand will sort out Ireland's imbalances."
"In this day and age, what's poverty? No matter where you go—America or India—if you've got the will, you can make a fortune. How lazy do you have to be... tch!"
"Ireland must overcome this crisis on its own strength. How long are they going to wait for the government to bail them out? That mindset makes self-reliance impossible."
"Instead of giving them fish, teach them how to fish. That's the proper role of government!"
The British despised the Irish.
How much? They even despised the potatoes they mainly ate. "Potatoes grow so easily they let even lazy bastards breed," they'd say. That says it all.
They firmly believed the Irish were poor because they were lazy, violent, and drunkards. Through this prejudiced lens, the Whig government—instead of freely distributing food during the potato blight and great famine—decided to "teach them how to fish."
By launching public works projects to create jobs.
- Isn't this basically... the New Deal? That was a success, right?
It was similar.
Except they billed the costs as debt to Ireland.
And under the pretext that Ireland had to repay its debts to Britain, new taxes were slapped on them. Because the Irish needed to stop their "habitual dependence" on the British government and learn "self-reliance."
The food rations given as payment for the public works were woefully inadequate and of poor quality. On top of that, since it was government-funded, corruption and embezzlement were rampant, as expected.
People who weren't even eating properly had to do hard labor, so they wasted away and died one by one.
Even more died of starvation without even managing to join those deadly public works.
At the time, power had shifted from the Conservatives to the Whigs. As you know, the Whigs were die-hard free-trade believers.
They thought providing jobs via free trade and the invisible hand would kickstart a healthy market economy and enable self-reliance. It failed spectacularly.
When people started dying en masse again, the government hastily switched from public works to running soup kitchens handing out raw oats.
And that's when the backlash exploded.
Because the costs were astronomically high.
This was an article from that famous paper. Other articles called the Irish "Asians inhabiting Europe," a people who "lazily enjoy poverty like Bengalis or Sri Lankans," and "moral degenerates living in prehistoric disorder since ancient times."
As you can see, both sides were furious.
The Irish, naturally, overflowed with hatred for the British who had turned their country into hell.
But...
The British were exploding with rage toward the Irish too.
"We poured our blood-tax money into saving them, and these ungrateful wretches!"
"If Ireland hadn't been merged into the British Empire, we never could've accomplished this feat—saving the lives of three million paupers. And yet these ingrates whine about independence?"
"What did we do to deserve this dishonor, when we've fulfilled our duties and get no thanks?"
"We did everything! Imported corn for them, created public jobs, handed out oats so they wouldn't starve... We normalized Ireland—what more do they want?"
"These barbaric idiots... They wolfed down 8 million pounds' worth of aid from the British Empire government and still... plant those damn potatoes again. They're beyond saving."
I guess I'll never fully adapt to this era. Korean blood must carry an allergic reaction to colonialism.
The Irish plant potatoes not out of love for them.
Most Irish had nothing but their bodies to sell, working on others' farms. Instead of wages, landowners lent them tiny plots.
They had to grow enough on those plots to survive the year, and potatoes were the only crop viable for it. That's why they can't let go.
But the British didn't recognize this structural issue.
Or rather, no media dared mention the root cause.
Because that bizarre economic structure stemmed from Britain seizing all of Ireland's land in the first place.
Now I can be certain.
No matter how wildly I act and twist the world to my whims...
If I don't get swallowed by history and manage to change it...
At least it'll be better than the original timeline.
Right?
- Uh... well... I don't really know...
It is, you con artist bastard.
Now I have zero qualms of conscience.
At least I won't starve other countries' people to death and then dump debt on them.
Even the most ruthless 21st-century person would squeeze out fewer tears of blood than the most benevolent 19th-century one.
That's the conclusion I've reached.
No one can stop me.
1850.
Eton College.
Arthur Leigh—the symbol of 21st-century values and this era's greatest conscience—had blossomed into a fine young gentleman.
"Stand up straight, freshman."
"Yes, sir!"
"Why did you brew the tea like this? Haven't you absorbed the Eton spirit yet?"
"I'm sorry! I'll brew it again!"
"You little... Shape up!"
Feast your eyes on this beautiful Eton campus.
Just a few years ago, it looked like an ugly magic castle to me, but now it felt like paradise.
Back in my day, you had to wake up before your seniors before dawn, prepare their breakfast right away, and then eat your own tear-jerking gruel. But the new kids these days get breakfast served by school servants, and seniors don't extort as much cash. I've probably stamped out at least thirty-five injustices. Any with a shred of gratitude should serve their seniors even harder.
I took a refreshing swim in the Thames to shake off sleep, skipped most classes, and then crushed a carriage race.
"Who dares challenge the carriage driven by Arthur Leigh!"
"That fucker's driving like shit!"
"Muahaha! Your carriage skills are abysmal, you fools!"
- Cheating with hacks and still bragging.
Quiet. I'm already catching flak for sucking at cricket batting—if I bombed at carriage racing too, I'd be total dead weight.
Thanks to my patron's advice, I trained with the iron rod daily and stuck to 21st-century fitness routines. My Greek grades barely scraped by without failing, but I crushed Eton's old guard and new demons, claiming the throne as Eton's guardian fist of conscience. Disagree with my doctrines from now on? Eat a spicy 21st-century punch first.
On top of that, I'd become a nationwide celebrity by this point.
Because my book had finally hit the shelves.
"Senior! It's an honor to meet you! You're that 'Surviving Boy,' right?"
"Ah, yes."
"I truly admire you! I'll strive even harder to become a great Etonian like you!!"
"Hmph. Hone the Eton spirit diligently here, and you might reach my toe level."
It's not like I've gone mad from too much Eton indoctrination. I've just realized that in Europe, humility often gets mistaken for the groveling of the weak. You need enough pride to border on arrogance to keep the riffraff at bay.
Two shipwrecks and drifts.
A grand journey through China and Joseon.
Falling into a barbaric Chinese pirate den yet maintaining Anglo-Saxon dignity to earn their awe; conveying God's word to the Joseon people and astonishing their king and prime minister with intellectual prowess... All these mystical tales are vividly recounted in the book.
- Total bullshit from start to finish.
I put a note at the very end: "Based on true events with some dramatization." Should be fine. Probably.
After the book's massive hit, I announced—with Gladstone's help—that upon graduating Eton, I'd head back to the Far East for trade.
No sooner said than done: pleas poured in to let the "Surviving Boy" invest with them. Merchants, companies, barons, earls—everyone swarmed, insisting they needed my help for Far East trade.
Countless donations.
Sponsorships from universities and societies.
And massive investor funds eyeing the opening of mysterious Far East nations and the profits to come.
Everything fast-tracked at a terrifying speed I couldn't have imagined. Leigh & Gladstone Company raised its banner, Far East trade ships were prepared, and goods were loaded up. The ship name I wanted—Going Mary—got shot down immediately.
Not long after I graduated Eton...
That glorious vessel set sail from London, bearing the hopes of countless investors and scholars.
Now all that's left is for the money to rain down...!