shadow of britain

Chapter 771 The Birth of a Millionaire

Five years is but a few pages on a calendar, insignificant in the grand scheme of time.

But for a city in the midst of the Industrial Revolution, it was enough to cause earth-shattering changes, such as ground subsidence, street renaming, and population turnover.

Five years ago, gaslights were still a rarity in central London. On most streets, a hazy fog would engulf the banks of the Thames on rainy nights.

But what about now?
From Greenwich to Paddington, from Charing Cross to Hyde Park, as the hour hand of a pocket watch crosses six, the gaslight, like a network of neural pathways, awakens this most modern city in the world from its slumber. Nightlife—a trendy new term—is nothing new to Londoners accustomed to a fast-paced lifestyle.

Five years ago, The Englishman's old printing press was still whirring and struggling, barely able to print a few hundred copies an hour even when it was running at full power. Now, in The Englishman's machine room, steam roars between copper pipes, and pages of magazines filled with dense lead type are spewed out of Bradbury & Evans' latest steam cylinder printing press at an astonishing rate of 4000 pages per hour.

The British national literary magazine "The Englishman," with a circulation of 80,000 copies per issue, the up-and-coming low-cost literary magazine "Spark," the well-known European natural philosophy journal "Nature," and "The Economist," which is highly sought after by professionals in the City of London, and even "The Times," which is unmatched in Britain, all have a 30% stake in the company.

In this era where steam and lead type danced together, even ideas began to seek mass production.

The Englishman magazine, or as we should now call it by its new name, Imperial Publishing Group, was once just a company founded on a whim by a few young people. Five years ago, its office was nothing more than a small rented apartment on Fleet Street; now, it has become a veritable "Victory" of the cultural and media world, spanning literature, science, finance, and communications.

Especially after its successful acquisition of the English Electromagnetic Telegraph Company, this ship could not only print, but also disseminate. And in terms of public opinion, it could not only record, but also create.

The expansion of Imperial Publishing never relied on naval guns, but rather on parallel sentences in columns, exquisite covers, and electromagnetic signals jumping in cables.

Information is power, and reporting is prophecy.

In the field of cultural communication, it is no longer the newcomer Fleet Street, but has become a new beacon guiding other Fleet Street magazines: it is preparing to embark on the broad road to the London Stock Exchange.

Even before the London Stock Exchange rang the New Year bell, rumors of Imperial Publishing Group's pre-subscription plans were already circulating outside Fleet Street.

This time, the rumors were spread not by tabloid vendors, but by the shrewd, old-school bankers in the financial district.

They all turned their attention to the same thing—the telegram.

"Printing allows us to spread ideas, while the telegraph allows us to predict the future." This slightly exaggerated comment comes from James Longworth, the new editor of The Economist, who personally experienced the Royal Robbery at Golden Cross Station.

James Longworth, a journalist mentored by Thomas Barnes, the legendary editor of The Times, became famous in Britain as "the conscience of Circassians" for his in-depth reporting on the Circassian resistance against Tsarist Russia in the Caucasus region.

Earlier this year, Mr. Longworth officially accepted an invitation from Imperial Publishing Group to leave The Times for The Economist, where he officially took over as editor-in-chief.

The term "transfer" may sound unpleasant, because given the controlling stake between Imperial Publishing Group and The Times, the Imperial Publishing Group board prefers to call it an internal promotion.

On page seven of The Times, in the inner fold of The Economist, and in the front-page advertisements of The Englishman and Spark, almost everyone familiar with the rhythm of this city saw the same striking line:

"The arsenal of the knowledgeable, the nautical chart of the thinker."

The Imperial Publishing Group, a joint venture comprised of publications such as The Englishman, Spark, Nature, and The Economist, in conjunction with the Electromagnetic Telegraph Company of England, will be formally listed on the London Stock Exchange before July 1835, and is now publicly offering its first batch of shares.

Less than a week after Imperial Publishing Group's subscription announcement, six banks in the City of London had already expressed their willingness to take on the remaining shares after the first round of placement. Furthermore, two insurance companies privately stated their desire to gain board observer status at Imperial Publishing Group through share subscription agreements after the official listing.

At the heart of all this lies a single number: £600,000.

It's neither the highest nor the lowest estimate, but rather an extremely cautious figure, even considered somewhat conservative by some stockbrokers.

According to the publicly disclosed IPO information of Imperial Publishing, the company projected total revenue of £270,000 and net profit of approximately £40,000 for the entire year of 1835. With a price-to-earnings ratio of 15, after deducting unamortized depreciation expenses and the risk of revaluation of The Times' shares, the final figure was over £600,000.

This was not particularly surprising at the London Stock Exchange in 1835.

Because when Manchester and Liverpool Railways first went public a few years ago, it was valued at £800,000 and had an annual interest rate of 6.5%.

London shipping company raised £250,000 with a conservative annual return of 2.7%.

West London Gaslight Company, on the other hand, attracted public demand for nearly nine times the issuance amount simply by obtaining a lighting contract from the London government.

Six years after the London Stock Exchange crash of 1829, investor confidence has long since returned. What's lacking now is not money, but good companies.

Compared to mainstream railway, shipping, and public service companies on stock exchanges, Imperial Publishing has a transparent profit structure and negligible debt. Their books don't even have any heavy assets such as "land leasing" or "ocean insurance." The only thing that can attract investors' attention is its business model in the field of electromagnetic telegraphy, which is not yet fully understood by the world.

However, the last remaining doubts of investors were greatly alleviated after the Royal Robbery at Golden Cross Station, as they saw opportunities that were even more attractive than the risks.

Therefore, this company, which makes money by "writing" and "publishing," received subscription applications exceeding 1.4 times the planned issuance amount on the day its valuation was announced. According to the listing plan tailored for Imperial Publishing by Rothschild Bank, their initial public offering would release 6 ordinary shares with a par value of £5, at a subscription price of £10 per share, raising a total of approximately £19.5. The remaining shares would be offered to strategic partners such as Rothschild Bank and Barings Bank through a priority subscription.

On its first day of trading, Imperial Publishing's share price soared to £9 per share, bringing its total market capitalization close to £81.

Although this market value is still far less than that of the heavy asset companies that are the mainstream of investment, and is only about five times the total profit of a medium-sized coal company over five years, it still did not prevent the founders of Empire Publishing from making a fortune.

Among this list of immensely wealthy individuals, the most noteworthy is not Alexandre Dumas, for he had already flaunted his two thousand preferred shares at the ball to the ladies of the court. Nor is it Disraeli, the rising Conservative MP who, at a party reception, mysteriously told everyone that he held only a symbolic share, having in fact long ago entrusted his shares to the Rothschild family's trust.

The one who truly held a firm grip on the position was Sir Arthur Hastings, Chairman of the Board of Directors of Imperial Publishing Group.

He held 5000 founding common shares, which were not listed or traded, but each share carried three times the voting rights. According to the Imperial Publishing Company Articles of Association, these shares granted veto power and the right to appoint board seats for ten years after the company's founding. The only downside was that they could not be sold within three years.

However, Arthur considered this drawback to be completely acceptable.

Unlike those who are keen on valuation, doubling, and arbitrage, Arthur does not care about short-term paper profits.

He remained silent on the offering price of six pounds and ten shillings per share, and never cared about the exit strategy offered to him by Lionel Rothschild.

However, his indifference to stock prices does not mean that Elder and Darwin were indifferent.

The tavern was filled with smoke, and a few drops of wine were spilled on the table. Arthur had just pushed a few stock certificates in front of Elder and Darwin when the two of them picked them up and glanced at them. Immediately, they felt as if they had been kicked by a donkey, and their heads were buzzing.

"My God... I just casually signed a few documents you sent me back then..."

Elder muttered to himself, his lips twitching slightly as he clutched the 1000 British preferred stock certificates that Arthur had just handed him.

He had originally thought that as he got older, he would have to rely on the Royal Navy's retirement pension to make ends meet.

But now it seems that the Royal Navy's meager pensions aren't even enough to fill a tooth.

Darwin wasn't much better off than Elder. He examined those stock certificates over and over again, his eyes wide as if he had discovered some rare reptile.

Although Darwin never uttered a single word of disbelief, the fascinating expressions on his face and his almost standing-up hair said it all.

"My God! I must be dreaming..." Elder gulped down a mouthful of absinthe, his eyes wide as he said, "If I sold all these stocks, wouldn't I be able to buy a small frigate?"

He glanced around and suddenly felt as if someone was watching him from everywhere in the tavern.

Elder quickly stuffed the stocks into his coat and wrapped it tightly around himself, fearing that someone might steal his life and fortune at any moment.

To be honest, he wasn't this nervous even when he was facing Victoria just now.

"What are you so nervous about?" Dumas gave the man a disdainful look: "No matter what, it's only nine thousand pounds, Elder. Don't act like you've never seen money before."

"Shh!" Elder glared fiercely at Dumas: "Do you know how much I earned when I was feeding mosquitoes in South America? Five pounds a month! And that was after the round-the-world voyage allowance!"

“Well then, Mr. Nine Thousand Pounds,” Dickens said with a smile, raising his glass. “Elder, you are probably the richest gentleman on the Beagle now. Oh, no, I almost forgot about Charles. But you two are probably about equal.”

"Damn it! Damn it!" Elder felt his heart pounding, the stock pressed against his chest, the sensation as hot as a branding iron: "I used to think we were just printing magazines and newspapers, but I never imagined you were actually printing money!"

“Printing money? Don’t be so blunt, Elder.” Arthur rolled his cigar with his fingers and took a slow puff. “But seriously, this little bit of money scares you like an old lady seeing a train for the first time. It seems you haven’t really seen much of the world these past few years at sea. You don’t know what legitimate business is like.”

“Oh?” Elder narrowed his eyes and pressed the stack of stock certificates even tighter. “Arthur, then tell me, what constitutes a legitimate business? You’re not talking about Alexander’s theater in Paris, which is kept afloat by his mistress, are you?”

Dumas dismissed Elder's mockery with disdain: "Look at your uncultured appearance. My theater, on Rue de la Temple in Paris, with three boxes, is full every night, with a constantly changing repertoire, from Shakespeare to neoclassical plays to my own writings. The audience ranges from professors at the University of Paris to members of the National Assembly, from the Prussian ambassador to members of the French Academy."

“Ha…” Elder looked unconvinced, his “I’m not falling for it” attitude clearly written all over his face: “If you really have that ability, why don’t you take me to see it? What if we go to Paris and find out that your theater is actually a hat shop?”

Alexandre Dumas stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, then changed his tone, saying, "Isn't it just taking you to see it? I promise you. When my new play premieres in Paris next month, you'll come with me. I'll book you the front row seat, and there'll be a social banquet after the play, a whole table of champagne and lobster, and of course, a soprano I specially invited from Toulouse."

“Go to hell!” Elder rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me just a few theater tickets and expect me to pay for my own travel. Do you think I’m as stupid as you? You might have already conspired with Vidocq to steal my shares from Coconut Tree in Paris. I’m not going to Paris.”

(Extra chapter tomorrow)
(End of this chapter)