AS SUSAN L. MEYER SUGGESTS, “[a]n interpretation of the significance of the British empire in Jane Eyre must begin by making sense of Bertha Mason Rochester, the mad, drunken West Indian wife whom Rochester keeps locked up on the third floor of his ancestral mansion” (252). In Richard Mason’s deposition concerning the marriage of Edward Fairfax Rochester and Bertha Antoinetta Mason in Spanish Town, Jamaica, Bertha is described as the child of Jonas Mason, West India planter and merchant, and Antoinetta Mason, identified only as a Creole. In Rochester’s account of Bertha’s family the “germs of insanity” are passed on by the Creole mother (334; ch. 27). In this essay I retraverse late eighteenth- to mid-nineteenth-century ethnographic discourses about white Creole degeneracy and situate Brontë’s representations of the Creoleness of Bertha and Richard Mason in relation to them, arguing that Jane Eyre demarcates both femininity and masculinity in imperial and racial terms, while also blurring these categories. Brontë, I demonstrate, links the degenerate moral and intellectual character of the white Creole with the cruelties of the slave-labour system in Jamaica, and with historical Jamaican slave rebellions figured through metaphor and allusion. This depiction suggests that Brontë has carefully historicized the relationships among Bertha Mason Rochester, Edward Fairfax Rochester, and Jane Eyre.

THE IDEA FOR THIS CLUSTER of work had its origins in a session of the 1996 Modern Language Association Convention in Washington, D. C., where the editors of Victorian Literature and Culture organized a panel devoted to the topic at hand: “Victorian Studies and Cultural Studies.” The panel presentations and the post-panel discussion were extremely stimulating, and it was clear that the rich topic wanted further consideration. The following selection of essays, gathered together under this journal’s special feature, the “Editors’ Topic,” is the result. Here, then, are four articles representing a range of practice — though not, by any means, the entire range of practice — in the intersecting fields of Victorian studies and cultural studies. The articles are followed by fourteen forum essays presenting an array of pressing issues, arguments, and sharp opinions centering in the relations — past, present, and potential — between Victorian studies and cultural studies. Three of the following eighteen pieces were presented (and those in shorter, nascent form) at the MLA: Mary Ellis Gibson’s article on Henry Martyn, Jane Eyre, and Missionary Biography, Kristen Leaver’s consideration of Victorian melodrama, and my brief ruminations on the concepts of “discourse” and “genre.” All the rest were commissioned for this issue of Victorian Literature and Culture.

“A handful of foreigners have shown China what they can do against murderous thousands, and it only remains for the Powers to stamp the lesson deeper, and exact punishment for the guilty and full compensation for losses sustained.”

— W. Murray Graydon, The Perils of Pekin (1904)

“To find something akin in its savage barbarity you must go back to Lucknow, where a mixed multitude shut up in the Residency were holding out against fearful odds in expectation of relief by Havelock’s Highlanders, resolved to perish of starvation rather than surrender, for the fate of Cawnpore stared them in the face. “It adds point to this parallel to remember that the Tartar rulers of China are cousin german to the Great Moghul who headed the Sepoy Mutiny. “It was some excuse for the King of Delhi that he was seeking to regain his throne. No such apology can be offered for the Empress Dowager of China. She has made war not without provocation, but wholly unjustifiable, on all nations of the civilized world.”

— W. A. P. Martin, The Siege in Peking (1900)

THIS ESSAY REVIEWS THE LITERARY PRODUCTION — primarily adventure novels, and several of them bestsellers — centered around the events of the 1900 Boxer Rebellion, in which a Chinese “secret society,” with the collusion of certain Manchu authorities, carried out a systematic attempt to annihilate all Westerners and “native Christians” living in China.1 The Boxers, so-called because their “superstitious” practices looked like magic boxing, swept across North China from the spring of 1900, eventually throwing much of the imperial capital of Peking (Beijing) into confusion.2 Forced to hole up in the Legations and other barricaded areas, the Westerners of the region joined forces under largely British leadership and fought against incredible odds to protect themselves, holding out until an international resistance force, led by the British, rescued them fifty-five days later, and the Rebellion subsided.3 Important as a turning point in Chinese international relations and as a mark of the increasing weakness of the central authority of the Middle Kingdom, the Boxer Rebellion served an even more important function with regard to British conceptualizations of the empire in its formal and informal forms. It threw into question non-interventionist trade strategies and underscored the tenuous nature of imperial authority both in formal colonies such as India (where fledgling nationalist movements were evolving) and in areas bordering on these formal colonies and largely dominated through foreign authority. (The central Chinese government, for instance, though not dependent on imports and loans to any great degree, at this point gathered all of its significant income from the British-led Imperial Maritime Customs Service.)

So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.

I Cor. 15.54

IN MID-CENTURY LONDON there occurred a spectacle of massive proportions, featuring always at its center a corpse. The funeral of the Duke of Wellington, an event that has occasioned surprisingly little critical attention, took place in 1852 and was recognized as one of the greatest public displays of the Victorian period.1 Indeed, many felt it to be one of the most significant public events in the history of Britain, and if Britain, then of course the globe: as the Illustrated London News put it, “[this event] may be said to have surpassed in significant grandeur any similar tribute to greatness ever offered in the world” (Nov. 20, 1852, 430).2 St. Paul’s Cathedral was specially illuminated with six thousand new gas lights in preparation for the ceremony of interment, while the funeral procession, comprised of more than ten thousand marchers, encompassed central London, enjoying an audience numbering more than one and a half million people. Queen Victoria and virtually every major and minor national figure in politics or the arts viewed either the procession or the ceremony at St. Paul’s. The interment was quite literally a multi-media event: the spectacle drew for its effects on numerous disciplines, from literature, music, and journalism to painting, drawing, and architectural design, and spawned in turn editorials, songs, poems, paintings, prints, and engravings.

TO SPEAK ABOUT JOHN RUSKIN’S anxious figures for engraved reproduction is to speak about his troubled relationship to a modernity in which excess and impermanence present complex and interrelated challenges. The ruined cathedral in my title occurs in lectures Ruskin delivered in 1857, and published the same year as The Political Economy of Art. Invited to speak at Manchester on the occasion of the Art-Treasures Exhibition, at the height of his fame as a critic, Ruskin responded to the moment with two lectures challenging much that the exhibition stood for. He offered the following apocalyptic description of the situation of art away from the self-congratulating festival. It is worth considering this passage — at once about art and about the responsibility for its blighting — in relation to the immense temporary structure built to house the Art-Treasures Exhibition (Figure 9):

BY THE EARLY 1820s, medievalist representations of the British nation, such as those disseminated through Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe, had increasingly displaced longstanding, Francophobic forms of nationalist imagery popular throughout Britain during the century of wars against France before 1815. The “medieval revival” of the early nineteenth century provided inspiration for a new strain of nationalist imagery and discourse that would evolve and help to shape British subjects for nearly a century preceding the Great War. Scholarship since Alice Chandler’s A Dream of Order (1970) has widely explored the literary and artistic development of medievalism in the nineteenth century. What needs further discussion or theorization are the cultural uses of nineteenth-century medievalist representations of the British nation, its history, aristocracy, and chivalric ideology. What also needs further discussion are the subject-forming and nation-forming implications of texts by popular, recently revived medievalist writers such as Felicia Hemans (Figure 5).

IN 1814 THE YOUNG Thomas Babington Macaulay tried his hand at the couplet to memorialize one of his Evangelical family’s heroes. Henry Martyn, chaplain to the British East India Company, had died in 1812 on his way home from duties in the east. With an adolescent’s enthusiasm for battle Macaulay engaged the tropes of spiritual quest and violent conquest that accompanied the evangelical spirit. To Martyn’s efforts he attributed, “Eternal trophies! Not with carnage red, / Not stained with tears by hapless captives shed, / But trophies of the Cross!” (281). Military violence gives way to conquest in a higher sphere, the world of the mission field. Nearly a half century later George Eliot evoked Martyn’s spiritual heroism at the outset of her career as a fiction writer. In Scenes of Clerical Life, Janet Dempster finds the inspiration to reform her life by reading the Memoir of Henry Martyn. Martyn’s example nerves her to engage in self-sacrifice and is the catalyst for her return to the scene of domestic violence; in an act of self-conquest Janet assumes the role of model wife and forgiving Christian.

FOR THE EXHIBITION of his collected works at the Burleigh Gallery in London during the spring of 1865, Ford Madox Brown supplied a lengthy descriptive catalogue which gave highly detailed accounts of many of the paintings on display. Rarely before had a painter offered such an insight into his artistic methods and intentions, and the reviewers of the day were suitably impressed; the Pre-Raphaelite critic William Michael Rossetti even went so far as to remark that if others were to follow Brown’s practice, “it would enable the spectator to know for certain exactly what the artist meant, and what his work means, and would thus cut short a deal of silly and often perverse guess-work” (Rossetti, 1970: 181).The centerpiece of the show was a highly detailed canvas called Work (Figure 8) which had taken the artist over ten years to complete. In his review for Fraser’s Magazine Rossetti commented that the artist’s account of this painting was particularly valuable, since it enabled one “to follow out the whole scheme of thought into its details with certainty instead of by guess,” so that one gradually came to realise that “not a corner of the picture, a figure, or an action, is without its close yet varied relation to the central idea” (1970: 182). And indeed, Brown’s catalogue description did give a remarkably full account of its development, recording its transformation from a comparatively modest genre painting into a large-scale celebration of modern labor:

ALTHOUGH VICTORIAN REVIEWERS uniformly praised Elizabeth Barrett Browning for the “sincere” poetic voice of Sonnets from the Portuguese, they often blamed her for faulty craft. In structure and rhyme scheme the poems in the sequence recall the Petrarchan tradition, suggesting the idealized love that accompanies it, yet their varied syntax and diction seem more conversational than ideal. Enjambment usually destroys the integrity of octave and sestet. Then in the Sonnets Barrett Browning continued her use of odd rhymes, which had been raising critical eyebrows since earlier poems. For example, in the most famous sonnet — XLIII, “How do I love thee?” — Barrett Browning rhymed the noun phrase “put to use” (9) with the infinitive “to lose” (11) and rhymed “faith” (10) with “breath” (12). Victorian reviewers, somewhat disoriented, offered a variety of explanations for these apparent technical lapses. Some attributed them to a defective ear for music (“Review of Poems” 278; [Massey] 517).1 George Saintsbury — taking the lead from the controversy over the “cockney school” of poetry — reproved Barrett Browning, born to the educated classes, for relying out of laziness on vulgar pronunciation to force rhymes instead of taking the time to discover correct ones (280–81). Even her poet-friend and correspondent, Mary Russell Mitford, wondered if isolation at Wimpole Street had led to an overly narrow experience with proper pronunciation of English (reported in Horne 458; see also Hayter 38–39). Victorian reproofs and anecdotes like these followed Barrett Browning’s work into the formalist twentieth century.

QUESTIONSABOUT THE PERFORMATIVE NATURE of Victorian culture have received extended attention in the past decade or so as critics have begun to examine the relationship between representation and subjectivity.1 By and large, such studies have fruitfully problematized our received assumptions about the private character of the Victorians. At the same time, however, they have also implicitly privileged the middle-class frames of reference that shape the distinction, for even as they complicate our understanding of performance by calling into question the distinction between public and private modes, critics who take up such issues tend not to question the stability of the categories of experience under scrutiny. As a result, while we gain important new insights into the cultural formation of identity or genre underwritten by the separation of public and private spheres, we also risk reading all Victorians as if their relationships to such ideological formations were identical with those of the emerging middle class.

[I]t is not enough to make the Jew respected, but to have JUDAISM rightly reverenced; and to do this, there must be a JEWISH LITERATURE, or the Jewish people will not advance one step.

— Grace Aguilar, The Jewish Faith (1846)

THE ESSAYS COLLECTED in this issue of Victorian Literature and Culture seek to introduce Victorianists to some of the many Anglo-Jewish writers of nineteenth-century England. What differentiates this moment in Anglo-Jewish scholarship from most previous considerations is that we do not purport to fill a falsely constructed “void” of Anglo-Jewish literary silence; on the contrary, this collection seeks to amplify the fullness of nineteenth century Anglo-Jewish literary life. In 1846, Grace Aguilar, the important Anglo-Jewish writer and theologian, called out for the production of a “Jewish literature” that would aid the “right reverence[e] of Judaism,” and “advance” the Jewish people in Victorian England. All too aware of the way exclusion from Hebrew literary and religious texts often precipitated assimilation, conversion, and more generalized alienation from Jewish religious life, Aguilar sought new tools to combat Jewish religious apathy. Detailing the subtle conversionary and theological assumptions that so-called secular — yet clearly Christian — literature often performed, Aguilar reasoned that a Jewish literature could provide Jewish readers — and especially Jewish women — with literary pleasure and a simultaneous sense of Jewish values and ethics; likewise, such a literature could recast the generally negative images of Jewish people and Judaism which pervade the long history of English literature.1 With her emphasis on a Jewish literature, then, Aguilar sought to claim the cultural and ideological power literature held in Victorian England for specifically Jewish uses. Significantly, Aguilar’s tone in the statement above suggests that she saw no such Jewish literature in past moments of Anglo-Jewish history; Aguilar’s intensive production of such a literature in a variety of genres was her own response to this desire for Jewish literature.

IT SHOULD COME AS NO SURPRISE, and probably doesn’t, that cultural studies and Victorian studies have much in common. As George Levine observes in his overview of the earlier field over the past quarter century, “the founding of [the journal] Victorian Studies, in 1957 . . . was almost exactly contemporary with the publication of Raymond Williams’s Culture and Society, one of the most influential books of the last half century” (136).1 Williams’s book was equally influential, indeed something of a founding text, both for Victorian studies and for cultural studies. And this makes sense. Williams’s tough-minded but generous salvaging of the romantic anti-capitalist tradition from Burke through Arnold and all the way to Orwell, which did so much to reinvent Victorian studies for the left, might also be seen as an argument for the necessity of cultural studies, which went on to integrate the tradition of romantic anti-capitalism into its pluralized, anthropological view of culture and to extend it into the present.

This is an adaptation of a talk first presented to the Council for College and University English (CCUE) conference on English for the Millennium, Sept. 1996. CCUE is the British professional body that represents the discipline and departments of English in England, Scotland, and Wales. The talk was meant to provide a transatlantic perspective on the future of the discipline. Originally it was published in CCUE News (June 1997) and later adapted to presentations throughout the U.K. The excerpts here focus on issues of multiculturalism, interdisciplinarity, and cultural studies.

WHEN I DRAW ON MY EXPERIENCE in the United States it is not because I am unaware that the centrality of English literary history is less controversial in England than in its former colony, but because the areas that I see as fundamental to the future of English — a diverse Anglophone population and the demands of the marketplace — are fundamental to both. Twenty years ago, American and British academics were different worlds. The formal democratization of the university and official ideologies of neoliberalism, or market orientation, have brought them closer together. My argument is that the future of English depends less on theories or ideas than on human geographies, institutional conditions, and our embeddedness in market society.

JUDITH MONTEFIORE’SPrivate Journal of a Visit to Egypt and Palestine by Way of Italy and the Mediterranean has been called “the first account in English by a Jewish woman traveller.”1 Recorded in 1827–28 and privately printed in 1836 but never published, the Journal is not widely available and has received only passing acknowledgment, mostly in assessments of the life and career of Moses Montefiore, Judith Montefiore’s husband and perhaps the most celebrated Jewish philanthropist of the nineteenth century.2 What begins as a casual record of travels, first through France and Italy — in the familiar style of the picturesque traveller — becomes the record of a spiritually transforming event in Jerusalem. After this journey the Montefiores became more ritually observant, more focused on tzedakah (acts of righteousness), and more widely connected to the Jewish world.

But he who was of the bondwoman was born after the flesh; but he of the free woman was by promise. Which things are an allegory: for these are the two covenants; the one from the mount Sinai, which gendereth to bondage, which is Hagar. For this Hagar is mount Sinai in Arabia, and answereth to Jerusalem which now is, and is in bondage with her children. But Jerusalem which is above is free, which is the mother of us all. . . . Now we, brethren, as Isaac was, are the children of promise.

— St. Paul, Epistle to the Galatians

These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind . . .

— Longfellow, “The Jewish Cemetery at Newport,” 1852

GIVEN PAUL’S TORTUOUS, divisive rhetoric, the Jew is always the proto-Christian, deprived of actual historical identity and development. For Christianity, founding itself on usurpation, cannot dispense with the Abrahamic covenant or the sacrifice of Isaac (to Jews, the akedah, binding) that prefigures the martyrdom of Jesus. Because Christianity begins by absorbing Hebraic characters as patterns, it must represent real Jews by a second displacement, as non-Jews: “These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind.” In Christian eyes, the Jew is twice dispossessed — once by metamorphosis into the potentially free Christian, and again by disguise as a creature of bondage.

ALTHOUGH IT IS NOW COMMONPLACE to find cultural studies invoked as one of the tributaries of Victorian studies — and the rubric for this journal is no exception — the precise relationship between these two interdiciplinary fields is still unsettled and seems likely to remain so. This is not, as is sometimes claimed, because cultural studies has felt able to dispense with the past, preferring to dwell in and upon the postmodernized present: to the contrary, some of the finest work currently linked to cultural studies has shown a keen awareness of the bankruptcy of contemporary posthistoire, insisting instead upon the continuing need to interrogate the historical record, to reexamine what was at stake both in the longues durées of culturally sedimented time and in the flashpoints and crises of yesteryear. Catherine Hall’s engagement with the changing configuration of “race” in the debates about the British empire between 1830 and 1870 has been exemplary in this regard, but she is far from being the only relevant exception that one might cite — Carolyn Steedman and Richard Johnson are among the many other names that immediately come to mind.

LIKE MANY OTHER PEOPLE these days, I’m concerned about the speed-up in graduate education. The chief cause of our students’ premature professionalization is, of course, the terrible job market — which John Guillory has faulted for propagating intellectual shallowness among our students, by forcing them to become active scholars too soon. Guillory remarks, incidentally, that the social marginalization of literary studies reflected in the job crisis coincides with its strident politicization, which he reads as symptomatic of — and by no means a solution to — the decreased relevance of the discipline itself in contemporary society. What Guillory doesn’t mention, however, is the obvious role that cultural studies plays in the speed-up of graduate studies, and the way its simplistic political imperatives contribute to that speed-up. But it seems to me that the vast new territories cultural studies opens up to scholarship, along with the pressures it creates in all of us to find a hot new cultural topic (in Don DeLillo’s White Noise, one cultural studies professor to another: “I want to do with Elvis what you did with Hitler”), require a reductive politics to enable the quick consumption of knowledge that makes rapid professionalization possible. Our students are no longer surprised by our “commodify or die” ethos.

IF THERE IS to be a challenge to the increasingly prevalent impulse to recover Anglo-Jewish texts from the silences of the archives, the challenge will undoubtedly arise in relation to the novels of Julia Frankau.1 Frankau’s late Victorian novels on Jewish subjects, Dr. Phillips: A Maida Vale Idyll (1887) and Pigs in Clover (1903), explore and authorize a particular set of attitudes known as “Jewish self-hatred,” and, I will argue, legitimate these attitudes by recourse to an idiosyncratic form of scientific racism. Moreover, as I will demonstrate, these texts have served as spurs to the production of racial anti-Semitism. In such a case, what does it mean to recover the text? For what purposes does one revive interest in a self-hating work that has a history of generating dangerous consequences?

IN 1861 AMY LEVY was born into a middle-class Anglo-Jewish family with deep roots in England, and was part of the first generation of women at Cambridge University. Her life was marked by the opportunities and predicaments of Anglo-Jews at a pivotal moment in their history. Receiving full political rights in 1858, two years before Levy was born, England’s Jews attained positions of status in the late-Victorian period and became integrated into the fabric of British society. Todd Endelman, however, like other commentators on Anglo-Jewry in this period, gives the British a mixed evaluation on their treatment of the Jews. Tolerant in many ways, England was “hostile to the notion of cultural diversity. Circles and institutions quite willing to tolerate Jews as intimate associates were not willing to endorse the perpetuation of a separate Jewish culture or to see any value in the customs or beliefs of the Jewish religion” (209).

VICTORIAN STUDIES PRACTITIONERS have often applauded themselves on their openness to views, topics, and approaches not immediately recognizable as already part of the field. I put the formulation this way because Victorian studies scholars and critics also prize the field for its capaciousness; they tend to think of the field as large and already all-inclusive. It houses many genres and sub-disciplines and it first welcomed certain kinds of critical theory when other historical fields moved more slowly to accept them.