It might seem bold, or even presumptuous, to assert that there is a clearly identifiable unified theory of the novel present in any aspect of Victorian literary culture. As John C. Olmsted rightly observes, assessing the presence of any specific and consistent critical stance in Victorian criticism is a difficult task; thus, any attempt to evaluate Victorian criticism of the novel is problematic. Victorian periodical criticism is

Despite the recent revival of interest in the works of Anthony Trollope, his short novel The Struggles of Brown, Jones and Robinson has largely escaped serious attention. Trollope called the book a “satire on the ways of trade,” (Autobiography 106) and serialized it in Cornhill Magazine, 1861–62. The novel turned out to be a critical and commercial failure, perhaps because it marked a dramatic departure from the familiar social comedy of Barsetshire novels. Contemporary reviewers called it “coarse,” “odiously vulgar,” and “unmitigated rubbish.” Later readers were no more generous. C. P. Snow judged SBJR “one of the least funny books ever written” and thought Trollope had “perpetrated idiocy. . .” by writing it (95–96).

“The Angel in the House is not a very good poem,” writes Carol Christ, “yet it is culturally significant, not only for its definition of the sexual ideal, but also for the clarity with which it represents the male concerns that motivate fascination with that ideal” (147). Her pronouncement is strongly emblematic of recent approaches to Coventry Patmore's best-known poem. The Angel, it is asserted or implied, almost never receives a full or attentive reading now, and does not reward one; it would long since have sunk into obscurity were it not for the unforeseen appropriation of its title as a repository for the prevailing Victorian conception of womanhood; as a text it belongs more properly to the domain of cultural history or gender studies than literary criticism. A renewed scholarly interest in the technical experimentation of Patmore's later volume The Unknown Eros (1877) has done little to challenge this view, largely defining itself against the dull conventionality of the earlier work.

George Eliot, notoriously sensitive to criticism of her novels, received a reassuring letter from her publisher, John Blackwood, one month into the publication of Daniel Deronda (1876) in Books or Parts:

Almost at the end of Book VI of Daniel Deronda, that is, with at least three-quarters of the novel over, Gwendolen Harleth's dreadful husband, Henleigh Mallinger Grandcourt, suddenly reveals a new side of himself. Whereas heretofore he has mentioned or engaged in recreations that include hunting, shooting (including tigers), and gambling, all as means of passing the time rather than achieving exhilaration or amusement, he now reveals himself as a yachtsman. After catching Gwendolen in their town house in Grosvenor Square in yet another of her contrived tête à têtes with Daniel, he declares he has already begun preparations for a Mediterranean cruise for himself and his wife, alone together.

Like all complicated relationships, that between realism and sensationalism has been subject to a good deal of rumour and speculation. In what might be described as the pair's first critical encounter – in an 1852 joint review of W. M. Thackeray's The History of Henry Esmond and Wilkie Collins's proto-sensation novel Basil – a critic for Bentley's Miscellany intimates that a partnership between two such different forms is anything but likely. “We have,” he explains, “put these two books ‘over against’ each other, to use one of Mr. Thackeray's favourite Queen-Anne-isms, because they have no kind of family resemblance. They are, indeed, as unlike each other as any two books can be. They constitute a kind of literary antithesis” (“Esmond” 576). The inherently contradictory nature of this originary “over against” gesture – conflating proximity and distance, contiguity and difference – sets the keynote for subsequent discussions, contemporaneous and current, of a generic relationship that continues to attract and elude definition.

In the climactic finale to the first act of Oscar Wilde's 1895 play An Ideal Husband, Gertrude Chiltern convinces her husband, a Member of Parliament, not to support the construction of a boondoggle Argentinean canal. Gertrude, not her husband, is the ostensibly moral character here, since the canal's only purpose is to create wealth for its stockholders, but the language she uses in this impassioned speech quotes Guinevere, the contrite fallen wife in Alfred Tennyson's Idylls of the King. Near the end of the Idylls, recognizing that her infidelity has occasioned war, turmoil, and the end of Arthur's reign, Guinevere laments:

Ah my God,
What might I not have made of thy fair world,
Had I but loved thy highest creature here?
It was my duty to have loved the highest:
It surely was my profit had I known:
It would have been my pleasure had I seen.
We needs must love the highest when we see it (G 649–56)

In Amy Levy's 1888 novel, The Romance of a Shop, four orphaned sisters, the Lorimers, open a photography studio in London and struggle to find business and a balance between free expression and propriety. Certainly, the sisters’ commercial involvement with photography can be read as artistic and unconventional for women of the time, but their position as artist-observers sometimes seems to relegate them to a space behind the lens and behind the window that divides their apartment from the society they look out upon. It is from that position as photographer-observer that Gertrude, the most introspective and yet most socially conscious of the sisters, wields her perceptive powers, her piercing gaze. Photography, and the way in which it influences her mode of observing, gives Gertrude an accurate, superior vision and a kind of social agency; but that gaze is negatively mediated by photography, too, filtered by the machine.

Of his nineteen years as a sailor, from 1874 to 1894, Joseph Conrad actually worked on ships for ten years and eight months, of which just over eight years were spent at sea, including nine months as a passenger (Najder 161–62). During these nomadic years, London was the place to which he returned again and again to seek his next berth, staying in a series of sailors’ homes, lodgings, and boarding houses. How did he spend his time, a single man with no family and few friends, whose main occupation was waiting? He recalled, in the preface to The Secret Agent, “solitary and nocturnal walks all over London in my early days” (7). Ford Madox Ford says that Conrad knew all the bars around Fenchurch Street (which links the financial centre of the City of London to Whitechapel and the East End) from his days of waiting for a ship. Returning to the area later in life, according to Ford's slightly improbable memory, he “became at once the city-man gentleman-adventurer with an eye for a skirt,” who “could tell you where every husky earringed fellow with a blue, white-spotted handkerchief under his arm was going to. . . .” (Joseph Conrad 116, 117). The reality of these London sojourns was probably less romantic, most of the time. But there was one place where a sailor ashore, without much money, could always go for company and entertainment: the music-hall.

Influences, Imitators, Offshoots, and Other Interlocutors: Punch Re-Rooted: Comedy and the Periodical Press 1820–1850

SHANNON R. SMITH

A Royal Passion: Queen Victoria and Photography

RICHARD L. STEIN

Oscar the Opera and the High-Pitched Life

GAIL TURLEY HOUSTON

Conversations with Oscar Wilde

ANN C. COLLEY

A Felt Experience: Touching the Book at Birkbeck, London

RYAN SWEET

A plethora of fine books on Victorian India have been published in the last decade or so, a number of them in the past three years. These works cover a wide range of postcolonial thought: histories of Indian sub-cultures (Bhavani Raman's Document Raj, on scribal culture in the Madras East India company and Davesh Soneji's study of the devadāsī of South India in Unfinished Gestures); histories of English dissident subcultures (late Victorian homosexuals and vegetarians, among those documented in Leela Gandhi's Affective Communities); Andrea Major's epic Slavery, Abolitionism, and Empire in India, 1772–1843, and the erudite and comprehensive Oxford edition, India and the British Empire, edited by Douglas Peers and Nandini Gooptu, a magisterial work that begins with recognition of the “remarkable efflorescence over the past generation” (1) in historical studies of colonial India.

In his recently published bookThe Antinomies of Realism, Fredric Jameson presents his take on the pervasive struggle between the realist mode's origins and its ostensible demise. Throughout his career, Jameson has been dissatisfied with the numerous binary oppositions into which realism is so often inserted and the insufficiently historicized value judgments that tend to go with them. In this new work, Jameson argues that realism is instead caught between and constituted by the opposing poles of story and affect. He argues that “the irrevocable antagonism between [these] twin (and entwined) forces . . . are never reconciled, never fold back into one another in some ultimate reconciliation and identity; and the very force and pungency of the realist writing [here examined] is predicated on that tension, which must remain an impossible one, under pain of losing itself altogether and dissipating if it is ever resolved in favor of one of the parties to the struggle” (11). Jameson locates the “final battle” between the antinomies of realism “in the microstructures of language” and “against the dominance of point of view which seems to hold the affective impulses in check and lend them the organizing attribution of a central consciousness” (11). For Jameson, this formal and linguistic face-off “exhaust[s] and destroy[s]” realism, and whatever “odd assortment of random tools and techniques” we recognize in the post-nineteenth-century world are but remnants of realism's “shriveled posterity” (11). Thus, Jameson insists the book of realism is closed, and as Harry Shaw has noted, “he appears . . . to have maintained a consistent line throughout his career” (Narrating Reality 27n31).

In their collection of essays, The New Economic Criticism: Studies at the Intersection of Literature and Economics (1999), Mark Osteen and Martha Woodmansee identified and named a movement in economic literary studies and sought to place it alongside a cultural turn in economics. In their introduction, they offer possible reasons for the proliferation of scholarship in literature, culture, and economics. One is that “the critical pendulum has decidedly swung back toward historicist methods” and away from formalist approaches (3); another is that the 1980s thrust “interest rates, stock market speculation, takeovers, leveraged buyouts, and so on, into the public attention as never before since the 1930s” (4). Today, the proverbial pendulum has swung back toward formalism, and it is now surprising to encounter their comparison of the 1980s to the 1930s because we have become so accustomed to claim that comparison to the 1930s for our own post-2008 economy.