This article explores the representation of British sailortown and merchant sailors onshore in the context of their representation in Victorian writing and contemporary journalism. It proposes that sailortown functioned as an urban setting which offered the traveling or returning sailor an important sense of homeliness—a homeliness that was paradoxically based on the promotion of a collective and worldly belonging. This sense of “worldliness” was articulated through aspects of ornamental material culture ranging from sailortown's visual display of nautical and transnational symbols, to the interior arrangements of places of hospitality such as Sailors’ Homes, to sailors’ own forms of portable property. By thinking more closely about the relationship between the domestic and the global in the context of maritime culture, the article proposes that the ornamental features of the seafarer's life, in all its diverse manifestations, serves to reveal the paradoxes and rich ambivalences that underscore the situation of the nineteenth-century sailor onshore.

Three ghostly white plants float suspended atop the Prussian-blue background of a 27 x 21 cm print (fig. 1). Their leafy fronds are so exquisitely fine that in some places the blue bleeds through their tissues to expose delicate quiltings of veins and willowy inflorescences. Opaque white patches mottle each of the plants to signal where multiple layers of plant flesh overlap. The interplay of shapes, color, and textures in the image captures an atmospheric effect of alien beauty, nearly incomprehensible. That is, until the small label at the bottom of the print in meticulous penmanship informs us that we are looking at Delessaria sanguinea, a type of red algae commonly known as “Sea Beech.” This is one in the thousand-plus body of images that comprises Anna Atkins's Photographs of British Algae: Cyanotype Impressions. Dedicated to documenting England's native seaweed, ferns, and flowering plants, Atkins's photographic botanical project ranged about a decade (October 1843–53) and resulted in multiple editions she would give to friends and cultural institutions. While she primarily helmed the project herself, she occasionally included her father, zoologist and photography enthusiast John Children. For the last couple albums, she enlisted as a co-creator her “like a sister” Anne Dixon, who collected, arranged, and developed the images alongside Atkins.

Critics of Miss Marjoribanks are divided about whether Margaret Oliphant's eponymous heroine's performance of social conventions, particularly those pertaining to gender roles, is consciously subversive or an unreflective embodiment of those conventions. This scholarship implicitly equates agency with critical detachment: if Lucilla does not critique the conventions she uses and the constructions of gender they reflect, she must lack the capacity to think strategically about her desires, a capacity necessary for agency. It's true that Lucilla is neither critical nor detached. Oliphant characterizes her as fully invested in social norms and as lacking the psychological depth that typically marks agential characters. In fact, I argue that Lucilla is a flat character and that Lucilla's flatness is precisely what makes her excel as an agent. Lucilla's nigh-emotionless thinking, combined with her ruling qualities of good sense and self-satisfaction, promotes agency. Untrammeled by mixed feelings or self-doubt, she has nothing to do but rationally calculate how best to achieve her interests. Reconsidering Lucilla's agency in light of her flatness thus allows us both to value that agency as Oliphant portrays it and to understand how characters can have agency at all.

In May 2017, the annual City University of New York (CUNY) Victorian Conference addressed the history of Victorian feminist criticism. Our conference coincided with the fortieth anniversary of A Literature of Their Own and the thirtieth anniversary of Desire and Domestic Fiction, affording us a chance to think about the legacy of these groundbreaking texts. Elaine Showalter, Martha Vicinus, and Nancy Armstrong spoke about their struggles to establish and maintain Victorian feminist work in the twentieth century, often against outright hostility. We also heard about issues in twenty-first-century Victorian feminist practice: Alison Booth spoke about digital-humanities codification of Victorian women's lives, Jill Ehnenn discussed queer revisions, and Maia McAleavey explored new theories of relationality, while I gave a response to Armstrong's talk. Meanwhile, Carolyn Oulton's discussion of the ongoing struggle to canonize Victorian women writers spoke to the continuous work required to make Victorian women's writing familiar to the field. It was an emotional day, for we all recognized that this might be one of the last times that the founding generation could be together to share these stories.

In 1881 two women who were to become part of the history of Victorian feminism met: Constance Maynard (1849–1935), graduate of one of the first cohorts of women to enter Girton College and founder in 1882 of Westfield College for Women, and Bessie Rayner Parkes Belloc (1829–1925), friend of Barbara Leigh Smith Bodichon and the “Langham Place” group of feminists, and former editor of the feminist English Women's Journal. In 1873 Maynard became the first woman in England to receive a degree in “moral sciences,” from Girton, and subsequently worked for six years as a headmistress and schoolmistress at two groundbreaking girls' schools, Cheltenham Ladies' College and the new St. Leonard's School in Scotland. When she met Belloc, she was living in London with her brother, taking art classes at the Slade School, and beginning discussions that would lead to the foundation of Westfield College, formed as an explicitly Evangelical-identified parallel to ecumenical Girton and also as the first college to prepare women for the examinations and degrees offered by the University of London.

The first time a casually racist reference crops up in the Victorian texts I teach, I tell my students that the presence of slurs and stereotypes in Victorian literature reflects the prevalence of racism in Victorian society. I give them some historical context for the racism whenever possible and smile stoically. Yes, I say, that expression in the novel I've made you purchase and that I'm encouraging you to find fascinating is indeed racist. Let's talk about how racist it is and why! The second time an explicitly racist reference crops up, we refer to the previous conversation. The third time it does, we look meaningfully at each other and shake our heads. The fourth time it does, we don't even mention it. We learn, like the Victorians, to take it for granted.

Long forgotten, Elizabeth Polack (fl. 1835–43) is the earliest known Jewish woman playwright in England. This essay argues that her first play, Esther, the Royal Jewess, or the Death of Haman! (1835), performed at a public playhouse in the Jewish working-class neighborhood of London's East End, radically realigns diverse genres and populations in advocating both Jewish emancipation and a voice for women. By way of a very brief introduction, I first point out the applicability here of Judith Butler's Notes toward a Performative Theory of Assembly. Butler explores how group protest, such as Tahir Square or Occupy Wall Street, serves as a kind of communal bodily signification. Of course, her point is not to address how people come together in a public theater, where the cast arrives daily for salaried jobs and the audience plunks down cold cash for a fun night out. Yet something else meaningful can occur in assembly within the theater. Theatrical performances can take on the discursive power of political assembly that Butler defines, signifying “in excess of what is said,” bringing actors and audience together with potentially political valence. Butler helps us understand the stakes of theatrical performance and public assembly and why it is important to examine Esther, the Royal Jewess beyond recovering a neglected author, though that too is part of my object.

When Charles Lyell chronicles humankind's rise to geologic power in the Principles of Geology, he talks out of both sides of his mouth. Detailing the human species’ seemingly unmatched force as a terrestrial “levelling agent,” he ruminates on an unsettling possibility that haunts the present: “it admits of reasonable doubt whether, upon the whole, we fertilize or impoverish the lands we occupy.” Already at the time of Lyell's writing, the human species had “displaced” or altogether extinguished “a number of beasts of prey, birds, and animals of every class” (2:148) through deforestation, hunting, and the “progress of colonization” (2:150–51). But elsewhere in the Principles, Lyell puts into question what this history of environmental degradation otherwise seems to assert: that to be human is to possess a singular capacity for mastery. Thus, Lyell declares, “we ought always, before we decide that any part of the influence of man is novel and anomalous, carefully to consider all the powers of other animate agents which may be limited or superseded by him” (2:206). Tracing how swarms of insects gave dramatic and lasting shape to the German arboreal landscape in ways that humans could never replicate, he concludes: “[I]t does not follow that this kind of innovation”—human innovation—“is unprecedented” (2:206). Even as Lyell imagines humankind as “superior” in its capacity to act as “a single species,” he persistently lingers with the very real possibility that humans do not possess a “novel and anomalous” hold over the world (2:207, emphasis original). Instead, the Principles traces how the world is shaped by “physical causes” and nonhuman agencies that elude control and unmask the relative “insignifican[ce]” of humankind's “aggregate force” (2:207). Inasmuch as humans comprise only one part of an agential assemblage whose shifting interactions elude anthropogenic mastery, the Principles imagines humankind as interpenetrated by and profoundly susceptible to nonhuman life-forms and forces. According to Lyell, then, deep history speaks not only of the human species’ seemingly privileged capacity for action but also its nonintentionality, noninstrumentality, and vulnerability. That the Principles tells a story about the porous interfaces between human and nonhuman geologic agents is perhaps surprising, given that it emerged and participated in a moment which, for many, marks the zenith of imperial and anthropogenic power.

In 1905 Lasker's Chess Magazine published a nostalgic reflection on “Charles Dickens as a Chess Player.” Dickens's “old time friend,” Miss Tregear, recalled often playing whist and chess with the competitive novelist: “He was always annoyed when she beat him, and invariably wanted to play another game.” One night, “at midnight,” they reached a draw and Miss Tregear remembers Dickens soliloquizing, “somewhat resignedly,” that the results were just: “Man and woman represent an equation after all. … Intellectual affection is the only lasting love. Love that has a game of chess in it can checkmate any man and solve the problem of life” (12). One “peculiarity” marked Dickens as a chess player: “He always wanted Miss Tregear to play first. He followed all her play and accepted all her variations. ‘It was just so,’ she said, ‘in all his novels. He lets a character lead, and then he simply follows it. … He never created a character’” (12).

It would be hard to discover a theoretical or aesthetic approach to George Eliot's Middlemarch that is not already anticipated in some way by the novel's sagacious narrator. Possibly that persona, the quintessential Victorian polymath, does not foresee digital humanities as we know it. But critics have been struck as much by Eliot's prototyping of information systems, semiotics, and network analysis as by her humanist ethics. Casaubon does not invent the database of myths any more than Lydgate discovers DNA, or than Marian Evans Lewes rivals Ada Lovelace and Charles Babbage. As I illustrate a kind of digital research that adjusts to the minute particulars of narrative, I hope to keep sight of historical distances between the 1830s, the 1870s, and the era of feminist Victorian studies that I sketch here. Lydgate's penetrative “invention,” in the epigraph, is associated elsewhere in the novel with his actual “flesh-and-blood” vitality: “He cared not only for ‘cases,’ but for John and Elizabeth, especially Elizabeth” (Middlemarch, chap. 15). He is as dedicated to evidence as the narrator, in many scientific analogies, counsels readers to be, and yet he approaches his own life story and the characters of women with a kind of prejudgment that filters out most data. Eliot's readers, seeing Lydgate's errors, are flattered into believing we miss no signals and see all analogies. Can contemporary readers appreciate both numerical cases and individual stories of women? In this article I try to outline a feminist criticism that encompasses both typological classifications and flesh-and-blood individuality, both digital research and interpretative advocacy.

This essay uses Elizabeth Gaskell's industrial novels Mary Barton (1848) and North and South (1955) to chart an intersection between biopolitics, food studies, and questions of novelistic form. First, the essay develops the argument that with the emergence of population as a key cultural concern, the Victorian novel became a biopolitical form structured by an interplay between the marriage plot and what I call the “food plot.” Following Thomas Malthus's uneasy connections between reproduction and the food supply, the nineteenth-century British novel was animated by a biopolitical tension between sexuality and appetite that took the shape of an uneven relationship between the dominant marriage plot and the subordinate food plot. However, the essay goes on to argue that Gaskell's industrial fiction reworks this dynamic to expose its limits and elisions. Through its commitment to representing working-class hunger, Gaskell's industrial fiction reshapes the relationship between the food plot and the marriage plot, giving appetite a central place in Victorian narrative but also drawing attention to the problematic ways in which marriage plots push appetite to the margins. My main test case is Gaskell's first novel, Mary Barton, which deploys in order to scrutinize and finally destabilize the novelistic framework that subordinates appetite to sexuality.

Although this essay is about reading texts from the past, I begin with the present, with a US president who was elected despite widespread knowledge that he had infamously boasted about how he often starts kissing beautiful women without consent. “I don't even wait,” he crowed. “When you're a star they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.” The internet was soon flooded with angry feminist responses to his crass admission of sexual violence, retorts that appropriated his use of vulgar language with wit and resistance, the most prevalent being the meme “Pussy Grabs Back!” (see fig. 1). The Pussy Hat Project soon followed. As we know, the pussy hat phenomenon offended some who felt it was racist (not all vulvas are pink) and/or transphobic (not all women have pussies). Nevertheless, a sea of pink pussy hats, worn by persons of many embodiments and identity categories, would be seen in protest, worldwide, at the record-breaking post-inauguration Women's Marches across the globe. If “Grab ’em by the pussy” rightly offended, “Pussy Grabs Back!” gained traction.

Over the past two decades, studies of the Victorian novel have been enriched significantly by a growing body of scholarship looking to the literature and letters of the period to affirm for the twenty-first century the theoretical and practical value of liberal conceptualizations of critical detachment and communicative decision-making procedures. In the process, the works of George Eliot (1819–1880) have come to be understood not only as modeling forms of critical detachment and rational decision-making but also as important contributors to what Amanda Anderson has identified as “the emergence of the [Habermasian] public sphere in Enlightenment Europe, a historical condition in which critique, argument, and debate inform developing political practices and institutions,” which “helped to consolidate … the legitimating force of public opinion and the rule of law, the successor to now delegitimated forms of absolute sovereignty.” However, I will argue here that Eliot's early writing in particular demonstrates a distinct lack of faith in the power of liberalism and its political procedures and that Eliot's early work in fact exposes the illiberal tendencies embedded in these procedures. Rather than asserting the authority of the public sphere, Eliot's important early novels Adam Bede (1859) and The Mill on the Floss (1860) consistently look beyond themselves, so to speak, to a providential authority that exceeds the tenets of realism in their efforts to resolve conflict and provide closure to the novels. For each novel, aesthetic coherence is secured not through “critique, argument, and debate” but through recourse to metaphysics and to extrasocial and/or extraprocedural decisions. In the following pages I align this phenomenon in Eliot's early writing with the controversial German legal scholar Carl Schmitt's concept of the exception in order to argue that, by appealing to the logic of providence to resolve their most intractable legal and ethical problems, these early novels in fact demonstrate Eliot's awareness of the practical limitations of proceduralism as a legitimate decision-making instrument.

How does the category of the “animal” contribute to the Victorian novel? In the 1840s and 1850s, magazines offered endless short tales of “animal sagacity” that most commonly featured dogs, demonstrating the virtues of the species. An 1858 article in Household Words, “Old Dog Tray,” observes, “Alas! not a day will pass but we can descry human qualities in the brute, and brute qualities in the human being; and, alas again, how often we find a balance of love, fidelity, truth, generosity, on the side of the brute!” In the 1850s and 1860s, the analogies between human and animal behavior upon which these tales depended became a resource to the growing fields of comparative ethology and evolutionary theory—Frances Power Cobbe would suggest in 1877 that dogs had “reflex morality.” Meanwhile, novels from this period increasingly raised questions of the scientific, political, and aesthetic value of claims of resemblance among species. For Charles Dickens, whose work offered a capacious image of the London population, the question of who belongs in a family, a community, or a nation persistently turned to the status of animals. In his work, animal figures mark meditations on the conditions and limits of social inclusion.

Tenure, the Anglican practice of residing and ministering within the small bounds of a parish, became the basis for a surprisingly wide range of Victorian novels. Its plot, which begins with the clergyman's arrival in a parish and ends with his leave-taking or death, echoes throughout the work of Gaskell, Oliphant, Trollope, and Eliot, but its origins and most condensed form lie in a minor, midcentury genre that I call the parish novel. In taking the parameters of tenure—its duration and its modest ambit—as their own, parish novels turned reading into a form of pastoral labor: a close, laborious, yet seemingly unproductive attention that simultaneously suffused everyday life with latent meaning and rendered such meaning a function of residence. The following essay traces the rise and fall of this genre against Anglicanism's reorientation from a set of beliefs to a formal activity whose goals aligned closely with the work of reading. Unlike earlier religious narratives, the parish novel offers a model of reading in which spiritual meaning is secured neither by a sense of providence nor by religious allegory but by the sustained exercise of faith.

This new section of Victorian Literature and Culture focuses on apparently minor works of criticism, works that have fallen out of view but that might deserve another look. I want to talk about an almost aggressively minor instance of very Victorian scholarship, minor not only because it isn't often read but also because minorness is built into its very design: E. P. Thompson's “Postscript: 1976,” a longish essay that followed the second and revised edition of his 1955 biography, William Morris: Romantic to Revolutionary. When seen in the reciprocal contexts of Thompson's career and the story of the British left (when, in other words, theory is seen not as opposed to but rather as a part of history), the apparently minor and belated qualities of Thompson's postscript emerge as a source of critical and even utopian promise. I want to argue that Thompson's lifelong engagement with the life of William Morris and with Morris's late conversion to socialism led him to a powerful and counterintuitive account of the lived threshold (what he and Morris call the “river of fire”) as essential to the methods of history and historical materialism.

Despite Macfie's vivid assertion, studies of Victorian medicine and literature have not paid special attention to the pharmaceutical field, perhaps because of its messy associations with trade or inferiority to more respected healing practices. After all, it is Doctor Lydgate's refusal to prescribe the expected drugs in Middlemarch that proves his commitment to evidence-based Parisian medicine. As I aim to demonstrate, however, pharmacy and its products have a distinct and two-edged history in late-Victorian England. Medical writers increasingly assert the scientific authority and physiological promise of pharmacology. At the same time, they begin to show interest in the romance of drugs: their origins in alchemy and the occult, harvesting in the furthest outreaches of empire, and, at home, display in the magical space of the chemist's shop. This productive tension between medicinal drugs as stuff of ancient mystery and sign of medical progress informs their depiction in the transforming drug narratives of Robert Louis Stevenson's Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886), Arthur Machen's “Novel of the White Powder” (1895), and Rudyard Kipling's “Wireless” (1902). Bringing romance and drugs together invites readers to think about their respective claims to invigorate, transport, even remake the self.

Situating George Eliot within mid-Victorian debates over central versus local government, this article contests the widespread presupposition that Eliot rejected official politics in favor of cultural mediation. Specifically, I argue that in Middlemarch: A Study of Provincial Life (1871–72), Eliot seeks to kindle a desire for local political institutions and to promote, in J. S. Mill's words, “the capacities moral, intellectual, and active required for working” them. Using the representative protocols of the local press, Eliot portrays Middlemarch's public health institutions as both opaque and transparent. While the public health work of Tertius Lydgate is essential to the novel's bildung plots and the town's cholera response, it is only represented obliquely through narrative paralipsis. In contrast, Eliot stages local council debates theatrically in scenes whose typography mimics the local press's treatment of council meetings. Eliot then supplements these protocols with the realist novel's networked form, which compels readers to supply characterological depth to the elided labors of Lydgate and the dramatic representations of council meetings. In thus depicting local representative government, Eliot prompts a desire for local political institutions and trains her readers in the cognitive skills needed to participate within them.

It is fitting that this article emerged from a conference in which the orderly progression of speakers was continually modified by exchanges within the conference space, for these two ways of organizing information form the subject of this article. When we aim to recover Victorian women writers, we often imagine a particular case in a timeline, selecting and extracting in a tacit model of linear orderliness. This is particularly significant in what we might call “recovery feminism,” the practice of salvaging texts that have been lost to history. Recovery feminism has dominated Victorianist feminist criticism since its development in the late 1970s, and I practiced it enthusiastically in my first book, The Forgotten Female Aesthetes. In this article, I want to acknowledge what recovery feminism has given us, but I also want to delineate the profound and often unarticulated ways it continues to structure our work, often with unintended consequences. In order to explore alternative forms of feminism, I assess theories of influence and intertextuality, and I use Charlotte M. Yonge's The Heir of Redclyffe (1853) as an example that both thematizes this issue and acts as a case study of forms of feminist criticism. A viable feminist criticism, I contend, ought to be able to address a novel like Heir, and Heir itself may be able to provide a model for how to do that. Such a model of feminist practice might actually resemble the simultaneous, atemporal, interactive model of the conference day. In the digital era, we occupy an alternative chronology, in which we envision ourselves not as strenuously excavating the last disintegrating relics of the past, but rather as choosing among multiple simultaneous virtual texts, severed from markers of time or space. What might be a feminist critical practice for the way we work now?