Despite the recent revival of interest in the Victorian epic, poems from the colonial periphery have played only a small role in the revised narrative of the epic's persistence across the nineteenth century. Part of the explanation for this may lie in the centralized imperial geography of the archives that inspired both nineteenth-century scholars and epoists. As Adelene Buckland and Anna Vaninskaya remark, “Britain was certainly the place to be for a nineteenth-century aficionado of epic poetry” (163). While scholars flocked to Oxford, Cambridge, the British Museum, and the Bodleian Library to pour over the texts of Gilgamesh or old Icelandic sagas, a number of nineteenth-century poets began to see the epic itself as a tool for excavating a more geographically and archeologically localized national story. As Simon Dentith notes, “the nationalism of the nineteenth century seized upon epics – especially the old vernacular primary epics . . . and made them an expression of the national spirit (Epic 67). William Morris's Sigurd the Volsung, for example, revives the mythology of the Old North to make a “Great Story” for the race of northern Europeans what the “Tale of Troy was to the Greeks” (Dentith, “Morris” 239).

This essay looks at Carlyle's interest in visual and literary portraiture, as the basis for a reassessment of his practice as a biographer in relation to the wider biographical culture of Victorian Britain. Carlyle's fascination with portraits manifested itself in a number of ways. Despite his professed reluctance as a sitter, his face was one of the most visible of his day – painted, sketched, sculpted, photographed, and reproduced for public circulation in engravings and cartes de visite. He collected portraits of his family, friends, and heroes, and was a public champion of the art, most famously through his influential role in the founding of the English National Portrait Gallery. He was also valued by his contemporaries as a portraitist in words, a writer whose graphic style included a striking ability to picture people. Yet only partial answers have been offered to the question of how these activities related to each other and what their significance might be in terms of his career. Paul Barlow has explored Carlyle's concept of the authentic, historical portrait in relation to his proposals for a National Portrait Gallery (“Facing the Past” and “The Imagined Hero”), and John Rosenberg has discussed his pictorial style as a means by which he sought to make history into a secular scripture by “endowing the past with extraordinary ‘presence’” (24). Richard Salmon has given some consideration to Carlyle's engagement with contemporary “portrait gallery” publications as part of his discussion of his ambivalent response to idolatry and literary “lionism” (Salmon 2002). I am indebted to these discussions but I differ from them in arguing that we need to see Carlyle's interest in portraiture, both visual and verbal, as integral to his conception and practice of biography. The fact that he, famously, enmeshes history and biography, in theory and practice, does not invalidate this point. It is with biography and the biographical basis of historical narrative, that he associates the portrait and portraiture. This distinction matters because it shifts us away from the emphasis on Carlyle as an historian that has sometimes occluded his links with his contemporary biographical culture. By restoring these links we can understand more fully the significance both of the portrait within his work, and of his innovative contribution to a broader climate of experimentation with the conjunction of visual and verbal portraiture in life writing at the period.

Punch's Mr. Dunup is indeed in an awful position. Having fled to France to escape his English creditors, he finds himself in the midst of the French Revolution of 1848. The question that he must answer – what is worse, revolution in France or bankruptcy in England? – is one that preoccupied Victorians at midcentury, when a wave of European revolutions coincided with the domestic financial crisis of 1845–48. In classic accounts of nineteenth-century Europe, 1848 is remembered as the year when a crucial contest was waged between political revolution, identified with the Continent, and capitalism, identified with Britain. According to Eric Hobsbawm, the failure of the 1848 revolutions to effect lasting political change ushered in “[t]he sudden, vast and apparently boundless expansion of the world capitalist economy”: “Political revolution retreated, industrial revolution advanced” (2). For mid-nineteenth-century Britons, however, the triumph of capitalism was by no means assured. In what follows, I look closely at how Victorian journalists and novelists imagined the British financial crisis of the 1840s after this event was given new meaning by the 1848 French Revolution. Much of this writing envisions political revolution and the capitalist economy in the same way as the Punch satirist does – not as competing ideologies of social progress but as equivalent forms of social disruption. As we will see, at midcentury, the ongoing financial crisis was routinely represented as a quasi-revolutionary upheaval: it was a mass disturbance that struck terror into the middle classes precisely by suddenly and violently toppling the nation's leading men and social institutions.

On his last trip to America in 1868, Charles Dickens would write a letter to his friend and biographer John Forster, which paints a sobering picture of postbellum Baltimore: “It is remarkable to see how the Ghost of Slavery haunts the town; and how the shambling, untidy, evasive, and postponing Irrepressible proceeds about his free work, going round and round it, instead of at it.” While Dickens's phrase “the Ghost of Slavery” indicts a slave system that persists despite abolition, his representation of the former slave body – “the shambling, untidy, evasive, and postponing Irrepressible” – suggests another kind of ghost, an identity that toggles between the spectral and the grossly embodied. Dickens reinforces this conjunction of the ghostly and the corporeal as he goes on to note that “[t]he melancholy absurdity of giving these people votes, at any rate at present, would glare at one out of every roll of their eyes, chuckle in their mouths, and bump in their heads, if one did not see . . . that their enfranchisement is a mere party trick to get votes” (Letters 27). Resorting to the crudest racial stereotypes, Dickens portrays recently manumitted slaves as dolls devoid of speech and political agency. In depicting the “postponing Irrepressible” as stripped of personhood and civil capacities, Dickens conjures the legal fiction of “civil death” – a medieval English common law that divested a prisoner accused of treason any rights by proclaiming him dead in the eyes of the law. In stark contrast to Dickens's impassioned pleas for the abolition of slavery and prison reform in American Notes (1842), his private remarks in this letter some twenty-five years later convert former slaves into the objects of satire – minstrelsy puppets in a larger political game in which they play no civil part – as it were, dead again. However, even as Dickens attempts to constrain the former slave body through a kind of stereotypical branding, his language – the “postponing Irrepressible” – registers an unease that this corporeal ghost won't die. It is precisely in this form of the living dead that the “ghost of slavery” surfaces in Our Mutual Friend (OMF).

Forms are plastic, names cannot determine the essence of living things, and ceaselessly changing organisms cannot be conceived as elements within a signifying system. Each of these precepts of evolutionary theory finds itself reflected in Lewis Carroll's Alice books: Alice grows bigger and smaller without relation to any notion of a normal or standard size, fantastic organisms such as the “bread-and-butterfly” are generated out of metaphors and puns on taxonomic names, and the Queen's croquet game cannot function properly because the animals do not fulfill their prescribed roles. Lewis Carroll familiarized himself thoroughly with Darwinian theory in the years leading up to his composition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (1865) and Through the Looking-Glass (1871). He “read widely on the subject of evolution” (Woolf 191), possessing “nineteen books on Darwin, his theories and his critics” (Smith 8), as well as five works of social evolutionist Herbert Spencer, including First Principles (1862), which put Darwinian theory in dialogue with religious understandings of the world (Cohen 350; Stern 17). As a lecturer in mathematics at Christchurch Oxford from 1855 to 1881, he was present during the famous 1860 debate at Oxford University Museum between Thomas Henry Huxley, one of the main proponents of evolutionary theory in the late nineteenth century, and Bishop of Oxford William Wilberforce, one of its major critics.

A critical darling, Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel Dracula features several infamous blood transfusions. In that novel, Lucy Westenra receives blood transfusions from four different men, making her, according to Dr. Van Helsing, a polyandrist (158). In Stoker's novel, transfusion is not about medical verisimilitude so much as about romance or eroticism. Perhaps because of Dracula's status, Mary Elizabeth Braddon's 1896 story “Good Lady Ducayne” is often read as a vampire tale because it, too, includes blood transfusions. However, Braddon's engagement with contemporary medicine is very different than Stoker’s, since, unlike Dracula, Braddon's story engages with the experience of day-to-day medical treatment and is strongly invested in medical verisimilitude. Lauren M. E. Goodlad identifies the story's engagement with the medical profession largely through the character of Dr. Stafford, whom she views as a representative of the male-dominated, professional establishment. In Goodlad's reading, Lady Ducayne herself is a figure in both vampire literature and New Woman discourse as an “odd” woman, who becomes an “anti patriarchal figure of women's uncanny power to signify” (213). Goodlad's perceptive reading shows how the female vampire undermines conventional medicine, as embodied by Dr. Stafford. Yet, there is another physician in the story: Dr. Parravicini. If we take Dr. Parravicini as our starting point, we see that Braddon's critique of the medical profession is more wide-ranging and more radical than it previously appeared. What is Dr. Parravicini doing in this story? What is his relationship to Stafford and to the medical establishment? What does Braddon's realistic depiction of anesthesia and transfusion indicate about the medical profession and about the medicalization of modern culture?

George MacDonald took to preaching early in life. In his boyhood he once “rushed into the kitchen, jumped upon the clean-scrubbed table, and began a learned discourse, indicating Bell Mavor, the maid, as a reprobate past redemption”:

George Meredith's 1871 three-volume novel, The Adventures of Harry Richmond, follows the careers of the title character and his flamboyant father Richmond Roy, who perennially expects a court case to prove his claim to royalty. In the course of the narrative, the older Richmond changes from a comical, magical figure of enthusiasms and entertainments to a wreck of instability and loss. Roy's overindulgence, womanizing, and financial extravagance link such damaging and self-destructive behavior to an illness called in Meredith's day “circular insanity” – today known as manic-depression or bipolar disorder. From wild spending sprees to hypersexuality and delusions of grandeur, Roy's symptoms fit many of the major and associated criteria for recognizing manic-depression. Meredith begins the novel with a scene establishing clues about Roy's pathology. Though romanticized by Harry – and often by reviewers and critics as well – Roy's initial appearance reveals not a father coming in the middle of the night despite all obstacles for his five-year-old son; rather, the penniless Roy has walked in manic sleeplessness to coax money from his wealthy, neglected wife. Furious at his father-in-law's refusal to admit him, Richmond Roy then disappears into the darkness with his small son instead. The author's own family history and a character that parallels Roy in an earlier novel suggest that Meredith may have taken a personal interest in examining bipolar behaviors.

Near the end of Anthony Trollope'sThe Small House at Allington (1864), the protagonist Lily Dale disagrees with her mother about the prospect of marrying Johnny Eames, an earnest, but perhaps too ardent graduate of hobbledehoyhood whom Lily finds herself both unwilling and unable to love. Having been jilted by Adolphus Crosbie, a social climber as naïve as he is disingenuous, Lily protests that marrying Johnny Eames would constitute a form of adultery. “In my heart I am married to that other man,” Lily contends, “I gave myself to him, and loved him, and rejoiced in his love” (630; ch. 57). Noting that the situation may have changed – Crosbie has since married a noble's daughter and run through her fortune – Lily nevertheless maintains that there “are things that will not have themselves buried and put out of sight, as though they had never been” (631; ch. 57).

In the preface to publisher John Murray's 1858 two-volume Handbook for Travellers in Syria and Palestine, one of the first guidebooks specifically for British tourists to the Holy Land, author J. L. Porter claims that his objective is not just to provide a geographical summary or to outline travelers’ routes, but, more importantly, to link his descriptions with the “sacred dramas” of the Bible so that the tourist “may see with his ‘mind's eye’ each scene played over and over again” (xi). In such a spirit, this Murray guidebook tells both the well-known stories of the Bible and the more mundane particulars of finding interesting places and dealing with local middle-eastern people. The Handbook weaves together traditions of pilgrimage, the journey to a spiritual center, with tourism. In other words, it seeks to balance the pilgrim's desire for divine revelation with the tourist's interest in physical comfort and gentle visual stimulation. It incongruously pairs a conviction of the value of Christian self-sacrifice and hardship with a desire for bourgeois leisure. With a sly humility, Porter notes in his Preface: “The Bible is the best Handbook for Palestine; the present work is only intended to be a companion to it” (xi). As second to the Bible, this travel guide aspired to bring the English traveler's spiritual journey to the Holy Land into harmony with the secular pleasure of sightseeing.

In her influential work, Civilising Subjects: Metropole and Colony in the English Imagination 1830-1867 (2002), Catherine Hall argued that “a focus on national histories as constructed, rather than given, on the imagined community of the nation as created, rather than simply there, on national identities as brought into being through particular discursive work, requires transnational thinking” (9). Similarly, Antoinette Burton made a provocative case for de-centering Britain even in the narratives of its own history, arguing in her edited collection, After the Imperial Turn: Thinking with and through the Nation (2003), that “we need to pay more attention to the question of who needs [the nation], who manufactures the ‘need’ for it, and whose interests it serves” (6). In the last two decades, those who have sought to reposition a study of nineteenth-century Britain in such a transnational framework have focused their attention on Britain's relationship to its imperial possessions. While some historians remain skeptical about the significance of empire in British culture, there is now a rich and authoritative historical literature that reveals the myriad ways in which metropole and empire were not only entangled, but also mutually constitutive. Literary scholars of the nineteenth-century have also been alert to the often covert traces of empire in the works of nineteenth-century writers, extending from pioneering discussions of the shadowy presence of slavery in the novels of Jane Austen to Jane Bownas's attempts to reclaim an imperial motif in the works of Thomas Hardy.

In the last decade or so, Victorian studies – the only major literary field identified with a British ruler – has begun a slow but inexorable shift away from its traditional nation-based parameters. A cursory glance through the book review section of prominent Victorianist journals reveals that approximately half of new books reviewed treat subjects that extend beyond Britain and British literature: Ireland, India, slavery, settler literature, Continental literature, and global technological and media networks are all examples. While this development reflects broader trends in the discipline, in the humanities, and in public discourse as a whole, arguments about the desirability of expanding the scope of Victorian studies have turned largely on the particular inaptness of the national frame for the Victorian period. Since the 1980s, postcolonial critics such as Edward Said, Gayatri Spivak, and Gauri Viswanathan have argued for the significance of Britain's vast empire to its literature and the very existence of a British literary canon, as well as to literature produced in the colonies. More recently, Victorianists such as Margaret Cohen and Carolyn Dever, Amanda Claybaugh, Caroline Levine, Sharon Marcus, and Julia Sun-Joo Lee have stressed other transnational contexts for Victorian literature, noting that Victorian writers themselves were polylingual and comparative in their understanding of both literature and culture and that “even in its heyday, print culture was international and the nation was a relative, hybrid, comparative category” (Marcus 682).