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December 2007 || Articles

The Centrality of Literary Illustration in Victorian Visual Culture: the example of Millais and Trollope from 1860 to 1864

by David Skilton

It is easy to assume that literary illustration is an addition to works of prose fiction or poetry, serving to embellish them, partly for the sake of sales, and partly because the images are pleasing to the lover of books. It is often further suggested that illustrations may have helped communication between a writer and sections of his or her public more adept at reading images than complex verbal texts. This article1  sets out to demonstrate that far from being the minor cultural form these assumptions presuppose, literary illustration in fact occupied a central place in Victorian visual and verbal culture. This proposition will be examined in the case of John Everett Millais’s illustrations to Anthony Trollope’s fiction, by tracing links not only between image and text, but between a number of the artist’s best-known illustrations and different branches of print culture, fine art, architecture and fashion. The second aim of the present article is to broaden the terms in which literary illustration is analysed, and to show what can be gained by supplementing traditional bibliographical and aesthetic studies of such mass-produced works, with a fuller account of their role in transmitting images and cultural meanings, from one literary work, artist or genre to another, from literary publishing to journalism, and even in the spreading of awareness of fashions in clothes and architecture among and beyond their wealthy consumers. I shall argue that literary illustration, was just one factor, but a central one, in the first age of mass-produced images, and that we should be in a position to understand this phenomenon better now than we used to, because of the enormous proliferation of images in this and the previous century, and the extraordinary facilitation of reproduction and access, which we might be tempted to call ‘unprecedented’, were it not that a similar step-function in quantity and availability of images had occurred in the nineteenth century. This is not to claim that the population of Europe and North America was exposed to as many images in the mid-Victorian period as now, but that, were it possible to quantify such things, we might find that most people experienced as great an increase in the reproduced images around them between, say, 1815 and 1865, as we have in the half-century since 1957. By its high quality and near ubiquity, literary illustration played a central role in Victorian culture in developing and transmitting conventions of representation of the modern world and modern life, and hence in the formation of cultural meanings and ideology.

In order to analyse particular cases of illustration, I have assumed that, like verbal texts, images can be examined in their intertextual relations with other texts2  be they verbal or visual, ‘high’ art or ‘popular’ art, literary, factual or journalistic. Since we lack a specific vocabulary in which to express many of these relations, we often fall back in our analysis on those aspects which traditionally we know how to describe, and thus it is that, in discussing the relation between an image and the text with which it stands in privileged relationship, we fall back on criteria of detailed ‘fidelity’ of image to text, impressions of overall stylistic appropriateness of the totality of images to the text as a whole, or narratives of the commissioning and execution of images for literary texts, with particular emphasis on the struggle for supremacy of artist and writer in authorially controlled meaning production. I wish to suggest that critical development is urgently needed in this respect, and propose that the formation of a methodology and a vocabulary for the analysis of literary illustration is the next big challenge facing students of the subject. However this development takes place, it will, as I hope to show, involve supplementing studies of the production of illustrated texts with an analysis of meaning production in the act of reading them as bimodal works of art.

I shall start with the reflection that because of inherited assumptions in our culture about the subservience of illustration to painting, illustration is rarely accorded the status it deserves. The Grove Dictionary of Art, for example, tells us that the ‘sublime’ painter, John Martin, often made mezzotints of his large paintings of biblical and apocalyptic scenes in order to earn more money from the images.3  This is of course so, but no mention is made of the culturally significant link between his paintings and his book illustrations. Yet, to take just one example, Martin’s vivid and celebrated canvas of Pandaemonium rising from the burning lake in Book One of Paradise Lost , which was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1841, derives from the artist’s illustration to Book One, line 720 of Septimus Prowett’s 1827 edition of Paradise Lost, and not the other way round (figure 1)
1. John Martin Paradise Lost line 710
.4  It might seem a great leap from John Martin’s sublime romanticism to John Everett Millais’s detailed images of modern, literary, historical, and Biblical scenes, with their sensitive attention to human pose and expression as indications of complex emotions, and so it is worth remembering that the practice of basing easel paintings on earlier book illustrations is met with elsewhere in the Victorian period. For instance, Sir Francis Dicksee reworked his frontispiece to Romeo and Juliet (1884) in the International Shakespere (Cassell & Co.,1884-90) as an oil, which was exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1884, and Burne-Jones’s The Mirror of Venus (1898) derived from one of his illustrations to William Morris’s Earthly Paradise.5  Painters also paid a great deal of attention to illustrations by other hands, so that when Henry Herbert La Thangue presented the plight of the poor in his paintings, he is said to have been ‘working within a tradition of social reporting going back to the 1870s in the work of illustrators like Frank Holl and Hubert von Herkomer’.6  It is also known that van Gogh kept illustrations from the Graphic in his studio, which fed into his work in all media through his drawing and print-making: ‘I count myself a lucky fellow to have something so pleasant around the studio, now and forever’.7 

The assumption that the dominant traffic of images is from paintings to illustrations probably derives from the attention which art history correctly pays to the dissemination of images by means of engravings and etchings in periods in which the labour and expense of travel made viewing originals a privilege of wealth. Prints in this context are very often the intermediaries between painting and painting. Thus we know for example that prints played a crucial role in the migration of Mannerism from Emilia to the Veneto in the sixteenth century,8  but these prints were expressly made to disseminate the images concerned, as were hundreds of others in most periods of post-medieval art. The years covered by the present article fall in a particularly prolific period of print-making, and, as reproductive processes were mechanised, the Victorian market for images was far larger than any previously known, with the result that many images were effectively owned as much by the populace at large as by the wealthy connoisseur. In 1843, for example, the Illuminated Magazine announced that it was its mission to supply to a large public ‘those graces of art and literature which have too long been held the exclusive right of those of happier fortunes’.9  Reacting in 1846 to the launch of the Illustrated London News, Wordsworth was dismayed at the proliferation of mass-produced images, seeing it as a symptom of a decline in the verbal culture in ‘this once-intellectual Land’, and

A backward movement [...] 
From manhood – back to childhood [...]10 

The spread of images was, however, irresistible, whether in literary illustration, journalism or the popularisation of ‘high’ art. By the end of Victoria’s reign, in a democratisation of earlier practices, reproductions of famous paintings were regularly found in working-class homes, and adorned the walls of Boards Schools throughout the land.

The cases we meet with in the Victorian period of illustrations becoming paintings are not without precedent in the Renaissance. One thinks of Veronese, who adapted an allegorical figure from an earlier Venetian printed book by Francesco Marcolini for one of his soffits (known as Dialettica or Industria) in the Sala del Collegio of the Palazzo Ducale in Venice.11  Yet in this case, as in the case of print-making from paintings, the reputation of the illustration is unsurprisingly eclipsed by the prestige of the painting. In the Victorian period, although the recognized heriarchy of the arts was largely unchanged, the new age of mass reproduction of images made a printed image as influential culturally speaking as any related painting, and mass-produced images in general an important factor in the production of ideology in the age. In Millais’s case, as in so many others’, illustration fed into mainstream painting (his own and others’) and also significantly into other aspects of the visual culture of the day, including pictorial journalism, and fashions in costume and architecture. For the first time we witness a culture in which mass-produced visual images had a currency which changed their status radically. Besides, considerable spending power was now in the hands of people who could not afford paintings, but were the purchasers, in considerable numbers, of new, illustrated publications. To develop these points, I have chosen to examine some of the images the academician produced to accompany a number of Anthony Trollope’s novels of modern life in the years from 1860 to 1864, in the heyday of that kind of realism which the Victorians called ‘truth to life’.12  The novels are Framley Parsonage (1860-61), Orley Farm (1861-62), and The Small House at Allington (1862-64).

Millais first illustrated Trollope when Framley Parsonage was commissioned as the lead novel in a new periodical venture, George Smith’s Cornhill Magazine, which was launched with the number for January 1860, and immediately became a major force in the literary marketplace in the eighteen-sixties, and went on to confirm the pre-eminence of wood-engraved illustration in the decade.13  Smith and the projectors of other successful illustrated magazines of the 1860s achieved circulations large enough to bear the considerable cost of many images, on which a number of earlier ventures, such as the Illuminated Magazine, had foundered.14  The early 1860s were also a period in the history of the novel quite remarkable for the achievements of its great practitioners within a system which imposed considerable censorship on them. Most authors, editors, and publishers were content to operate a voluntary moral censorship or self-restraint which accorded happily with much middle-class public opinion, and there seems to have been a temporary, though surprisingly broad consensus – morally suffocating though it would later seem – about what should and should not go into a novel. It is striking what variety and quality were achieved in these years without offence to what Dickens in Our Mutual Friend memorably called ‘the cheek of the young person’.15  The Woman in White from Wilkie Collins, Great Expectations, and Our Mutual Friend from Dickens, Mill on the Floss, Silas Marner, and Romola from George Eliot, Sylvia’s Lovers and Wives and Daughters from Gaskell, and Philip from Thackeray – these indicate an indisputable standard.  And from Trollope, in addition to the novels I shall discuss in this article, came Castle Richmond, The Struggles of Brown, Jones and Robinson, Rachel Ray, The Claverings, and Can You Forgive Her?  Whatever effort of voluntary restraint was required to make fictional subjects and styles acceptable to the public and its moral guardians, seems for the time being to have been an aesthetically profitable one.

This list is not, of course, intended to be exhaustive, but even allowing for the bias introduced by the focus of the present article, it is striking that of the seventeen novels mentioned, no fewer than seven first appeared as serials in the Cornhill Magazine.  The story of how Framley Parsonage was commissioned in the eleventh hour as the first novel for the new magazine has often been told, and the records of its reception leave no question as to its popularity. Sales reached 120,000, and Trollope’s novel ‘ranked almost as one of the delicacies of the season’ with the magazine's extensive readership.16  The Cornhill was aimed at an educated middle-class readership, with eclectic interests, but no particular pretensions to learning.  Thackeray, as editor, expressed the matter clearly in ‘A Letter from the Editor to a Friend and Contributor’, dated November 1859:

It may be a Foxhunter who has the turn to speak; or a Geologist, Engineer, Manufacturer, Member of the House of Commons, Lawyer, Chemist, – what you please. [...] If our friends have good manners, a good education, and write good English, the company, I am sure, will be glad to be addressed by well-educated gentlemen and women.  A professor ever so learned, a curate in his country retirement, an artisan after work-hours, a schoolmaster or mistress when the children are gone home, or the young ones themselves when their lessons are over, may like to hear what the world is talking about, or be brought into friendly communication with persons whom the world knows.17 

A central image in this ‘Letter’ is the dinner-party, which is an expanded and decorous version of the contributors’ dinners held by Fraser’s Magazine and Punch, and not only defines the public aimed at, but promotes the important notion that the magazine made possible a personal association between its readers and celebrities in many walks of life.18  Millais, of course, was just such a celebrity. Just as at a polite dinner-table, Thackeray’s ‘Letter’ explains, political and religious controversy was not to appear in his pages, and the broad tolerance of existing bourgeois political and religious institutions this implies enables us further to recognize his readers as in many senses predominantly conformist, who can be assured that ‘[a]t our social table, we shall suppose the ladies and children always present [...]’ For the moment, this well-bred consensus gave space for a flourishing illustrated literature.

The first point to make about Millais, Trollope, and the modern world is that, unlike Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot, Trollope by and large sets his fictions in the years in or just before those in which he is writing. So clearly were many of his novels set only months before they were read that when publication of The Claverings in the Cornhill Magazine was delayed, Trollope changed a reference to ‘the Prime Minister’s [i.e. Palmerston’s] house’ house to read ‘the then Prime Minister’s house’.19  Millais responds to this contemporaneity by picturing the costume, customs, and interiors of the day. It seems that so strong was the expectation at this stage of the Cornhill’s development that the novels in the magazine would picture the world of its readers, that the illustrator of Thackeray’s Philip drew the characters in costume of 1861, and not the period of the novel’s action, leading to an equivocation from Thackeray’s narrator in chapter 19, either to cover what was a lapse on the part of illustrator and editor, or to explain a conscious device to cover the awkwardness of not conforming to the expectation that a novel of modern life should be about very modern life. He purports to be responding to a letter from ‘a fair correspondent’ who

points out the discrepancy existing between the text and the illustrations of our story; and justly remarks that the story dated [sic] more than twenty years back, while the costumes of the actors of our little comedy are of the fashion of to-day.

My dear madam, these anachronisms must be, or you would scarcely be able to keep any interest for our characters.  What would be a woman without a crinoline petticoat, for example? an object ridiculous, hateful, I suppose hardly proper.20 

Perhaps Thackeray, under stress from editorial duties which he found onerous, had failed to attend to the illustrations. It is significant, however, that nobody else noticed any incongruity before the magazine went to press.

There is no ambiguity about how up-to-the minute Trollope’s words and Millais’s images are. In Orley Farm Trollope introduces a travelling salesman of folding, cast-iron furniture, and Millais depicts him, as Trollope describes him, demonstrating the strength of the product by standing on it (figure 2)
2. J. E. Millais, ‘There is nothing like iron, Sir; nothing.’
. It is possible that research would reveal an actual manufacturer’s catalogue behind Millais’s drawing. When Trollope presents Adolphus Crosbie in The Small House at Allington as a fashionable ‘swell’, Millais makes him a fashionable ‘swell’ (figure 3)
3. J. E. Millais, ‘There is Mr. Harding Coming out of the Deanery’
. This certainly confirms that Millais collaborated with Trollope in presenting the world of the moment. But I wish to go further, and establish a linkage between image and image within the world of illustration, and between Millais’s illustrations and other sectors of the visual culture of the day. This linkage encourages us to look at images, as we do verbal texts, intertextually. This mode of reading illustration involves multiple intertextual possibilities of meaning production, including those between text and image, text and text, and image and image. I shall start by showing that there can be as much intertextual resonance between images in illustration as between two verbal texts, and that quotation and allusion are among the vehicles, just as in verbal intertextuality. In his influential book, Trollope and the Magazines, Mark Turner carries out valuable intertextual readings of some of Trollope’s fictional works from magazines and the verbal texts surrounding them, and I am extending the scope of this intertextual approach to the interplay of word and image, and image and image, which Turner scarcely touches upon.21 

The first of Millais’s seven illustrations to Framley Parsonage shows a significant meeting between a wealthy nobleman, Lord Lufton, and the vicar’s orphaned, teenaged sister, Lucy Robarts, who has no inheritance (figure 4)
4. J. E. Millais, ‘Lord Lufton and Lucy Robarts’
. Lufton looks down on Lucy Robarts, who looks down modestly in turn, and their poses symbolize both their gender difference and the disparity in their social standing. This is therefore a familiar sort of Victorian configuration. Yet in order to understand this illustration more fully, we need to look closely at chapter 11, to which it relates. Lord Lufton catches up with Fanny, the Vicar’s wife, and Lucy, who are out walking in the dusk. ‘He had a gun on his shoulder, three pointers were at his heels, and a gamekeeper followed a little in the rear’ (146). At a certain point, Fanny turns off to go to Framley Court to see Lady Lufton, leaving Lucy with Lord Lufton, who declares that he is going to the parsonage to look at the Vicar’s dog, Ponto, and he and Lucy talk as they continue towards the parsonage. Lord Lufton has previously been there twice ‘with the object of seeing her [Lucy], but on both occasions Lucy had managed to escape. Now we may say she was fairly caught, and Lord Lufton, taking a pair of pheasants from the gamekeeper, and swinging them over his shoulder, walked off with his prey’ (148). The two converse until they reach the parsonage garden, where they part, Lufton to go round to the stables, and Lucy to go into the house. The modern reader of the illustrated text might wonder where his gun has gone, and why the three dogs aren’t at his feet. The illustration fills in for us certain social details with which we may not any longer be acquainted, in particular how a young gentleman would cope with a conversation with a young lady, and with his gun and dogs. Obviously Lufton consigned the gun and the dogs to his gamekeeper, when he took the brace of pheasant as a present for the Parsonage, and sent the servant off to Framley Court. Trollope and Millais would take this for granted. The image helps make explicit trivia which are not mentioned in the text. This level of detail is hardly important, but in this case it serves to set up an image which produces more meanings than the text itself, though all of them are completely consonant with the text.

The image is richer in meanings than these trivial details would suggest. The two figures shake hands in front of a gate, while saying goodbye after their first meeting as neighbours, as was quite proper. The dead birds suggest that Lucy has received a hit in the battle of the sexes, as indeed turns out to be the case. At this stage, the text merely records that Lufton has achieved a minor victory in this battle, in managing a conversation alone with Lucy. Trollope does not yet record that Lucy is aware of the start of a relationship. The image however does tell us that such a relationship is commencing. The doves are not in the text, but are symbolic of the love which will grow between the pair, and the gate is a symbol of the opening of a new life together. But this symbolism, like that of the doves, is Millais’s addition. The gate is purely a gate in Trollope’s narrative, and defies symbolic significance:

They had now turned up through the parsonage wicket, a little gate that opened into the garden at a point on the road nearer than the chief entrance.

‘I suppose I shall find Mark up at the house?’ said he.

‘I daresay you will, my lord.’

‘Well, I’ll go round this way, for my business is partly in the stable. You see I am quite at home here, though you never have seen me before. But, Miss Robarts, now that the ice is broken, I hope we may be friends.’ He then put out his hand, and when she gave him hers he pressed it almost as an old friend might have done (150).

The pedant might notice too that Millais has moved the scene to the outside of the gate, to achieve his symbolic purpose. Once the gate is seen symbolically, as it is in the Millais illustration, the handshake too changes, and looks as much like a greeting as a farewell: and indeed it is so, psychologically speaking, though not at a mundane, objective level. The plate, indeed, points up the ambiguity whereby a goodbye becomes the start of a relationship, an ambivalence which works itself out more secretly in Trollope’s narrative.

Lucy is several times warned not to become too familiar with Lord Lufton, for fear one or other or both might become emotionally committed in a socially unsuitable way. Millais cleverly works in a further danger, of which Lucy is not explicitly warned but which all Victorians would understand, that she might be seduced or at least led astray by a young man of Lufton’s standing, and he does this by reproducing the poses of two figures he found in an illustration by John Leech of 1843 to a facetious short sketch or story called ‘Jupiter’s Junket’ (figure 5)
5. John Leech, ‘Jupiter’s Junket’
.22  In this piece, Jupiter is bored, and descends from Olympus to join in some rustic revelry. He is much taken by Semele, who is seen serving him strong liquor, which makes him tipsy. The Victorian reader knows that Semele is destroyed by Jupiter’s divine power when she insists on having sexual intercourse with him. So Lufton becomes, by association with this quotation, an immortal whose irresponsible dalliance with a mortal woman may destroy her. The figure of Lufton is an almost exact copy of Jupiter, but reversed (figure 6)
6. Comparison of figs. 4 and 5 (reversed)
. Did Millais trace this image from the Illuminated Magazine from seventeen years earlier? Or do both images derive in detail from a single original? In either case, were these two verbal texts, we should be expected to analyse meanings generated by the intertextual relation between them. Lufton and Robarts are destined to form an ideal Trollopian marriage, to which he will bring considerable wealth and status, and she will bring considerable spirit and intelligence, though not classic good looks. Millais’s humorous classical allusion hints strongly at the sexual power of the encounter, but Lucy, unlike Semele, is not destined to be burnt up with the Olympian intensity of contact with the god, and survives to capture the aristocrat. Although it is he who at first seems to have shot her like one of his pheasants, five chapters later we read that Lucy has the upper hand: ‘the game was at her feet now’ (211).

In the course of this true love, which, naturally, never does run smooth until the end of the novel, Lucy finds herself on one occasion refusing Lufton’s advances on the grounds that she does not love him. This claim forces her to admit to herself for the first time that in fact she does love him, and she throws herself on her bed in distress, reproaching herself with the question, ‘Was it not a lie?’ (figure 7)
7. J. E. Millais, ‘Was It Not a Lie?’
. The scene was pictured by Millais, and Trollope hated it: ‘I can hardly tell you what my feeling is about the illustration [...] It would be much better to omit it altogether [...] The picture is simply ludicrous, & will be thought by most people to have been made so intentionally.’ Then he withdrew his objection seven weeks after the illustration was published, because, he says, ‘I saw the very pattern of the dress some time after the picture came out.’23  It is possible that this illustration served as a fashion plate. We know that Framley Parsonage enjoyed a huge fashionable success, and we can easily imagine a modish belle taking the latest issue of the Cornhill to her dressmaker and having Lucy’s crinoline made up. The attentive reader, though, still finds the illustration inappropriate, however many such dresses walked the streets of London. Lucy Robarts is not wealthy, she is not fashionable, and in the text she is dressed to visit the wife of a small farmer who has just given birth. This is not a dress to wear for winding Baby Podgens. So the illustration is not ‘faithful’ to the text, as one says. On the other hand it responds accurately to the status of the Cornhill Magazine and Framley Parsonage. As one critic put it, ‘no London belle dared to pretend to consider herself literary, who did not know the latest intelligence about the state of Lucy Robarts’ heart, and Griselda Grantley’s flounces’.24  This judgment is confirmed by the opinion of Tennyson, whose ‘Tithonus’ immediately followed the second instalment, and who thought that it was ‘a flashy modern novel’,25  although, understandably, there is no evidence that he read it. For this illustration Millais takes a pose he has used before in illustrating a poem, ‘Magenta’, by Tom Taylor in Once a Week (figure 8)
8. J. E. Millais, ‘Magenta’
, in which a young Parisian woman is seen weeping and holding a letter announcing the death of her lover at the Battle of Magenta (1859), while the rest of Paris rejoices at the victory. The pose in this illustration is itself a development of Millais’s earlier illustration to ‘Mariana’ in the Moxon Tennyson (figure 9)
9. J. E. Millais, ‘Mariana’

Hide, mourner, hide the tears which might such triumphs blur!
See also ‘Mariana’, in Tennyson, Poems, new edition (London: E. Moxon, 1866), p. 7.   The dress of the woman in ‘Magenta’ is of the period, but fairly modest. Millais takes the pose, and its significance of the loss of the hope of love, and elevates it into the fashionable world – more Mayfair than English village. Here is Princess Mary of Cambridge, popularly known as ‘Fat Mary’, in a similar crinoline on 8 October 1860, four months after Millais’s illustration was published. (figure 10)
10. Camille Silvy, ‘Princess Mary of Cambridge’
. Despite what in royal terms was a modest income of £5,000 a year, Princess Mary was notoriously extravagant. This is scarcely a dress which is appropriate to a modest country parsonage.27 

In cultural history, what is more significant than a passing disagreement between novelist and artist is the entry of women’s fashion into the field of literary illustration. It seems that the year 1860 initiated an element of literary mediation in women’s fashion, and that at the same time fashion in dress became an important element in the image of certain successful novels. Although comparatively few examples of Victorian book illustration resemble contemporary fashion plates in stylistic terms, Millais’s ‘Was It Not a Lie?’ may have been taken as the model for the dress Trollope saw, and for others like it, even perhaps on royal princesses.28  However that may be, the artist was extraordinarily up-to-date, either as a maker or follower of fashion. In any case, from now on, under the fashionable leadership of Millais and the Cornhill, modish dress is a highly desirable element in the illustration of novels, and not just the butt of humour in Punch cartoons. This can be seen in John Tenniel’s steel-engraved frontispiece to the second edition of F. W. Robinson’s anonymous novel, Grandmother’s Money in 1862 (figure 11).
11. J. Tenniel, ‘Grandmother Tresdaile’s Coup d’Etat’
Significantly, the first edition of 1860, before the impact of Framley Parsonage was felt, had no illustration.

‘Lord Lufton and Lucy Robarts’ and ‘Was It not a Lie?’ are examples of Millais drawing on earlier images, in the first case an image by another artist, in the second, two of his own illustrations. These instances of intertextuality display just two of the many types of visual quotation current in the nineteenth century. The borrowing from Leech seems clear, and, as I have tried to show, it generates meanings which are relevant to a reading of Framley Parsonage, but it is not clear whether or not the intertextuality would have been recognized by the majority of original readers. Perhaps ‘Jupiter’s Junket’ was widely known at the time, or perhaps it was known mainly in circles to which Millais and his friend Leech belonged, as an example of the genre of classical burlesque or ‘spoof’ (as we might now call it), which was popular among classically educated men. In chapter 13 of Barchester Towers, for example, Trollope claims to quote from ‘Robson’s edition’ of the Medea, and is in fact referring not to a text but to a burlesque by an actor of the stage name of Robson, who made a successful theatrical career from  travesties of Shakespearean, Greek, and Latin plays.29  On the other hand, this might have been a purely private reference to an image first produced by his friend, which Millais found useful in developing the visual aspect of the novel, and which is equivalent to an unrecognized verbal reference by one poet to another. There is the further possibility, that he was late in getting on with George Smith’s commission, and traced a suitable image for speed. The reversal of the image might support this hypothesis, and yet in that case Millais would still have knowingly made the reference.

Another instance which occupies the dubious ground between quotation and theft is Henry Woods’s illustration to chapter 63 of Trollope’s The Vicar of Bullhampton, containing a figure, that of Fenwick, viewed from behind (figure 12)
12. H. Woods, ‘It’s in here, Muster Fenwick, – in here.’
, and which appears to be based on Millais’s illustration to ‘Edward Gray’ in the Moxon Tennyson (figure 13)
13. J. E. Millais, ‘Edward Gray’
, with the inclination of the head slightly altered, and the stick transferred to the right hand,30  the stance being perhaps influenced by Millais’s own re-use of a modified version of this pose for Johnny Eames in ‘And have I not really loved you?’ in chapter 19 of The Small House at Allington (figure 14).
14. J. E. Millais, ‘And have I not really loved you?’
In the case of ‘Was It not a Lie?’ the borrowing was from the artist himself, and it is worth conjecturing that this and the image of Eames referred to were examples of stock poses Millais developed to carry a specific significance, in both cases emotion at the loss of a loved one. It could be further argued that these cases are not adequately covered by the notion of quotation alone, and that these poses carry established iconographic significance, which they have developed by repeated use.

These examples of visual quotation or derivation are quite unlike Trollope’s verbal quotations in Framley Parsonage from Terence and Virgil, for example, which the author knows that his target readership will recognize. There are no visual equivalents of quotation marks or the italics in which Latin was usually printed, and no code switch, as that from English to Latin, to make us responsive to intertextualities. Contrasting cases are found in Thackeray’s deliberate quotation of earlier paintings and prints well known to his readership, such as his initial capitals based on Hogarth’s works, including his mural of ‘The Good Samaritan’ from the Bethlem Hospital, used in chapter 50 of The Virginians. Another image widely recognisable at the time of publication is Becky presented as Benjamin Haydon’s Napoleon, in Vanity Fair chapter 64.31  Elsewhere Thackeray visually quotes Shakespeare, by small scenes from Othello, for example, in chapter 24 of Pendennis and chapter 9 of Philip, in which the identification of the references is facilitated by the presence of the Lion of St Mark, or some other instantly recognisable Venetian symbol. In David Copperfield and Dombey and Son, ‘Phiz’ quotes existing works of art by picturing them as works of art in the rooms in his illustrations. ‘I make the acquaintance of Miss Mowcher’ in David Copperfield, for example, shows Retzsch's picture of Faust, Margaret, and Mephistopheles from Goethe's Faust on the wall, while ‘Florence and Edith on the Staircase’ in Dombey and Son contains a number of significant pictures and statues.32  The statues are clearly statues, and the pictures are in frames, within the framing white surround of the illustration.

A rather different visual-cum-verbal quotation which is at first sight quite complex occurs in Chapter 3 of The Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green, an Oxford Freshman, published in 1853 by Edward Bradley under the pseudonym Cuthbert Bede. The attitude of the protagonist is presented through the perceptions of an unrealized person, who, if he existed, would notice a similarity between the protagonist and a well-known literary illustration:

It was astonishing to see all the amount of literature that Mr. Verdant Green was about to convey to the seat of learning: there was enough to stock a small Bodleian. As the owner stood, with his hands behind him, placidly surveying the scene of preparation, a meditative spectator might have possibly compared him to the hero of the engraving ‘Moses going to the fair,’ that was then hanging just over his head; for no one could have set out for the great Oxford booth of this Vanity Fair with more simplicity and trusting confidence than Mr. Verdant Green.33 

This scene is described and also presented in one of the ‘numerous illustrations by the author’, which shows a fragment of a framed engraving, entitled ‘Moses Going to the Fair’. The visual quotation has not been identified, nor need it be, since the intertextual reference is to a well-loved work of prose fiction, Goldsmith’s The Vicar of Wakefield, which Bradley can be confident his reader will know. The two visual layers of reference do not so much convey information as reinforce the readerly practice of visualization, which in turn holds up the action, and thus places additional emphasis on the literary allusion to The Pilgrim’s Progress and, perhaps, to Thackeray too.34  Such foregrounding of self-consciousness would be unusual in both Trollope and Millais, though, as we have seen, there is in both more frequent, unobtrusive self-consciousness than has often been recognised.

Whatever their initial differences over Lucy Robarts’s dress, Trollope and Millais became linked in the fashionable phenomena which were the Cornhill Magazine and Trollope’s first serial fiction, Framley Parsonage. Writing years later in his Autobipgraphy, Trollope forgets his earlier annoyance with Millais, and speaks warmly of the man and his illustrations:

In every figure that he drew it was his object to promote the views of the writer whose work he had undertaken to illustrate, and he never spared himself any pains in studying that work so as to enable himself to do so.  I have carried on some of those characters from book to book, and have had my own early ideas impressed indelibly on my memory by the excellence of his delineations.35 

We might be wary of taking such authorial approval as sufficient evidence for the quality of a set of illustrations, were it not that in Orley Farm Trollope’s narrator guarantees the integration of word and image in an instruction to the reader to return from the reading of chapter 63 to Millais’s first image of Lady Mason:

In an early part of this story I have endeavoured to describe how this woman sat alone, with deep sorrow in her heart and deep thought on her mind, when she first learned what terrible things were coming on her. The idea, however, which the reader will have conceived of her as she sat there will have come to him from the skill of the artist, and not from the words of the writer. If that drawing is now near him, let him go back to it (figure 15).
15. J. E. Millais, ‘There was sorrow in her heart, and deep thought in her mind’

Trollope is envisaging a reader of the part-issues of Orley Farm, and sending ‘him’ to a part, shelved elsewhere, perhaps, which had come out months before. Moreover, as N. J Hall points out, ‘[i]n the earlier description we read simply that Lady Mason “seated herself in her accustomed chair”; the details mentioned in the latter passage are in fact a description of Millais’s drawing.  Such an example cautions us to ignore self-consciousness in the illustrated novel at our peril.36 

My next example from Framley Parsonage shows Millais already fully engaging with Trollope’s fiction, and seen here developing the iconography of Victorian marriage. In the illustration, ‘“Mark, ”’ she said, “the men are here”’ (figure 16),
16. J. E. Millais, ‘“Mark,’”she said, “the men are here.”’
the Vicar has unwisely guaranteed a loan for an unscrupulous acquaintance, and we see his wife bringing the news that the bailiffs have arrived to distrain on their property. Theirs is a good marriage in Trollopian terms, and they are treated without sentimentality.37  When George Elgar Hicks drew on this illustration for Bad News, the central image in his triptych, Woman’s Mission of 1863 (figure 17), he took over the general composition and the iconography of the hearth and mantelpiece, and something of the relation between the two figures, but he heightened the drama and introduced a strain of sentimentality in the wife’s pose, quite different from Fanny’s more robust attitude. (Trollope’s women are quite often stronger than their menfolk.) Figure 17
17. Penguin jackets, Framley Parsonage 1984 and 2004
shows Millais’s watercolour from his Framley Parsonage illustration, painted for his patron, Thomas Plint,38  and as used by Penguin for the cover of the 1984 edition, seen beside the revamped cover for the larger format reprint for the 2004 Penguin edition, which sports the Hicks painting – not an improvement in relevance, though brighter and hence arguably good for marketing. Millais’s wife, like Trollope’s, is supportive; Hicks’s is supposed to be a comfort, but in modern terms looks more of a burden to her husband than a help. This is the thin line between emotional support and destructiveness which Thackeray exposes so skilfully in the last chapter of Vanity Fair when Dobbin has finally won Amelia: ‘Farewell, dear Amelia – Grow green again, tender little parasite, round the rugged old oak to which you cling!’ (Vanity Fair chapter 57).39 

Penguin Books helped identify this succession of images in their editions of Framley Parsonage. Oxford World’s Classics for their part reinforced a powerful but more-or-less spurious association of one of Millais’s major oil paintings, Trust Me (1861), with Trollope’s novel, Orley Farm of 1861-62 (figure 18).
18. Jacket of A. Trollope, Orley Farm, World’s Classics, 1985
Millais had started this painting by April 1861, and it coincides therefore with his work on the illustrations to Orley Farm. It possibly originates in characters of Orley Farm, which commenced part issue in March 1861, although Sir Peregrine Orme does not wear the hunting pink which is such a brilliant feature of the oil. The characters in question are shown together in this later illustration of October 1862 (figure 19),
19. J. E. Millais, ‘Farewell!’
although it appears unlikely that they are also modelled on the ‘Mrs Aitkin and John Lindsay’, who reputedly sat for Trust Me40  At another time, Millais certainly did use an acquaintance as model for a Trollope character. The figure of Bernard Dale in the illustration, ‘It’s all the fault of the naughty birds’ (figure 20),
20. J. E. Millais, ‘It’s all the fault of the naughty birds’
in the third serial part of The Small House at Allington, is based on an earlier sketch by Millais of his friend, John Leech.41  Whatever the case of Trust Me, thanks to Oxford University Press’s cover department, the mistaken intertextual reference is made explicitly every time the picture is referred to, and implicitly, indeed, every time it is seen, and something unrelated to the action of the novel is forever linked to it. Trust Me is classified as a ‘problem picture’, and was indeed one of the earliest examples of that genre. It is a ‘problem picture’ because the situation is not clear, and it is not apparent what the relationship is between the two characters, or even which of them is saying the words, ‘Trust me’. This is not a scene from Orley Farm, but I should like to suggest that it is similar in some respects to a number of the illustrations to that novel, which, taken as images with captions are equally enigmatic if divorced from their texts, such as ‘Your son, Lucius, did say shopping’ (figure 21),
21. J. E. Millais, ‘Your son Lucius did say – shopping.’
or ‘Bread Sauce is so Ticklish’ (figure 22).
22. J. E. Millais, ‘Bread Sauce is so Ticklish’
These are not to be understood from their captions, even when the words are taken from the novel: they demand a fairly extensive reading of the text. ‘Trust Me’ might be regarded as like an illustration with an enigmatic caption, to which the viewer is invited to supply a text in the form of a narrative which would account for the scene as depicted. It may be that illustration and the viewing strategies involved in reading images with narrative text played a key role in the development of the genre of ‘problem picture’, and that one current of mainstream Victorian painting cannot be fully understood without reference to the illustrative practice of the age.

The repertoire of poses and situations in the illustrations, however, goes further in the variety of what was called ‘truth to life’ which it encompassed, and which far exceeds what is found in painting. An example is the illustration of two of the Lawyers in Orley Farm, at ease (figure 23).
23. J. E. Millais, ‘Mr. Chaffanbrass and Mr. Solomon Aram’
These images of daily life by Millais sometimes also present single moments in an action, rather than the more extended narrative often embodied by Cruiskshank or ‘Phiz’ in their images for Dickens’s novels. There is little encouragement to the viewer to ‘read’ most of Millais’s illustration to Trollope with as much thoroughness as we know was devoted to Victorian narrative paintings (figure 24).
24. J. E. Millais, ‘Peregine’s Eloquence’
Of course, the reader of the novel, encountering ‘Peregrine’s Eloquence’, for example, was reading the image in conjunction with the verbal text, and found no deficiency. This is not the place to do more than suggest that this difference – this ability to take one moment out of time in a seemingly ‘real’ situation, without incorporating in the image the larger narrative of more complex ideological meaning of which it is a part – prepares the way for one of the later functions of photography – though not, of course, a function of photography as practised in the eighteen-sixties.

I now wish to consider an illustration which seems to me to make a direct contribution to the means of representing the world in pictorial journalism: ‘Monkton Grange’, from Orley Farm (figure 25).
25. J. E. Millais, ‘Monkton Grange’
Previous representations of fox-hunting in print or paint do not, as far as I can discover, show the gathering before the hunt moved off in any social detail, but Millais here details different character types in the novel, including those who observe from carriages, and the fearless women followers of the hunt.42  Just as importantly he celebrates a country house in the so-called ‘Elizabethan’ or ‘Old English’ style of architecture.43  When three years later an artist from the Illustrated London News was asked to the capture just such a scene (though on a far grander scale), he seems to have drawn lessons directly from Millais (figure 26).
26. Visit of the Prince of Wales to Merton Hall, Norfolk
We note the journalistic shorthand in the horsemen riding in ranks behind the Prince of Wales’ carriage, and we miss Millais’s stunning use of portrait format, with a telling extent of ground in the foreground, which locates the viewer on foot at a slight distance. But the architectural similarity is no coincidence. Merton Hall was once an unpretentious house, no more imposing, though more modern, than the fictional Monkton Grange, but it was enlarged and remodelled by Edward Blore about 1833 for Thomas de Grey, fourth Baron Walsingham, in a grander version of the neo-Elizabethan style. So convincing was the effect, and the ideological meanings tied to it that the Illustrated London News believed the house to have acquired its Victorian appearance and magnitude as early as 1600.44  Millais had shown just how effective an ‘Old English’ profile could be as backdrop to such a gathering. Here illustration is adding its weight to a fashion, not this time in ladies’ costume, but in public taste for architecture. I am not here advancing an argument about styles of architecture used in the construction or remodelling of the largest country houses in these years, but about the current judgments as to the style of architecture which best expressed mid-Victorian myths of rural life and landownership. Such houses, as Mark Girouard says, ‘express what the average mid-Victorian gentleman thought a gentleman’s house should be’.45  The Old English style separated the gentleman from the nouveau riche.

This paper has approached only a few of Millais’s illustrations to Trollope, but it has shown that, far from existing somewhere on the periphery of Victorian culture, literary illustration played a central part in the development and transmission of cultural meanings. Illustrated novels deserve to be read as the bimodal works they are. Besides, without the critical means of analysing illustration in its many relations with its ‘own’ text, other texts and images, and the culture in which these are embedded, we shall have only a partial account of the first period in which mass-produced images entered nearly every home, and had a crucial role in establishing and transmitting visual culture, not only within illustration and print-making, but beyond, into painting, fashion and journalism, in what we cannot help seeing, in our obsession with our own cultural situation, as a rehearsal for the early twentieth-century explosion of moving images, and extraordinary fecundity in image proliferation on the worldwide web in the late twentieth- and early twenty-first-century.



1 This article was first delivered as a paper at the conference, ‘Pictures of Modernity’, held at the Ca’Foscari University, Venice, 10 to 11 May 2007. Venetian references in the opening paragraphs were chosen over other possible examples as a compliment to the hosts.

2 The case for an intertextual model is made by Paola Spinozzi in her Sopea il reale: osmosi interartistiche nel Prefraffaellitismo e nel Simbolismo inglese (Florence: Alinea editrice, 2005) and in this issue of JOIS.

3 The Dictionary of Art, ed. Jane Turner, 34 vols (London:Grove, 1996), xx, pp. 489-91.

4 The Paradise Lost of Milton , with Illustrations, Designed and Engraved by John Martin, 2 vols (London: Septimus Prowett, 1827), recto facing i, p. 30; see Thomas Balston, John Martin 1789-1854. His Life and Works (London: Gerald duckworth & Co. Ltd., [1944]), pp. 144, 206-7 and 286; William Feaver, John Martin (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), pp. 165-6; and The Forbes Collection of Victorian Pictures and Works of Art, 3 vols (London: Christie’s, [2003]), i, p.55.

5 Forbes Collection, i, p. 180 and II, p. 140; and Spinozzi, Sopra il reale, pp. 188-9.

6 Forbes Collection, i, p.139.

7 See letter from Vincent van Gogh to Anthon van Rappard, The Hague, [February 1883]: ‘I have taken the Graphics apart [...] I think it desirable [...] to keep the things by Small or Herkomer, or Green or Frank Hol, for instance, together, instead of having them scattered among things that do not match them in the least. When one has taken out only the best and most characteristic sheets, it is possible to get a general view of them within a few hours. And one does not need a long time to hunt up a particular thing.’ Van Gogh’s Letters Unabridged and Annotated, 3 vols (London: Thames & Hudson, second edition, 1978), ii, p. 363.

8 Gianvittorio Dillon, ‘Le incisioni’, in Da Tiziano a El Greco: Per la storia del Manierismo1540-1590. Catalogo della mostra al Palazzo ducale, Venezia, 1981 (Milan: Electa, 1981), p. 300

9 [Douglas Jerrold?], ‘Preface’, Illuminated Magazine 1 (1843), unnumbered page.

10 William Wordsworth, Sonnet xiv. ‘Illustrated Books and Newspapers’, 1846, The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, corrected edition, 5 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1966), iv, p. 75.

11 See Charles Hope, ‘“Poesie” and Painted Allegories’, in The Genius of Venice 1500-1600, ed. Jane Martineau and Charles Hope, (London: Royal Academy of Arts and Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1983), pp. 35–7 (p. 37). Hope misplaces this soffitto in the Room of the Council of Ten (la Sala del Consiglio dei Dieci). For a correct description see Musei Civici Veneziana, URL accessed 5 May 2007. The source of the image was Francesco Marcolini, Le Sorti di Francesco Marcolini da Forlí intitolate giardino di persieri allo illustratissimo signore Hercole Estense Duca di Ferrara (Venetia, 1540), p. xxxv, (Biblioteca della Fondazione Giorgio Cini, Venice: call no. TES 339).

12 For the reception of Trollope’s fiction in this period, see David Skilton, Anthony Trollope and His Contemporaries: A Study in the Theory and Conventions of Mid-Victorian Fiction (Harlow: Longman, 1972), pp. 17-40; for Millais’s illustrations to Trollope, see N. J. Hall, Trollope and His Illustrators (London: Macmillan, 1980), pp. 8-88, and Paul Goldman, Beyond Decoration. The Illustrations of John Everett Millais (London: British Library, [2005]), pp. 41-2, 53-5, 93-132 and 199-236.

13 See Skilton, Anthony Trollope, pp. 18-19. The first number of the Cornhill, dated ‘January 1860’, had appeared by 28 December 1859, when Lord Macaulay had a fatal seizure with a copy of it open before him. He was apparently reading Thackeray’s Philip, and not Framley Parsonage. See Randolph J. Bufano, ‘New Information on Macaulay’s Death’, N&Q 217 (November 1971), 417-18.

14 See review of the Gazette of Variety ns 2 in the last issue of the Illuminated Magazine 4 (1845), 350, bewailing ‘our own experience in the great expense of good woodcuts’, which makes continuation of illustrated periodicals highly problematic.

15 Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971), p. 175.

16 See Peter Miles and David Skilton, ‘Introduction’ and ‘The Writing and Printing of Framley Parsonage’, in Anthony Trollope, Framley Parsonage (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1984), pp. 7-28. All subsequent quotations are from this edition. For the reception, see Skilton, Anthony Trollope, pp. 19-20.

17 William Makepeace Thackeray, The Letters and Private Papers of William Makepeace Thackeray, ed. Gordon N. Ray, 4 vols (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1945-6), iv, pp. 159-61.

18 The convivial model of a middle-class periodical probably originates in the imaginary conversations presented in Noctes Ambrosianae, a regular feature of Blackwood’s Magazine, and developed further by William Maginn in Fraser’s, where the focus was ‘a round table in James Fraser's back parlour, where the Fraserians gathered to put together the magazine, write squibs on Lytton Bulwer, or Robert ‘Satan’ Montgomery, and drink whiskey punch in bacchanalias that were then exaggerated in the magazine’ (ODNB, ‘William Maginn’).

19 Anthony Trollope, The Claverings (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), p. 386.

20 Cornhill Magazine 4 (September 1861), p. 257. Romola, of course, the following year, brought a period setting to a Cornhill serial.

21 Mark Turner, Trollope and the Magazines: Gendered Issues in Mid-Victorian Britain (Basingstoke, Macmillan, 2000).

22 ‘Jupiter’s Junket’, Illuminated Magazine 1 (1843), p. 93.

23 Trollope to George Smith, 23 May 1860 and 21 July 1860, in Trollope, The Letters of Anthony Trollope, ed. N. John Hall, 2 vols paginated as one (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1983), i, pp. 104 and 111.

24 Review of Framley Parsonage (anon.), Saturday Review, 4 May 1861, pp. 451–2.

25 Tennyson, The Letters of Alfred Lord Tennyson, ed. Cecil Y. Lang and Edgar F, Shannon, Jr., 3 vols (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1981), ii, p. 252.

26 John Everett Millais, illustration to Tom Taylor, ‘Magenta’, Once a Week, 2 July 1859, p. 10. See Goldman, Beyond Decoration, p. 263. Taylor’s poem laments the death toll in the French military victory over Austria at Magenta the previous month, in the Second Italian War of Independence, and the illustration shows ‘a loving heart’ mourning in Paris for one of the fallen. The poem ends

Hide, mourner, hide the tears which might such triumphs blur!
See also ‘Mariana’, in Tennyson, Poems, new edition (London: E. Moxon, 1866), p. 7.

27 I am grateful to Kara Tennant of Cardiff University for help in understanding Lucy Robarts’s dress.

28 An example of an illustration by Millais which resembles a fashion plate is ‘Ah me! She was a winsome maid’, an illustration to [anon.] ‘The Border Witch. An Auld-Warld Story’, London Society 2 (August 1862), 181-6 (dmvi no. LSP028). Kara Tenant (Cardiff University) has pointed out in a personal communication that what Millais has drawn more resembles a fashionable Zouave jacket of 1862 than the eighteenth-century costume which might have been more appropriate. An etching of 1879, perhaps of his second daughter, Mary Hunt Millais, also resembles a fashion plate. See Jason Rosenfeld and Alison Smith, Millais (London: Tate Publishing, 2007), p. 201.

29 See Anthony Trollope, Barchester Towers, chapter 33. ODNB records that ‘[o]ne of Robson's finest burlesque creations was his Medea in R. B. Brough's Medea’, in July 1855. (Thomas) Frederick Robson (1821-63) was earlier a copper-engraver under his original name of Brownhill.

30 Anthony Trollope, The Vicar of Bullhampton (London: Bradbury and Evans, 1870),verso facing p. 411. Millais’s illustration to ‘Edward Gray’ appears on p. 340 of Poems (London: E. Moxon, new edition 1866). Hall places this illustration in the period of the ‘decadence’ of Trollopian illustration, and remarks, ‘Most of Woods’ drawings for Trollope are inept’ (Trollope and His Illustrators, p. 140).

31 These and other examples are identified in Joan Stevens, ‘Thackeray's Pictorial Capitals’, Costerus ns 2 (1974), 113-40.

32 I discuss these plates in ‘The Relation between illustration and text in the Victorian novel: a new perspective’, in Word and Visual Imagination. Studies in the Interaction of English Literature and the Visual Arts, ed. by Karl Josef Höltgen, Peter M. Daly and Wolfgang Lottes (Erlangen Forschungen 43, 1988), pp. 303-25. See also John Harvey, Victorian Novelists and Their Illustrators (London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1971), p. 150.

33 Cuthbert Bede (pseud., i.e. Edward Bradley), The Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green, an Oxford Freshman [...]With Numerous Illustrations Designed and Drawn on the Wood by the Author (London: Nathaniel Cooke, 1853), p. 17.

34 The engraving above Verdant Green’s head is not one of William Mulready’s illustrations from the 1843 edition of The Vicar of Wakefield. (London: John Van Voorst), 1843, which were very popular.

35 Anthony Trollope, An Autobiography, ed. David Skilton (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1996), pp. 98-9.

36 Hall, Trollope and His Illustrators, p. 44.

37 See Framley Parsonage, p.400. The caption to the illustration is taken from page 512.

38 Forbes Collection, I, p. 127.

39 W. M. Thackeray, Vanity Fair ed. by J. I. M. Stewart (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1968), p. 792.

40 Forbes Collection, vol. 1, pp. 124-7.

41 The Small House at Allington, part 3, chapter 7, Cornhill Magazine 6 (November 1862) verso facing page 663. See J. G. Millais, The Life and Letters of Sir John Everett Millais, P. R. A. (London: , 1890) 2 vols, i, p. 262. See also Hilary Gresty, ‘Millais and Trollope: Author and Illustrator’, The Book Collector 30 (1981), pp. 43-60, (p. 46n), who cites this illustration as an example of Millais’s ‘realistic’ reliance on observation.

42 I am grateful to, Mr Michael Clayton, Chairman of the Hunting Museum, Melton Mowbray, for discussing this point with me. He is of course not responsible for the conclusions I have drawn.

43 The term ‘Elizabethan’ was used for Tudor-Gothic, often mixed with early seventeenth-century elements. Mark Girouard comments on ‘the gloriously vague “Old English”’ designation, which was ‘widely used [...] to describe both Tudor-Gothic and Elizabethan houses’. Mark Girouard, The Victorian Country House revised edn. (Newhaven CT: Yale University Press, 1979), p. 71

44 Illustrated London News 46 (1865(1)), 71: ‘a mansion built of red brick, in the Elizabethan style, probably about the year 1600, on the site of a house which had been in the possession of the De Grey family since the fourteenth century’.

45 Girouard, p.54.



Citing this article:
Skilton, David . “The Centrality of Literary Illustration in Victorian Visual Culture: the example of Millais and Trollope from 1860 to 1864.” Journal of Illustration Studies (December 2007). 18 Jan 2019. <>