G.W.M. Reynolds Society

Reynolds Portrait
Reynolds’s portrait. Source: Reynolds’s Miscellany, I/1 (7 Nov. 1846): front page

The international G.W.M. Reynolds Society exists to promote the enjoyment and study of the work of G.W.M. Reynolds.

Best-selling fiction writer and rival to Dickens, Chartist, radical, newspaper editor, and entrepreneur, Reynolds was famous (or perhaps infamous) in his day. Although he is less well-known now, his reputation has been growing for some time. Emerging out of a collaboration between the University of Roehampton, London, UK, and DePaul University, Chicago, US, the Reynolds Society aims to bring Reynolds even more to the attention of the wider public and scholarly community.

Initially, the Reynolds Society will facilitate connections between those reading and studying Reynolds, through its database of scholars and experts, and the blog. In the future, this activity may lead to events and collaborations such as the 2014 bicentenary event ‘Remarkable Reynolds’, held in London at Westminster Archives Centre.

Do join us! See ‘How to Join’ for details of how to get in touch.

REMINDER – Death and Mr Pickwick Submissions

Happy new year to all of our members!

Just a reminder that there is still time to submit your ideas for blog posts for the Death and Mr Pickwick Page. If you are interested in being included in the blog, members can send short statements about their interests in Reynolds – this can be general statements about the importance of the writer or more specific examples about his life and work. There can be visual material, or even videos.  As a general rule, though, the material shouldn’t be too ‘academic’, and the emphasis should be on stimulating people’s interest.  I will collate and edit all the material I receive and  then produce a series of posts about the Society on the Death and Mr Pickwick page.


Please send any material to: stephenjarvis@hotmail.com

For more information, please see the original posting:


The Pixy, or the Unbaptised child: A Christmas Story

In the spirit of the season, I decided to dedicate this blog post to exploring the Gothic in one of Reynolds’s lesser-known short stories, The Pixy, or the Unbaptised Child: A Christmas Story (1848). Written originally in 1848 and later published in Reynolds’s Miscellany in 1850, the story was published in the style of Charles Dickens’s Christmas miniature books, on green paper. This was instantly recognisable to a readership that were growing accustomed to the tradition of serialised ghost stories around Christmas, particularly since the popularity of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol (1843). The Pixy combines the traditional Christmas Ghost story with the overt political discourse which, arguably, defines Reynolds’s legacy. The story itself is based on the long-held superstition in Devonshire and Cornwall that if a child dies unbaptised, they will roam the earth and haunt those left behind.

The Pixy tells the story of the newly married lawyer Arthur Lorimer and his wife Emily and begins on Christmas day in 1788. Their day of Christmas celebration is interrupted when Arthur is summoned to a hotel to hear the dying declaration of a young woman in order that she may make arrangements for after her death. Upon arrival, Arthur sees that the dying woman, Margaret. The date is of particular significance to Margaret as it was on Christmas day they fell in love and exactly one year later, when he abandoned her. Despite Arthur’s pleas for forgiveness, Margaret informs Arthur that he does not deserve the salvation that the season brings. She further explains that he is the father of her baby and that he needs to have her baptised; she urges him to take responsibility for their daughter’s wellbeing – her spiritual wellbeing to be precise. In her dying breath, she curses Arthur and tells him ‘fulfil your destiny – it will be terrible – but be forewarned.’ Despite making this solemn promise, Arthur does not baptise the child and, in an attempt to save his own reputation, Arthur denies all paternal connection to the child – claiming to be caring for her out of a sense of moral duty. Emily assumes the role of the child’s mother, calling her Isabella and treating her the same as her own son, Arthur.

A year after Margaret’s death, on Christmas day, Isabella dies unbaptised. Though Arthur does not feel any genuine sentiment towards his daughter, he becomes fearful of Margaret’s curse. Isabella returns to haunt Arthur and remind him of his broken pledge. The description of Isabella as a ghostly child is reminiscent of Dickens’s Ghost of Christmas Past as we are told that ‘at the foot of the stairs he beheld the radiant form of a young child, quite naked and transparent as if it were a mere embodiment of that light which the moon and stars send forth’. Like the emaciated ghost in Dickens’s novella, the ghost of Isabella is surrounded by light signifying not only her purity but shows her as a symbol of enlightenment.

As Nina Auerbach argued in Private Theatricals: The Lives of the Victorians (1990), the ghosts of children are more subtle than other Gothic monsters and yet remain terrifying, particularly for the guilty, corrupted adult they are haunting. Isabella serves as a reminder to Arthur’s transgression; even in death she threatens to expose his deceit and cowardice. Unlike The Ghost of Christmas Past, whose function is to help Scrooge redeem himself, the ghost of Isabella is less passive as she has the ability to alter Arthur’s life rather than just reminding him of his past sins.

The next year Isabella returns, this time a more malevolent and disruptive force in Arthur’s now peaceful life. Returning home from an evening of celebrations, both Arthur and his son see the ghost of Isabella in the garden. The pair are compelled to follow Isabella from the estate and to a river. Arthur is terrified as ‘he beheld his little son bound along the pathway towards the phenomenon of the transparent child of light’. Arthur passes out and when he awakes he finds that his son is missing, presumed to have drowned. Like most ghosts, Isabella has a lesson to teach her father. Isabella is a symbol of his broken promises to Margaret and his continued deceit in order to maintain his reputation. Isabella is not described as a gruesome or intimidating figure, shown in Arthur’s son’s reaction to her, though she elicits disgust and resentment in Arthur. From the first time he was told that Isabella was his illegitimate child, he is described as having ‘loathed’ her and when she was ill, he was ambivalent at first and, by the end, ‘rejoiced’ to be free of his burden. While conforming to typical ghost story tropes, Reynolds’s social values are ever-present in this short story showing his disdain for those who attempt to escape their responsibilities, particularly wealthy individuals. His sympathy for unwed mothers and discussion of their status as pariahs at the time, is shown in a number of his texts including The Mysteries of London (1844-46).

Twenty years after his son goes missing, Arthur is promoted to the position of Attorney General and is responsible for trying to disband meetings of working-class groups who were protesting their working conditions. Through spying and entrapment, Arthur sentences a young man named Albert to death for treason for attending a political rally. Reynolds’s Chartist ideology become much more apparent in this segment of the tale. The reader is then privy to a final Christmas with the Lorimers who dread yet another year without their son, who would have now been in his thirties. Arthur again sees the spectral vision of young Isabella and is tormented by his guilt. While he is mesmerised by the apparition, an elderly couple arrive at the door – it emerges that their son, Arthur, had been taken in by another family when he went missing and went by the name of Albert. Arthur is horrified when he realises that he inadvertently sentenced his innocent son to death.

As you can see, The Pixy is not the heart-warming Christmas tale of redemption and forgiveness that A Christmas Carol is. Reynolds’s uses the supernatural in order to not only entertain his readership and conform to a long-running tradition, but to express his own political ideologies and social agenda.

Screen Shot 2018-12-19 at 19.31.45

Sophie Raine


Published in Reynolds’s Miscellany in 1850, originally published as a miniature in the style of Dickens’s Christmas miniature books on green covers.












Death and Mr Pickwick

*Update – an incorrect version of this post was emailed earlier. See below for the amended version.

I am sure that some of you know that I am the author of the novel Death and Mr Pickwick, which tells the story behind the creation of The Pickwick Papers. In Death and Mr Pickwick, my original intention was to give coverage to GWM Reynolds, but considerations of space meant that I had to cut out all the material about him: I deeply regretted this, but the Pickwick phenomenon is such a vast topic that certain things, alas, had to be dropped.  However, I would like to make amends for the omission of Reynolds by actively promoting the work of the GWM Reynolds Society on the Death and Mr Pickwick facebook page



This page has become the most active Dickensian group BY FAR, exploring all aspects of The Pickwick Papers and Death and Mr Pickwick. I should perhaps say that the material on the page is not intended to be a transient thing in the normal manner of social media: I am gradually transferring all the posts to e-flipbooks, creating a kind of ‘online museum’ of Pickwickiana and Death-and-Mr-Pickwick-iana.  14 volumes of the posts are already available online and in the longer term my intention is to move towards the creation of an online Journal of Death and Mr Pickwick Studies, which would provide the opportunity for in-depth analysis and investigation, and go far beyond the level of facebook posts.


To introduce the GWM Reynolds Society to the followers of my page,  I think it would be a good idea for members to send me some short statements about why Reynolds is fascinating. The statements might range from a single sentence to a paragraph or two. There could be general statements about the importance of Reynolds, but I would also like plenty of very specific examples of things in Reynolds’ life and works that are of interest.  If you are too busy to write something, then simply send me a few lines from a Reynolds work that you like. There could also be visual material, or even videos.  As a general rule, though, the material shouldn’t be too ‘academic’, and the emphasis should be on stimulating people’s interest.  I will collate and edit all the material I receive and  then produce a series of posts about the Society on the Death and Mr Pickwick page.


Please send any material to: stephenjarvis@hotmail.com


If you could aim to get all the submissions to me by the end of the first week of January, the posts could then appear shortly afterwards.


And of course, I hope too that you will start following the Death and Mr Pickwick facebook page! If you have never read Death and Mr Pickwick,  then here is an article about it in The Atlantic magazine https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2015/06/was-dickens-a-thief/392072/ and here is a review in the British newspaper The Independent:  https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/reviews/death-and-mr-pickwick-by-stephen-jarvis-book-review-thrilling-search-for-mr-pickwick-and-those-who-10256163.html 


Best wishes


Stephen Jarvis

Postgrads on Reynolds

Sophie Raine (Lancaster University)

I was first made aware of the George W M Reynolds Society at the RSPV conference at the University of Victoria this year. I was giving a paper on Reynolds’ use of classical imagery in his illustrations of nude models. One aspect of Reynolds’ work which I found particularly interesting, and which was the main crux of my paper, was his portrayal of seemingly transgressive women, from nude models to sex workers. These representations were radical in many respects with these women compared, through illustration and classical allusion, to deities and going on to life fulfilling lives irrespective of their pasts. After the paper, met Mary L Shannon who suggested I might be interested in joining the Reynolds’ Society when it had been fully set up – needless to say, I was! With Reynolds being still somewhat of an obscure writer, it was refreshing to discuss his work with a fellow scholar who also admired him as a writer and a Chartist thinker.

When I heard that the Reynolds’ Society was seeking a post-graduate representative, I thought this would be an excellent opportunity to promote the work of Reynolds to a larger demographic and to discuss this intriguing figure with likeminded scholars. The first text of Reynolds that I encountered was The Mysteries of London, an urban fiction serial in the style of Eugene Sue’s The Mysteries of Paris. In the fourth year of my thesis now, I am still finding that Reynolds’ texts are endlessly intriguing and culturally significant; in addition to The Mysteries of London, my thesis also explores The Seamstress, or the White Slave of England, Wagner the Wehr-Wolf, The Bronze Statue and The Loves of the Harem, a Tale of Constantinople. Though my research covers a many unexplored penny dreadful writers, it is clear that much of the socio-political writings of the penny dreadful writers were influenced in some way by Reynolds.

I am delighted to be part of the Reynolds’ Society as one of the postgraduate representatives and am looking forward to promoting the work and life of George W M Reynolds with boundless enthusiasm.

Daniel Jenkin-Smith (Aston University)

My PhD research revolves around the role of clerks and bureaucratic institutions in nineteenth-century literature. In this regard, one might imagine that George Reynolds, as a depicter of the under- and upper-classes (as well as their various iniquities) had little to do with the servants of officialdom, who are conventionally to be found somewhere between the two. Indeed, in Reynolds’ epic serial, The Mysteries of London (1844-48), he appears to stress such a view from the outset. Amidst the web of binaries that Reynolds spins in his prologue to introduce his ‘city of fearful contrasts’: civilization and vice, wealth and poverty, even the temperate and torrid – where is the literal ‘grey area’ that is bureaucracy?

While later critics of bureaucracy, the most famous being Max Weber, identified this amalgam of rationally devised and repetitively and dispassionately executed administrative procedures as a power base in itself; part of the appeal of Victorian writers, like Reynolds, is that officialdom is more often than not a subordinate, if not implicit, presence in their work – a spectral force that facilitates the actions of more explicitly depicted vested interests. By virtue of his radical social and political agenda, Reynolds exemplifies this tendency.

Despite initial indications to the contrary, this ghostly bureaucratic presence is summoned from the very beginning of Reynolds’ Mysteries: opening the novel by alluding to London’s prisons and workhouses inhabited by the poor, themselves established by a parliament of the rich, Reynolds establishes a social order that perpetuates itself through its institutions, themselves maintained by clerical labour. And rather than ‘clerk’ being a cultural shorthand for lower middle-class dreariness (a trope we might associate with some of Reynolds’ notable contemporaries) the various anonymous clerks that populate the Mysteries are often the willing menials of this binary social antagonism. Reynolds’ depiction of a white-collar worker as a ‘peripatetic law-manual or text-book’ to a judge, or as a storehouse of information and administrative instrument to the Home Secretary, performs two functions. Firstly, the clerks supplement and extend the activities of the elites whom Reynolds satirizes, they are part of an increasingly sophisticated division of labour that serves to keep the powerful where they are; and secondly, in delegating the ostensibly dispassionate and functional duty of retaining and communicating information to clerks, Reynolds leaves his villainous elites free to focus solely on chicanery, politicking, and bias. We see this in the following satirical dialogue regarding workhouses between the Home Secretary and his private secretary:

“This letter is from a pauper in the—— Union, stating that he has been cruelly assaulted, beaten, and ill-used by the master; that he has applied in vain to the Poor Law Commissioners for redress; and that he now ventures to submit his case to your lordship.”

“Make a note to answer that the fullest inquiries shall be immediately instituted,” said the Minister.

“Shall I give the necessary instructions for the inquiry, my lord?” asked the Secretary.

“Inquiry!” repeated the Minister: “are you mad? Do you really imagine that I shall be foolish enough to permit any inquiry at all? Such a step would be almost certain to end in substantiating the pauper’s charge against the master; and then there would be a clamour from one end of the country to the other against the New Poor Laws. We must smother all such affairs whenever we can; but by writing to say that the fullest inquiries shall be instituted, I shall be armed with a reply to any member who might happen to bring the case before Parliament. (Mysteries of London, Volume 1, Chapter CXIV).

Not only is clerkdom (even at this high level) typified by an unthinking obedience, but it is precisely by his mechanical willingness that the private secretary becomes a sounding board for the cynical candour of the minister.

Importantly, whatever the detachment these figures may maintain with regard to their duties, they cannot escape Reynolds’ black and white moral code. One of the more explicitly bureaucratic scenes of the Mysteries is set in the ‘Black Chamber’ of the Post Office, where correspondence is intercepted. Reynolds writes that, the clerks’ labour ‘seemed purely of a mechanical kind: indeed, automatons could not have shewn less passion or excitement’, but, even so, Reynolds reminds us, ‘bad deeds, if not the results of bad passions and feelings, soon engender them.’

While Reynolds’ overt political concerns lay with the manual working class and the urban poor, it is through the portrayal of such non-manual workers that he could further illustrate and attack the stacked deck that was Victorian society.

Discovering G. W. M. Reynolds

By Stephen Basdeo

When I was completing my undergraduate dissertation on Victorian crime and penny fiction, my supervisor, Prof. Heather Shore, suggested that I look up an author – then unknown to me – named George W. M. Reynolds and his novel entitled The Mysteries of London. In what some might call fate, two days later I noticed on eBay a lovely two volume set of the full run from the 1840s, printed by G. Vickers, containing all the illustrations. At £40 they seemed like a bargain, so I snapped them up and immediately set about reading them.

To say that this recommendation made me a little poorer might be an understatement; after having read The Mysteries, I wanted more, so I began to become a book collector, tracking down originals or first editions of The Mysteries of the Court of London; The Soldier’s Wife; Faust: A Romance of the Secret Tribunals; Alfred; Robert Macaire; The Days of Hogarth; The Massacre of Glencoe; and A Sequel to Don Juan.

Although I have read most of the above, either as part of my research or just for fun, I do keep coming back to his “Mysteries” tales. I am interested in the history of crime and in particular portrayals of organised crime in fiction. I found that Reynolds had quite a sophisticated view of organised criminals’ modus operandi, which correlated (approximately though not perfectly) with modern criminologists’ definitions of the term. We know that there is a rough hierarchy among the Resurrection Man’s gang, that they collude with ‘upperworld’ figures, and that their primary motivation was to make a profit above all else.

Yet while many Victorian writers often presented their criminal characters as irredeemably criminal, often two-dimensional characters, Reynolds humanises his criminals and forces the reader to feel sympathy with them. There is not a person who reads The Mysteries of Londonwho does not feel for the plight of the “Mummy” growing up as a labourer in the mines, or the Resurrection Man who wanted to live an honest life but, as a result of his father’s actions, is told that ‘society has condemned you.’ A point which I intend to make in a monograph I’m currently writing on organised crime in literature is that the biographies which Reynolds gave his criminals anticipate that famous phrase: ‘society gets the criminals it deserves’, which was unusual in an era when such characters were often written off as part of an irredeemable and ever-growing ‘dangerous’ or ‘criminal class’.

Every major Victorian author enjoys the posthumous honour of having a society dedicated to them. As a man whose novels often outsold those of his more famous rivals, it is an honour to have the chance to be part of community of scholars who likewise recognise his achievements.


Stephen Basdeo is Assistant Professor of History at Richmond University (RIASA Leeds). His research interests include depictions of organised crime from the medieval period to the present. Details of his latest publications related to G. W. M. Reynolds include:

Stephen Basdeo, ‘“That’s Business”: Organised Crime in G. W. M. Reynolds’s The Mysteries of London(1844–48)’, Law, Crime, and History, 8: 1 (2018), 53-70

––––, ‘“Society has condemned you – unheard, I grant you; nevertheless, society has condemned you”: The Marginalisation and Criminalisation of the Poor in The Mysteries of London by G. W. M. Reynolds’, in Victorian Cultures of Liminality: Borders and Margins, ed. by Amina Alyal, Rosemary Mitchell, and Susan Anderson (Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars, 2018), pp. 189-204