intively, reflected on
by Lord Houghton in the words, "the intimate friends of Mr. Peacock may
have understood his political sentiments, but it is extremely difficult
to discover them from his works." I should, however, myself say that,
though it may be extremely difficult to deduce any definite political
sentiments from Peacock's works, it is very easy to see in them a
general and not inconsistent political attitude--that of intolerance of
the vulgar and the stupid. Stupidity and vulgarity not being
(fortunately or unfortunately) monopolised by any political party, and
being (no doubt unfortunately) often condescended to by both, it is not
surprising to find Peacock--especially with his noble disregard of
apparent consistency and the inveterate habit of pillar-to-post joking,
which has been commented on--distributing his shafts with great
impartiality on Trojan and Greek; on the opponents of reform in his
earlier manhood, and on the believers in progress during his later; on
virtual representation and the telegraph; on barouche-driving as a
gentleman's profession, and lecturing as a gentleman's profession. But
this impartiality (or, if anybody prefers it, inconsistency) has
naturally added to the difficulties of some readers with his works. It
is time, however, to endeavour to give some idea of the gay variety of
those works themselves.

Although there are few novelists who observe plot less than Peacock,
there are few also who are more regular in the particular fashion in
which they disdain plot. Peacock is in fiction what the dramatists of
the school of Ben Jonson down to Shadwell are in comedy--he works in
"humours." It ought not to be, but perhaps is, necessary to remind the
reader that this is by no means the same thing in essence, though
accidentally it very often is the same, as being a humourist. The dealer
in humours takes some fad or craze in his characters, some minor ruling
passion, and makes his profit out of it. Generally (and almost always in
Peacock's case) he takes if he can one or more of these humours as a
central point, and lets the others play and revolve in a more or less
eccentric fashion round it. In almost every book of Peacock's there is a
host who is possessed by the cheerful mania for collecting other maniacs
round him. Harry Headlong of Headlong Hall, Esquire, a young Welsh
gentleman of means, and of generous though rather unchastened taste,
finding, as Peacock says, in the earliest of his