gibes at the
universities, that there are no such things as men of taste and
philosophy in Oxford, assembles a motley host in London, and asks them
down to his place at Llanberis. The adventures of the visit (ending up
with several weddings) form the scheme of the book, as indeed
repetitions of something very little different form the scheme of all
the other books, with the exception of _The Misfortunes of Elphin_, and
perhaps _Maid Marian_. Of books so simple in one way, and so complex in
others, it is impossible and unnecessary to give any detailed analysis.
But each contains characteristics which contribute too much to the
knowledge of Peacock's idiosyncrasy to pass altogether unnoticed. The
contrasts in _Headlong Hall_ between the pessimist Mr. Escot, the
optimist Mr. Foster, and the happy-mean man Mr. Jenkison (who inclines
to both in turn, but on the whole rather to optimism), are much less
amusing than the sketches of Welsh scenery and habits, the passages of
arms with representatives of the _Edinburgh_ and _Quarterly Reviews_
(which Peacock always hated), and the satire on "improving," craniology,
and other passing fancies of the day. The book also contains the first
and most unfriendly of those sketches of clergymen of the Church of
England which Peacock gradually softened till, in Dr. Folliott and Dr.
Opimian, his curses became blessings altogether. The Reverend Dr. Gaster
is an ignoble brute, though not quite life-like enough to be really
offensive. But the most charming part of the book by far (for its women
are mere lay figures) is to be found in the convivial scenes. _Headlong
Hall_ contains, besides other occasional verse of merit, two
drinking-songs--"Hail to the Headlong," and the still better "A
Heel-tap! a heel-tap! I never could bear it"--songs not quite so good as
those in the subsequent books, but good enough to make any reader think
with a gentle sigh of the departure of good fellowship from the earth.
Undergraduates and Scotchmen (and even in their case the fashion is said
to be dying) alone practise at the present day the full rites of Comus.

_Melincourt_, published, and indeed written, very soon after _Headlong
Hall_, is a much more ambitious attempt. It is some three times the
length of its predecessor, and is, though not much longer than a single
volume of some three-volume novels, the longest book that Peacock ever
wrote. It is also much more ambitiously planned; the twice attempted
abducti