Product Description

Unlike other Welsh squires, the current scion of the ancient and dignified house of Headlong-ap-Headlong, Harry Headlong, Esquire, had actually suffered certain phenomena, called books, to find their way into his house; and, by dint of lounging over them after dinner, became seized with a violent passion to be thought a philosopher and a man of taste. Accordingly, he invited numerous philosophers and poetasters the a feast; and four of the chosen guests had, from different parts of the metropolis, ensconced themselves in the four corners of the Holyhead mail. And a Very Holy Christmas it was to be, indeed. . . .

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #6393912 in Books
• Published on: 2003-02-01
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Hardcover
• 132 pages

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The place is quite a wilderness, said Squire Headlong: "for, during the latter part of my father's life, while I was finishing my education, he troubled himself about nothing but the cellar, and suffered everything else to go to rack and ruin. A mere wilderness, as you see, even now in December; but in summer a complete nursery of briers, a forest of thistles, a plantation of nettles, without any livestock but goats, that have eaten up all the bark of the trees. Here you see is the pedestal of a statue, with only half a leg and four toes remaining: there were many here once.

Download Description
The place is quite a wilderness, said Squire Headlong: "for, during the latter part of my father's life, while I was finishing my education, he troubled himself about nothing but the cellar, and suffered everything else to go to rack and ruin. A mere wilderness, as you see, even now in December; but in summer a complete nursery of briers, a forest of thistles, a plantation of nettles, without any livestock but goats, that have eaten up all the bark of the trees. Here you see is the pedestal of a statue, with only half a leg and four toes remaining: there were many here once.

Customer Reviews

Early 19th-century satire at its most erudite and witty
I daresay that no less a personage than Destiny herself foresaw to introduce me to the works of Thomas Love Peacock. While perusing the stacks of English Literature holdings at my library, I literally bumped into this book with my elbow, saw that it was misshelved, and also noticed the fact that Ray Bradbury had seen fit to write an introduction to it. How could I not examine this little book, given such circumstances? It proved to be a most fortuitous meeting, as I quite enjoyed my short adventure at Headlong Hall.

Peacock, it seems, was a venerable man of letters, a man of great wit and fancy who catered not to the popular imagination but principally produced works of prose and poetry for those of a scholarly, even antiquarian, mind. Headlong Hall, first published anonymously in 1816, is the first of Peacock's several novels; the book exists not so much to tell a story as to engage in discourses upon a myriad of subjects with something of a satirical air. Seeing as how Peacock wrote during the first half of the nineteenth century, some of his satirical passages relate to politics and social thinking I am wholly unfamiliar with in this day and age, but there remains plenty to delight those who love a good display of sagacity. Peacock could not only pontificate about all manner of subjects, he could land jibes from both directions upon the lot of them. There is a taste of Plato in his delineations of philosophical debates, yet the entire pageantry of pedantry found in Headlong Hall is always tempered by the affability of the host (Squire Headlong) and the liberal distribution of spirits among all parties. Don't expect to fall in love with any of the book's characters or engage your emotions to any significant degree (despite Peacock's insertion of a modicum of romance) with the story, for this is a book of ideas as represented by somewhat satirical characters.

What you have in Headlong Hall is a gathering of intellectuals by Squire Headlong, who has developed a desire to be seen as a man of taste. He seems to enjoy nothing better than a spirited debate among the learned - he doesn't really care what anyone has to say, though. Everyone gets to talk, and it doesn't really matter that no one actually listens because the parties involved consist predominantly of the types of men who enjoy hearing themselves talk in the first place. By way of example, you have Mr. Foster, a "perfectabilian" who extols the wonders of progress in the world, and Mr. Escot, a "deteriorationist" who lauds the goodness of the "natural" man, impugns progress at every turn, and basically consigns all of mankind to the compost heap of history. In between these two, there is Mr. Jenkinson, a "statu-quo-ite" who finds balance in everything. There are other parties joining in the fun, including a scattering of writers and critics, but those aforementioned afford one a good sense of the story's nature.

It's amazing to see a writer argue opposite sides of any given debate so effectively. Peacock has no trouble tolerating a fool, although he tends to poke a little fun while doing so. Peacock himself was seemingly no fan of popular ideas or the boastings of high-minded intellectuals, but it is hard to identify what he himself believes from the pages of this novel. I should also mention the prose itself, for it can be rough going at times. Peacock was a most educated man, and he uses more than his share of "big words" that mean nothing to me (who among you can readily define such words as philotheoparoptesism or osseocarnisanguineoviscericartilaginonervomedullary and use them in a sentence?). He also liberally sprinkles Latin and Greek quotations in the text, most of which (at least in the edition of the book I read) are not translated for the modern reader. Overall, though, Headlong Hall is a most extraordinary short novel that will appeal primarily to those with a scholarly bent and an appreciation for subtle humor and satire.