Despite the seductions of the Institute for the leisure of the theory classes any historian worth his grants knows literature to be an indispensable source. How much would we know about the England of Gloriana, of Anne, of Victoria, without Shakespeare, the Spectator, and “Locksley Hall?” A lot no doubt, but how much poorer we should be without them. Not to overdo chivalry the pages that follow view Jeremy Bentham's England through the spectacles of Thomas Love Peacock (1785-1866) whose place as a novelist may unsafely be left to those undertakers of reputations, the professors of literature, but whose value as a document may best be gauged by a historian. Indeed Peacock is a historian, the better for being a satirist. Whether all historians are satirists must be decided by others, but surely all satirists are historians. Compared to parliamentary papers, mercantile ledgers, the Benthamite corpus, Peacock's slim volumes may seem to afford an historian no more than a trial run. Yet such is far from the case. The problem for the initiate is not paucity but riches. The shafts of his satire leave scarcely a contemporary fad or fancy in darkness. What is more, it takes very little sensitivity to appreciate how brightly those shafts light up many posturings of our own day. The words, “for the initiate,” are deliberately chosen: to capture Peacock's flavor one must comprehend his intellectual milieu. To this area there is no better key than contemporary periodicals wherein the words, the phrases, often the very rhythms find echo in his novels. Having absorbed the first, one grasps the second, one understands what Peacock was saying when he knows what was being talked about when he said it.