Is it contemptible, Eustace,—­I’m perfectly ready to think so,—­
  Is it,—­the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people? 
  I am ashamed my own self; and yet true it is, if disgraceful,
  That for the first time in life I am living and moving with freedom. 
  I, who never could talk to the people I meet with my uncle,—­
  I, who have always failed,—­I, trust me, can suit the Trevellyns;
  I, believe me,—­great conquest,—­am liked by the country bankers. 
  And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly. 
  So it proceeds; Laissez faire, laissez aller,—­such is the watchword. 
  Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hundreds as pleasant,
  Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polish
  Higher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn. 
  Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition,—­
  Juxtaposition, in short; and what is juxtaposition?

  XII.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

    But I am in for it now,—­laissez faire, of a truth, laissez aller. 
  Yes, I am going,—­I feel it, I feel and cannot recall it,—­
  Fusing with this thing and that, entering into all sorts of relations,
  Tying I know not what ties, which, whatever they are, I know one thing,
  Will and must, woe is me, be one day painfully broken,—­
  Broken with painful remorses, with shrinkings of soul, and relentings,
  Foolish delays, more foolish evasions, most foolish renewals. 
  But I am in for it now,—­I have quitted the ship of Ulysses;
  Yet on my lips is the moly, medicinal, offered of Hermes. 
  I have passed into the precinct, the labyrinth closes around me,
  Path into path rounding slyly; I pace slowly on, and the fancy,
  Struggling awhile to sustain the long sequences, weary, bewildered,
  Fain must collapse in despair; I yield, I am lost and know nothing;
  Yet in my bosom unbroken remaineth the clue; I shall use it. 
  Lo, with the rope on my loins I descend through the fissure; I sink, yet
  Inly secure in the strength of invisible arms up above me;
  Still, wheresoever I swing, wherever to shore, or to shelf, or
  Floor of cavern untrodden, shell-sprinkled, enchanting, I know I
  Yet shall one time feel the strong cord tighten about me,—­
  Feel it, relentless, upbear me from spots I would rest in; and though the
  Rope sway wildly, I faint, crags wound me, from crag unto crag re-
  Bounding, or, wide in the void, I die ten deaths ere the end, I
  Yet shall plant firm foot on the broad lofty spaces I quit, shall
  Feel underneath me again the great massy strengths of abstraction,
  Look yet abroad from the height o’er the sea whose salt wave I
      have tasted.