These are the facts. The uncle, the elder brother, the squire, (a Little embarrassed, I fancy,) resides in a family place in Cornwall, of course. "Papa is in business," Mary informs me; He's a good sensible man, whatever his trade is. The mother Is--shall I call it fine?--herself she would tell you refined, and Greatly, I fear me, looks down on my bookish and maladroit manners; Somewhat affecteth the blue; would talk to me often of poets; Quotes, which I hate, Childe Harold; but also appreciates Wordsworth; Sometimes adventures on Schiller; and then to religion diverges; Questions me much about Oxford; and yet, in her loftiest flights, still Grates the fastidious ear with the slightly mercantile accent. 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.