Their brother Wilfrid was at Brookfield.  Six months earlier he had returned from India, an invalided cornet of light cavalry, with a reputation for military dash and the prospect of a medal.  Then he was their heroic brother he was now their guard.  They love him tenderly, and admired him when it was necessary; but they had exhausted their own sensations concerning his deeds of arms, and fancied that he had served their purpose.  And besides, valour is not an intellectual quality, they said.  They were ladies so aspiring, these daughters of the merchant Samuel Bolton Pole, that, if Napoleon had been their brother, their imaginations would have overtopped him after his six months’ inaction in the Tuileries.  They would by that time have made a stepping-stone of the emperor.  ‘Mounting’ was the title given to this proceeding.  They went on perpetually mounting.  It is still a good way from the head of the tallest of men to the stars; so they had their work before them; but, as they observed, they were young.  To be brief, they were very ambitious damsels, aiming at they knew not exactly what, save that it was something so wide that it had not a name, and so high in the air that no one could see it.  They knew assuredly that their circle did not please them.  So, therefore, they were constantly extending and refining it:  extending it perhaps for the purpose of refining it.  Their susceptibilities demanded that they should escape from a city circle.  Having no mother, they ruled their father’s house and him, and were at least commanders of whatsoever forces they could summon for the task.

It may be seen that they were sentimentalists.  That is to say, they supposed that they enjoyed exclusive possession of the Nice Feelings, and exclusively comprehended the Fine Shades.  Whereof more will be said; but in the meantime it will explain their propensity to mount; it will account for their irritation at the material obstructions surrounding them; and possibly the philosopher will now have his eye on the source of that extraordinary sense of superiority to mankind which was the crown of their complacent brows.  Eclipsed as they may be in the gross appreciation of the world by other people, who excel in this and that accomplishment, persons that nourish Nice Feelings and are intimate with the Fine Shades carry their own test of intrinsic value.

Nor let the philosopher venture hastily to despise them as pipers to dilettante life.  Such persons come to us in the order of civilization.  In their way they help to civilize us.  Sentimentalists are a perfectly natural growth of a fat soil.  Wealthy communities must engender them.  If with attentive minds we mark the origin of classes, we shall discern that the Nice Feelings and the Fine Shades play a principal part in our human development and social history.  I dare not say that civilized man is to be studied with the eye of a naturalist; but my vulgar meaning might almost be twisted to convey: