‘Her Feet are on the Mountains.’
During some fiery moments, in which soul had been lifted above sense, in which self-abnegation had risen supreme, Aglionby had made his ‘great renunciation,’ and had experienced at the time all the exalted joy which such renunciations bring to those who consummate them. In his walk of an hour with Judith Conisbrough, he, like her, had lived through emotion enough to last him for years; at least, it is very certain that life, if constantly distracted by such emotions, could not be carried on; this poor, imperfect frame, this godlike reason, would succumb under an uninterrupted succession of such excitements. This is so trite as to be a truism. Yet it is a truism we are apt to dispute when the days have to be lived through which follow – as in Aglionby’s case they did – upon the few moments, or hours, or days, as the case may be, of intense, highly-strung, mental life: days so grey, so blank and drear, they are like some bare and solitary rock in a northern ocean.