Though Wilfrid belonged to the two first divisions of humanity, the men of force and the men of thought, yet his excesses, his tumultuous life, and his misdeeds had often turned him towards Faith; for doubt has two sides; a side to the light and a side to the darkness.  Wilfrid had too closely clasped the world under its forms of Matter and of Mind not to have acquired that thirst for the unknown, that longing to go beyond which lay their grasp upon the men who know, and wish, and will.  But neither his knowledge, nor his actions, nor his will, had found direction.  He had fled from social life from necessity; as a great criminal seeks the cloister.  Remorse, that virtue of weak beings, did not touch him.  Remorse is impotence, impotence which sins again.  Repentance alone is powerful; it ends all.  But in traversing the world, which he made his cloister, Wilfrid had found no balm for his wounds; he saw nothing in nature to which he could attach himself.  In him, despair had dried the sources of desire.  He was one of those beings who, having gone through all passions and come out victorious, have nothing more to raise in their hot-beds, and who, lacking opportunity to put themselves at the head of their fellow-men to trample under iron heel entire populations, buy, at the price of a horrible martyrdom, the faculty of ruining themselves in some belief, —­rocks sublime, which await the touch of a wand that comes not to bring the waters gushing from their far-off spring.

Led by a scheme of his restless, inquiring life to the shores of Norway, the sudden arrival of winter had detained the wanderer at Jarvis.  The day on which, for the first time, he saw Seraphita, the whole past of his life faded from his mind.  The young girl excited emotions which he had thought could never be revived.  The ashes gave forth a lingering flame at the first murmurings of that voice.  Who has ever felt himself return to youth and purity after growing cold and numb with age and soiled with impurity?  Suddenly, Wilfrid loved as he had never loved; he loved secretly, with faith, with fear, with inward madness.  His life was stirred to the very source of his being at the mere thought of seeing Seraphita.  As he listened to her he was transported into unknown worlds; he was mute before her, she magnetized him.  There, beneath the snows, among the glaciers, bloomed the celestial flower to which his hopes, so long betrayed, aspired; the sight of which awakened ideas of freshness, purity, and faith which grouped about his soul and lifted it to higher regions,—­as Angels bear to heaven the Elect in those symbolic pictures inspired by the guardian spirit of a great master.  Celestial perfumes softened the granite hardness of the rocky scene; light endowed with speech shed its divine melodies on the path of him who looked to heaven.  After emptying the cup of terrestrial love which his teeth had bitten as he drank it, he saw before him the chalice of salvation where the limpid waters sparkled, making thirsty for ineffable delights whoever dare apply his lips burning with a faith so strong that the crystal shall not be shattered.