The very small upper town rears its northern front sharply and boldly above the very edge of a cold dark abyss, facing the great sea, and swept by an eternal blast. This part of the place consists of only poor houses, and in one of them I found my quarters with a poor man, a maker of those pretty shell pictures for which the place is famous. Ascending by a ladder, rather than a staircase, into a dark little room, I looked out upon the strange wild scene, as strange and tragic, as wild and impressive, as that which had presented itself, when, also from a window, I had caught my first view of the great glacier of the Swiss Grindelwald. The glacier had shown an enormous monster of peaked icebergs which seemed crashing down upon me; and this vexed sea of Granville seemed an army of monstrous waves all rushing together to the attack. My host here, though far from old, was feeble and suffering, and, as I examined his shell work and talked with him, I perceived that his mind was somewhat shaken. Poor fellow; upon that shore his only brother had perished, and from that moment the sea appeared to him an intelligent and persistent enemy. In the winter it beat his windows with snow or with icy winds, and kept him sleepless and peaceless during the long and dreary nights, and in the summer it brought him the vivid lightnings and the far resounding thunders. At the high tides it was still worse; the spray then beat upon his very windows, and he felt doubtful if some day he would not be drowned even on his own hearth. But he had not the means of finding a more secure shelter, and perhaps he was unconsciously retained there by we know not what strange fascination. He had not resolution to break altogether with that terrible foe, for which he had a certain respect, as well as a great awe. He seldom spoke of it by name; like the Icelander who, when at sea, does not name the Ourque, lest she should hear, and appear. I fancy that even now I can see his pale face, as, pointing to the wave-beaten beach, he said--"That terrifies me!" Was he a lunatic? Not at all. He spoke quite sensibly, and was in reality interesting and even distinguished. A nervous being, too delicately organized for such a scene as that in which he was placed. But the sea can madden, and often does. Livingstone brought from Africa a bold and intelligent man who had hunted and killed Lions, but had never seen the Sea. When taken on board ship, the novel sight was too much for his brain, he became frantic, and threw himself headlong into the heaving deep, which at once terrified and fascinated him. On the other hand, so attached do some men become to the sea, that they can never quit it. I have seen old pilots, compelled by infirmity to abandon their office, fret themselves into imbecility.