which cared not about it, feared it not, felt it not, knew it not. Laughably, said I? Ah! no inclination towards laughter remains with us when we reflect upon the fleeting existence, the ephemeral and impotent fragility of our best beloved, our fellows, our Maker's favored, erring, vain-glorious, and, in the last issue, utterly helpless Humanity, when in presence of that tireless and inscrutable Eternity to which we may at any moment be recalled! Such was one of my earliest glances at the Ocean; such the gloomy meditations, only too truly and too sternly realized, that were suggested to me by that combat between the fierce Sea upon which I look so often, and the glad and laughing, and buoyant child upon whom, alas! I shall look, lovingly and anxiously, no more.
CHAPTER III.
THE BEACH, THE SANDS, AND THE IRON-BOUND COAST, CONTINUED.
Look upon the Ocean where and when you may, you everywhere and alway shall find her the same grand and terrible teacher of that hardest of all the lessons man has to learn—man's insignificance. Take your stand upon some bold headland, from which with earnest and well trained eye, you can sweep the entire horizon; or, wander, with shortened ken, in the sandy desert;—go whithersoever you will, where old Ocean shall lash the shore, and everywhere and alway, I repeat, you shall find Ocean the same—mighty and terrible. True it is, that our finite and dim gaze cannot discern the, humanly speaking, Infinity of the Ocean; but we feel, we instinctively comprehend, that Infinity, and the impression made by that instructive comprehension is even deeper than could be made by Ocean visibly to our material eye, tangibly to our poor human hand.
Such, so deep, so permanent, was the impression made upon me by that wild tumultuous scene on the scourged-shore where Granville—dear old Granville!—keeps neutral watch between Normandy and Brittany. The wealthy, kindly and hearty, though bluff, and somewhat vulgar Normandy with its vast outspread of orchard and meadow suddenly disappears, and, by Granville and by the frowning Saint Michel we pass all at once into quite another world. For Granville, though Norman as to race, is thoroughly Breton as to aspect. Sternly, solidly, invincibly, the great Rock rears his defiant front, and looks down in a quite insolent contempt upon the wild surges that incessantly assault, but never harm, that passionless and mutely mocking Titan. Let the wild winds, unpent from their northern caverns, sweep the rugged coast; borne on the cross-currents from the angry West, let the wind sweep all things else clear from its path and this stern unconquerable rock ever and alway saith "thus far shalt thou come, but no farther. Strengthened though you are by your mad trans-Atlantic leap of a thousand leagues, against me your fury shall be spent in vain."
I loved that odd and somewhat dull little town, which owes its support to the distant and most perilous fishery. Every family there, feels that it is supported by a dread game in which human life is at stake; and this feeling produces a certain harmonious gravity in the aspect and tone of the dwellers hereabout, and of all their surroundings. A touching and a hallowing melancholy, that, of which I have often felt the influence, when, walking on the already darkening shore or gazing from the upper town that crowns the great rock, I have seen the sun sink below the far and misty horizon, harshly streaked by alternate rays of luridness and gloom, and not pausing to tint the sky with those glowing and fantastic brilliances which in other climes delight us. Here it is already autumn in August, and twilight scarcely exists. Scarcely has the sun set, when the shrewd winds freshen, and the dark green waves sweep on with added force; below, you see a few spectral forms hurrying along in their dark cloaks, and from afar you hear the melancholy bleatings of the sheep already benighted on their scanty pasturage.
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.
On the very summit of Saint Michael you are shown what they call Maniac's Shelf; and I know no place better fitted to make one mad than that giddy height. All around a vast stretch of white sand, solitary ever, and ever treacherous. It is neither land nor water; it is neither sea water nor fresh, though streams are constantly flowing beneath. Rarely, and but for brief moments, a boat can cross there, and if you cross when the water is out you risk being swallowed in. I can state that with full authority, for I nearly lost my life there. A very light vehicle in which I ventured there, and the horse that drew it, disappeared in too, and only by a perfect miracle I escaped on foot, feeling myself sinking at every step. At length, however, I reached the Rock, that gigantic Abbey, Fortress and Prison, that frowning sublimity, so well worthy of the scene which it so sternly dominates. This is no place for a detailed description of such a monument. On a huge block of granite, that Titanic pile rises and rises still, rock upon rock, age upon age, and still dungeon above dungeon. At the foot, the in pace of the Monks; higher up, the iron cage made by Louis XI.; higher still, that of Louis XIV.; higher still, the prison of our own day. And all this in a whirlwind, a perpetual tempest; a Sepulchre without the Sepulchre's peace.
Is it the fault of the sea, if this beach is treacherous? Not at all. There, as elsewhere, the Sea arrives strong and loud, indeed, but in all frankness and loyalty. The real fault is in the land, apparently solid, but undermined by numberless streams of fresh water which converts that seemingly solid beach into a treacherous and devouring quagmire. And especially is the fault in the ignorance and negligence of man. In the long dark ages when man invented the legend and the pilgrimage of the Archangel who vanquished the Devil, the Devil took possession of that deserted plain. The sea is quite innocent in the matter. Far, indeed, from doing harm, the sea upon its madly bounding waves brings in a nourishing and fecundating salt more precious than the fat slime of the Nile, enriching the once hideous marshes of Dol into the lovely gardens of our own day. The Sea is a somewhat violent mother, no doubt;—but a mother still. Abounding in fish, she lavishes upon the opposite Cancale, and upon many another bank, millions, thousands of millions, of oysters,
