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 “The dreadful summit of the cliff,
That beetles o’er his base into the sea....
The very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain
That looks so many fathoms to the sea,
And hears it roar beneath.”

Nor is the much talked of cradle forgotten, slung on ropes, for crossing the
chasm between a lower cliff and the Holm of Noss;—a detached rocky islet,
the top of which only affords pasture, during the summer months, for some
half dozen sheep.
The curious and singularly-perfect ancient Pictish or Scandinavian Burgh, in
the Island of Moosa, rises again before me; Scalloway Bay, with its old Castle
in ruins, its fishermen’s cots, and fish-drying sheds. A high, long, out-jutting
rocky promontory too, on which I had stood watching the “yeasty waves” far
below, as they rolled thundering into an irregular cave, which, in the course of
ages, they had scooped out among the basaltic crags, and, leaping up, scattered
drenching showers of diamond spray. Every succeeding dash of the billows
produced a loud report like the discharge of artillery, the reverberations
echoing along the shore. In the black creek below, the brine seething like a
caldron was literally churned into white foam-flakes, which, rising into the air
on sudden gusts of wind, sailed away inland, high overhead, like a flock of sea-
birds. These flakes were of all sizes, large masses of froth at times floating
down, and alighting at our very feet, from so great a height that they had
merely shewed as black specks against the bright sunlight. In lulls one could
actually lift them bodily from the ground, upwards of two cubic feet in size;
but when the wind rose, such masses of whipped sea-cream were again seized
upon, swept aloft, divided into smaller portions, and carried away across the
island. These and other pleasing memories presented themselves as we now
gazed on the distant, dim-blue Shetland Isles.
Saw a large vessel disabled and being towed southwards from Shetland, where
she appears to have come to grief. Topmasts gone, sides battered and patched
with boards. She is high out of the water, so that the cargo must have been
discharged. All our opera-glasses and telescopes are in requisition.
 FOOLA.

Sat on the boom for hours, the vessel rolling heavily over the great smooth
Atlantic billows. In the afternoon passed the island of Foola, which has been
called the St. Kilda of Shetland. It lies about sixteen miles west of Mainland,
and is high and precipitous. The cliffs are tenanted by innumerable sea-fowls,
which are caught in thousands by the cragsmen, and afford a considerable
source of revenue to the inhabitants.
Blue and cloudlike the detached and isolated heights of Mainland, Yell, and
Unst—the promontory of Hermanness, on the latter, being the most northerly
point of the British islands—are fast sinking beneath the horizon. Ere long
Foola, left astern, follows the others. No land in sight, not a sail on the
horizon; all round is now one smooth heaving circular plain of blue water—
the ever changing level producing a most singular optical effect.
In the evening walked the deck with Mr. Haycock, discoursing of Norwegian
scenery, and of yacht excursions thither. The evening clear and pleasant,
although the ground-swell continued to increase. Turned in, at half-past ten
o’clock. The vessel rolled much during the night. Professor Chadbourne, Mr.
Murray, and Mr. Cleghorn’s berths were in the same state-room as mine. The
quarter-deck being elevated, one of our windows opened towards the deck,
and could at all times afford good and safe ventilation; but the stewards always
would shut it, watching their opportunity of doing so when we were asleep. We
always opened it again, when on waking we found the deed had been done;
and all of us made a point of shouting out ferociously when we caught them
stealthily at it. This shutting and opening occurred several times every night,
and seemed destined to go on, spite of all our remonstrances; a nuisance only
relieved by a slight dash of the ludicrous. Danes don’t seem to like fresh air.

Saturday morning, July 23.—No land in sight, open sea from Norway to
America; heavy swell on the Atlantic, and wind changing from N.E. to N.W.;
numerous whales blowing, quite close to the vessel; gulls and kittiwakes flying
about.
At mid-day came in sight of the Faröe Islands rising above the horizon; fixed
the first glimpse of them, and continued sketching their outline from time to
time, as on nearing them it developed itself—watching with great interest the
seeming clouds slowly becoming crags. Little Dimon, a lofty rock-island,
somewhat resembling Ailsa, and purple in the distance, was, from the first, the
most prominent and singular object on the horizon line.
The waves rolling so heavily that not only the hull, but the mast of a sloop, not
very far off, is quite hid by each long swell. The Professor, Dr. Livingston, and
Mr. Murray all agree in saying that they never had such heavy seas in crossing
the Atlantic.
The Faröe group consists of twenty-two islands, seventeen of which are
inhabited. A bird’s-eye view of them would exhibit a series of bare, steep,
oblong hills, in parallel ranges; with either valleys or narrow arms of the sea
between them, and all lying north-west and south-east. The name Faröe is said
to be derived from faar or foer, the old word for a sheep; that animal having
probably been introduced by the Norse sea-rovers long before these islands
were permanently colonised in the time of Harold. However, fier—the Danish
word for feathers—is more likely to be the correct etymology; for these islands
are the native habitat of innumerable sea-birds.
They lie 185 miles north-west of the Shetland Isles, 400 west of Norway, and
320 south-east of Iceland; population upwards of 3000, and subject to
Denmark.
We are now approaching Suderoe, the most southerly of the islands. On our
left lie several curious detached rocks, near one of which, called the Monk, is a
whirlpool, dangerous in some states of the tide; although its perils, like those
of Corrivreckan between Jura and Scarba in the Hebrides, have been greatly
exaggerated. On one occasion I sailed over the latter unharmed by Sirens,
Mermaids, or Kelpies; only observing an irregular fresh on the water, where
the tide-ways met, and hearing nothing save a dripping, plashing noise in the
cross-cut ripple, as if many fish were leaping around the boat.
In storms, however, such places had better receive a wide berth.
The approach to the Faröe group is very fine, presenting to our view a
magnificent panorama of fantastically-shaped islands—peaked sharp angular
bare precipitous rocks, rising sheer from the sea; the larger-sized islands being
regularly terraced in two or more successive grades of columnar trap-rock.
Some of these singular hill-islets are sharp along the top, like the ridge of a
house, and slope down on either side to the sea, at an angle of fifty degrees.
Others of them are isolated stacks.
The hard trap-rock, nearly everywhere alternating with soft tufa, or claystone,
sufficiently accounts for the regular, stair-like terraces which form a striking
and characteristic feature of these picturesque islands. The whole have
evidently, in remote epochs, been subjected to violent physical abrasion,
probably glacial, during the period of the ice-drift; and, subsequently, to the
disintegrating crumbling influences of moisture, and of the atmosphere itself.
Frost converts each particle of moisture into a crystal expanding wedge of ice,
which does its work silently but surely and to an extent which few people
would imagine.
We now pass that singular rock-island, Little Dimon, which supports a few
wild sheep; and Store Dimon, on which only one family resides. The cliffs
here, as also on others of the islands, are so steep that boats are lowered with
ropes into the sea; and people landing are either pulled up by ropes, or are
obliged to clamber up by fixing their toes and fingers in holes cut on the face
of the rock. Sea-fowls and eggs are every year collected in thousands from
these islets by the bold cragsmen. These men climb from below; or, like the
samphire-gatherer—“dreadful trade”—are let down to the nests by means of a
rope, and there they pursue their perilous calling while hanging in “midway
air” over the sea. They also sometimes approach the cliffs at night, in boats,
carrying lighted torches, which lure and dazzle the birds that come flying
around them, so that they are easily knocked down with sticks, and the boat is
thus speedily filled. As many as five thousand birds have been taken in one
year from Store Dimon alone, and in former times they were much more
numerous.
We watch clouds like white fleecy wool rolling past, and apparently being raked
by the violet-coloured peaks; whilst others lower down are pierced and rest
peacefully among them.
Having passed Sandoe, through the Skaapen Fiord, we see Hestoe, Kolter,
Vaagoe, and other distant blue island heights in the direction of Myggenaes,
the most western island of the group. We now sail between Stromoe on the
west, and Naalsöe on the east. Stromoe is the central and largest island of the
group, being twenty-seven miles long and seven broad. It contains Thorshavn,
the capital of Faröe. Naalsöe, the needle island, is so called from a curious cave
at the south end which penetrates the island from side to side like the eye of a
needle—larger, by a long way, than Cleopatra’s. Daylight shews through it, and,
in calm weather, boats can sail from the one side to the other. We observe a
succession of sea-caves in the rocks as we sail along, the action of the waves
having evidently scooped out the softer strata, and left the columnar trap-rock
hanging like a pent-house over each entrance. These caves are tenanted by
innumerable sea-birds. On the brink of the water stand restless glossy
cormorants; along the horizontal rock-ledges above them, sit skua-gulls,
kittiwakes, auks, guillemots, and puffins, in rows; and generally ranged in the
order we have indicated, beginning with the cormorant on the lower stones or
rocks next the sea, and ending with the puffin, which takes the highest station
in this bird congress.
If disturbed, they raise a harsh, confused, deafening noise; screaming and
fluttering about in myriads. Their numbers are so frequently thinned, and in
such a variety of ways, that old birds may, on these occasions, be excused for
exhibiting signs of alarm.

NAALSÖE.
The Faröese eat every kind of sea-fowl, with the exception of gulls, skuas, and
cormorants; but are partial to auks, guillemots, and puffins. They use them
either fresh, salted or dried. The rancid fishy taste of sea-birds resides, for the
most part, in the skin only—that removed, the rest is generally palatable. In
the month of May the inhabitants of many of the islands subsist chiefly on
eggs. Feathers form an important article of export.
We watched several gulls confidingly following the steamer; one in particular,
now flying over the deck as far as the funnel, now falling astern to pick up bits
of biscuit that were thrown overboard to it. Long I stood admiring its beautiful
soft downy plumage, its easy graceful motions, the great distance to which a
few strokes of its powerful pinions urged it forward, or, spread bow-like and
motionless, allowed it simply to float and at times remain poised in the air
right over the deck, now peering down with its keen yet mild eyes, and leaving
us to surmise what embryo ideas of wonder might now be passing through its
little bird-brain.
The Danish officer raised, levelled his piece, and fired; the poor thing
screamed like a child, threw up its wings, turned round, and fell upon the sea
like a stone; its companions came flying confusedly in crowds to see what was
wrong with it, and received another shower of lead for their pains.
Holding no peace-society, vegetarian, homeopathic &c. views, I do not object
to the bona fide clearing of a country from dangerous animals; or to shooting,
when rendered necessary for supplying our wants; but—from the higher,
healthier platform of Christian manliness, reason and common sense—would
most emphatically protest against thoughtless or wanton cruelty. Such
barbarism could not be indulged in, much less be regarded as sport, but from
sheer thoughtlessness in the best; while, under almost any circumstances, the
destruction of animal life will, by the true gentleman, be regarded as a painful
necessity.
Those who love sport for its own sake may be divided into three classes—the
majority of sportsmen it is to be hoped belonging to the first of these
divisions;—viz., the thoughtless, who have never considered the subject at all,
or looked at any of its bearings; those whose blunted feelings are, in one
direction, estranged from the beauty and joy of existence; and the third and
last class, where civilization makes so near an approach to the depravity of
savage natures, that a tiger-like eagerness to destroy life takes possession of a
man and becomes a passion. He then only reckons the number of braces
bagged, and considers not desolate nests, broken-winged pining birds, and the
many dire tragedies wrought on the moor by his murderous gun.
A study of the habits of birds, taking cognizance of all the interesting ongoings
of their daily lives, of their wonderful instincts and labours of love, would, we
should think, make a man of rightly-constituted mind feel the necessity of
destroying them to be painful; and he certainly would not choose to engage in
it as sport. The fable of the boys and the frogs is in point, and the term
“sport,” thus applied, is surely a cruel, and certainly a one-sided word. In low
natures, sympathy becomes totally eclipsed and obscured by selfishness; and all
selfishness is sin.
Although shocked at witnessing the needless destruction of the poor gull, for
the sake of the officer, who was of a gentle kindly nature, doubtless belonging
to the “first division,” we tried hard to palliate the deed; but that pitiful cry of
agony haunts us yet!
“Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man, and bird, and beast.

“He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.”

Whales rising to the surface and spouting around the vessel; also shoals of
porpoises tumbling and gambolling about; sometimes swimming in line so as
closely to resemble the coils of a snake moving along; such an appearance has
probably originated the mythic sea-serpent.
There are still many caves in the rocks close on the sea; innumerable birds
flying out of them and settling on the surface of the heaving water close under
the cliffs.
We now approach a little bay, surrounded by an amphitheatre of bare hills; the
hollow, for a wonder, slopes down to the shore; we observe patches of green
among the rocks, and a flag flying. Several fishing sloops lie at anchor, but
there is no appearance of a town. Here we are told is Thorshavn, the capital of
Faröe—the haven of Thor. As we approach, we discover that it is a town, the
chief part of it built upon a rocky promontory which divides the bay; we can
also distinguish the church and fort. The green tint we had observed is grassy
turf—but it happens to be growing on the roofs of the wooden houses; and
the houses are scattered irregularly among the brown rocks. On the
promontory, house rises above house from the water’s edge; and the black,
wooden church tower rising behind appears to crown them all. On an
eminence, to the right of the town, is the battery or fort, with a flagstaff in
front. All glasses in requisition, we curiously examine the place and discover
several wooden jetties—landing places for fishing boats. Beneath the fort and
all round, split fish are spread on the rocks to dry; many square fish-heaps also
are being pressed under boards, with heavy stones placed above them.
The scenery around is not unlike that of Loch Long in Scotland, while the
general aspect of Thorshavn itself resembles the pictures of old towns given in
the corners of maps of the fifteenth century.
As we enter the bay with colours flying, the Danish flag is run up at the fort,
displayed by the sloops, and flutters from the flagstaff at Mr. Müller’s house.
This gentleman is one of the local authorities and also agent for the steamer. A
cold wind blows down the ravine, boats are coming off, the steam-whistle
rejoices on hearing itself echoed among the hills, and the anchor is let go.
Now, that we are near it, the town appears really picturesque and carries one
several hundred years back, with its veritable old-world, higgledy-piggledy
quaintness.

THORSHAVN.
Saturday night, 6 P.M.—Went on shore in the captain’s boat, called at Mr. Müller’s
office—a comfortable new erection—and then separated into parties to
explore the place. Crowds of men, women, and children, standing at every
door, stare at us with undisguised child-like wonder; the men—middle-sized
stalwart fellows with light hair and weathered faces—taking off their caps to us
as we pass along returning their salutes.
“An ancient fishy smell,” together with a strong flavour of turf-smoke,
decidedly predominate over sundry other nondescript odours in this strange
out-landish town. The results of our exploration are embodied in the following
jottings, which, at all events, participate so far in the spirit of the place as to
resemble its ground-plan.
Houses, stone for a few feet next the ground, then wood, tarred or painted
black, and generally two stories in height; small windows, the sashes of which
are painted white; green turf on the roofs. The interiors of the poorer sort of
houses are very dark; an utter absence of voluntary ventilation; one fire, and that
in the kitchen, the chimney often only a hole in the roof. Yet even in these
hovels there is generally a guest-room, comfortably boarded and furnished. In
such apartments we observed chairs, tables, chests of drawers, feather-beds,
down coverlets, a few books, engravings on the walls, specimens of ingenious
native handiwork, curiosities, &c. This juxtaposition under the same roof was
new to us, and struck every one as something quite peculiar and contrary to all
our previous experiences. The streets of Thorshavn are only narrow dirty
irregular passages, often not more than two or three feet wide; one walks upon
bare rock or mud. These passages wind up steep places, and run in all manner
of zigzag directions, so that the most direct line from one point to another
generally leads “straight down crooked lane and all round the square.”
Observed a man on the top of a house cutting grass with a sickle. Here the
approach of spring is first indicated by the turf roofs of the houses becoming
green. Being invited, we entered several fishermen’s houses; they seemed dark,
smoky, and dirty; and, in all, the air was close and stifling. In one, observed a
savoury pot of puffin broth, suspended from the ceiling and boiling on a turf
fire built open like a smith’s forge, the smoke finding only a very partial egress
by the hole overhead; on the wall hung a number of plucked puffins and
guillemots; several hens seen through the smoke sitting contentedly perched
on a spar evidently intended for their accommodation in the corner of the
apartment; a stone hand-mill for grinding barley, such as Sarah may have used,
lay on the floor; reminding one of the East, from whence the Scandinavians
came in the days of Odin.
In passing along the street we saw strips of whale-flesh, black and reddish-
coloured, hanging outside the gable of almost every house to dry, just as we
have seen herrings in fishing-villages on our own coasts. When a shoal of
whales is driven ashore by the boatmen, there are great rejoicings among the
islanders, whose faces, we were told, actually shine for weeks after this their
season of feasting. What cannot be eaten at the time is dried for future use.
Boiled or roasted it is nutritious, and not very unpalatable. The dried flesh
which I tasted resembled tough beef, with a flavour of venison. Being “blood-
meat,” I would not have known it to be from the sea; and have been told that,
when fresh and properly cooked, tender steaks from a young whale can
scarcely be distinguished from beef-steak.
The costume of the men is curious, and somewhat like that of the Neapolitans;
—a woollen cap, like the Phrygian, generally dark-blue or reddish; a long jacket
and knee-breeches, both of coarse home-made cloth, blue or brown; long
stockings; and thin, soft, buff-coloured lamb-skin shoes, made of one piece of
leather, and without hard soles, so that they can find sure footing with them
on the rocks, or use their toes when climbing crags almost as well as if they
had their bare feet. There is less peculiarity in the female costume. The men
and women generally have light hair and blue eyes. Honest and industrious,
crime is scarcely known amongst them.
Visited the Fort, which is very primitive; simply a little space on a hill-side,
enclosed with a low rough stone wall; four small useless cannon lying on the
grass, enjoying a sinecure—literally lying in clover; a wooden sentry-box in the
corner; a flagstaff in front of it, and two little cottages behind, to
accommodate several of the garrison, who prefer living there to lodging in the
town, as their comrades do. There are only some eight or ten soldiers
altogether; and these, with the commander, constitute the sole military
establishment in Faröe. They appear to occupy themselves with fishing, &c.,
very much like the other inhabitants of the place.
 FORT.

Visited the library, which was established by a former Amptman or Governor.

It occupies two rooms, which are shelved all round and comfortably heated
with a stove. We observed many standard Danish, German, French and
English books, several valuable folio works of reference, and many trashy
modern novels. The Faröese are inquisitive and intelligent, show a taste for
reading, but possess no native literature like the Icelanders.
Visited the church, which is built of wood. The service performed in it is the
Lutheran, as in Denmark. It contains an altar-piece intended to represent
“Joseph of Arimathea with the dead body of Christ,” two large candles, and a
silver and ebony crucifix. The galleries, of plain unvarnished wood, are
arranged like opera stalls, one above the other from the floor, and with green
curtains to each. At the right side of the pulpit were three large sand-glasses,
an old custom once common in all our churches; fronting the altar was the
organ-loft. Everything about the church was neat, clean, and primitive. Flower-
beds were planted so as to form wreaths or crosses on the graves in the
churchyard; and all appeared to be carefully tended and kept in order by loving
hands.
Went by invitation of Fraulein Löbner to drink tea at her mother’s, the Danish
officer with me. We were ushered into a charming old-fashioned room with
low panelled roof; everything in it was neat, scrupulously clean, and primitive.
A valance of white Nottingham lace-curtain ran along the top of the diamond-
paned lattice windows; while a row of flower-pots, with blooming roses and
geraniums, stood in the window-sill. There were cabinets with rich old china-
ware; several paintings on the wall, two of which were really excellent—one, a
portrait in oil of her late father who had been Governor of Faröe; the other a
portrait of her brother, also deceased. Her father was a Dane of German
extraction; and her mother—a kindly old lady to whom we were now
introduced—a native of Faröe.
At tea we had preserves, made from rhubarb grown in their own garden; a
silver ewer of delicious cream highly creditable to Faröese dairyship; and buns,
tarts, almond-cakes, &c., baked by the one baker of Thorshavn, and quite as
good as could be had in London.
While the officer was sketching from the window, our kind hostess wound up
a musical box, at the same time expressing her regret that the piano-forte,
which I had observed standing in the room, was under repair. She also showed
us a folio of her own drawings, and many engravings. Here a lady of cultivated
mind, and who has mingled in good society, is happy and content to dwell in
this remote isle; for to her it possesses the magic of that endearing word—
home!
She tells us that wool, fish, feathers, and skins form the chief articles of export;
that barley is the only grain raised in Faröe, but the summer is so short that it
has not time to ripen. The ears are plucked by the hand and dried in a kiln.
The rye, of which their black bread is made, is imported chiefly from
Denmark. The hay-harvest is of great importance to the inhabitants. There are
numerous sheep in the islands—some individuals possessing flocks of from
four to five hundred, besides a few ponies and cows. Dried, the mutton is
serviceable for food during winter, when frequent storms interfere with fishing
operations.
As in Shetland, the wool is collected from the sheep by the hand, at the season
of the year when they are casting their fleeces; for shearing, besides being a
more painful process, would deprive them of the long hair so necessary for
their protection in an uncertain climate, and leave them to shiver exposed to
the untempered fury of the northern blast. The sheep thus enables the
islanders to supply their own home wants, and also annually to export many
thousand pairs of knitted stockings and gloves, together with the overplus raw
material.
Miss L. informs us that Thorshavn contains about eight hundred inhabitants.
Of these, most of the men are fishers when the weather will admit of their
going off. The people are very ingenious, and make knives of all sizes, with
curiously inlaid wooden handles and sheaths. The wood for such purposes is
obtained from logs of mahogany, which are frequently found as drift-wood
among these islands. We were shewn a home-made fancy work-table, neatly
put together in a very ingenious and workman-like manner.
Each man here is a sort of Jack-of-all-trades, from the mending of boats or
nets, to the killing of sheep and drying them in sheds for the winter store of
provisions; from the making of lamb-skin shoes to the building of houses, or
the manufacture of implements.
Miss Löbner has kindly and obligingly undertaken to procure some specimens
of these manufactures and local curiosities against my return from Iceland.
Gazing round, as we take leave of our kind entertainers, I fix in my mind’s eye
the lady-like air and quaint point-devise costume of the elder lady, who, with
silvery hair combed back from her brow, had moved about most assiduously
performing all the sacred rites of hospitality to her guests; the mediæval aspect
of everything in the room,—from the stove to the timepiece, from the
polished wooden floor to the panelled ceiling; the diamond-paned lattice
windows, with their old-world outlook on the town and the flat wooden
bridge, close by, which crosses a brawling stream rushing impetuously over
rocks from the gully behind; the absolute cleanness and polish of everything;
and the monthly roses blooming freshly as of old;—all so vividly impress
themselves upon my mind that the whole becomes a waking dream of other
days; and it would not seem much out of keeping, or at all surprising, were the
Emperor Charles V. himself to open the door and walk into the quaint old
apartment we are now about to leave.
 FROM THORSHAVN—SHOWING FARÖESE BOATS.

Nine P.M.—Wandered alone by the shore, and sketched the view, looking
north, from beneath the fort; also made a drawing of the bay from the wooden
jetty; while engaged on the latter, crowds of fishermen gathered around me
making odd remarks of wonder, the general scope of which I could gather, as
they recognised the steamer, boats, hills, &c., coming up on the paper;
sketched one of the onlookers, an intelligent looking fellow, and here he is.
 FARÖESE BOATMAN.

The fishing boats or skiffs, have all the high bow and stern of the Norwegian
yawl; square lug-sails very broad and carried low are the most common. The
weather is so very uncertain, the gusts so sudden and violent, that, preceded by
a lull during which a lighted candle may be carried in the open air, they come
roaring down the valleys or between the islands, bellowing with a noise like
thunder, and sometimes strip the turf from the hill side, roll it up like a sheet
of lead and carry it away into the sea, while the air is darkened by clouds of
dust and stones.
Felt comfortably warm when sketching in the open air between ten and eleven
P.M., for, though the climate is moist, the mean temperature is warmer than
that of Denmark, and, on account of the gulf stream, not much below our
own. Forchhammer states that at Thorshavn in mild years, it is 49·2°; in cold
years, 42·3°; the average temperature being 45·4°. The greatest height of the
thermometer during his observations was 72·5°, and the lowest 18·5°.
Shortly before eleven o’clock the soldiers of the fort manned their boat, and
rowed us off to the steamer.
After narrating our various experiences on shore, had a pleasant quiet home-
talk with Professor Chadbourne, read a few verses of the New Testament, and
as the week was drawing to a close we retired to our berths, wishing each other
a good night’s rest after all the novel excitement, wonder, and fatigues of the
day.

Sabbath, July 24.—Wind high, and the lashing rain pouring down in torrents.
Went ashore at ten o’clock to attend church; heard the pleasing sound of
psalm-singing in various of the fishermen’s dwellings as we passed along.
Called for Mr. Müller, who had invited me to his pew. The service was
Lutheran, and began at eleven o’clock. The pastor was absent, but the
assistant, M. Lützen, who is also schoolmaster and organist, officiated. All the
people, singing lowly, joined in several fine old German chorales, led by the
organist, who also played some of Sebastian Bach’s music with much taste and
feeling—although little indebted to the instrument, which was old and infirm,
piping feebly and tremulously in its second childhood.
The area of the church was entirely occupied by women, many of them with
their bare heads, but most of them with a quaint little covering on the back
part of the head for hair and comb; only saw two bonnets in the whole
congregation. One old lady—with her hair combed back, a black silk covering
on the back part of her head, and, from where it terminated behind her ears, a
stiff white frill sticking right out—looked as if she had just stepped out from
one of Holbein’s pictures; others resembled Gerard Dow’s old women. The
men “were drest, in their Sunday’s best;”—long jackets and knee-breeches of
coarse blue or brown cloth, frequently ornamented with rows of metal
buttons; stockings of the same colours; and the never-varying buff-coloured
lamb-skin shoes.
It was pleasing to see these stalwart descendants of the brave old Vikings “the
heathen of the Northern sea,”—these men whose daily avocations exposed
them to constant perils by sea and land, here, in the very haven of Thor,
walking reverently into a Christian church, with their caps and Bibles in their
hands, and quietly entering their pews to worship God.
Although the day was very wet, and the regular minister absent, there was
present a congregation of about two hundred; and all seemed truly devotional
during the service.
From the roof, between two old-fashioned brass chandeliers, was suspended a
brig, probably the gift of some sailor preserved from shipwreck. The service
began at eleven o’clock, and ended at half-past twelve. When it was over, I
spoke with Skolare Lützen, who had officiated. He is a native of Copenhagen,
speaks little English, but good German. He took me over the building, and
into the pulpit. Altogether, the quaint appearance of the church, the organ, the
singing of the people, the devout reading and simplicity of the service, and the
curious old costumes carried one back to the time of the Reformation, and to
me all was singularly interesting. One could fancy that here, if anywhere, the
European world had stood still, and that Luther himself would not have
detected the lapse of centuries, if permitted once more to gaze on such a scene
as was here presented.
Two of us accompanied Mr. Müller to his house before going on board the
steamer. His wife and daughter were hospitable and kind; and, as usual on a
visit here, tarts, cakes, and wine were produced. His home resembles a
museum, containing many stuffed birds, eggs, geological specimens and other
natural curiosities collected in these islands. His little son’s name is Erasmus.
Captain Andriessen had wished to sail to-day, but could not get men to work
on Sabbath discharging the cargo; at which I was well pleased, both for the
right feeling it indicated on the part of the Faröese, and for our own sakes.
Here we lie peacefully anchored in the bay, enjoying the Sabbath quiet, while
the tempest is now howling wildly outside the islands, and the lashing pelting
rain is pouring down on the deck overhead like a shower-bath.
“Such groans of roaring wind and rain I never
Remember to have heard.”
The rain having abated, ere retiring for the night, walked the deck for half an
hour. Thorshavn, as seen in the strong light and shade of evening from the
steamer’s deck, has truly a most quaint old-world look—all the more so now
that we know it from exploration—so very primitive that one can scarcely
imagine anything like it. It is unique.

BASALT CAVES—SOUTH POINT OF STROMOE.

Monday morning, July 25.—From an early hour, all hands busily occupied
discharging the cargo, heavily-laden boats following each other to the shore. At
half-past one o’clock, the last boat pushes off, the steam-whistle is blown, and
we sail away round the south point of Stromoe, shaping our course north-west
through Hestoe Fiord. The coast of the islands is abrupt, mostly rising sheer
from the sea; many basaltic columns, and a succession of wave-worn caves, in
front of which countless sea-birds are flying, swimming and diving. The trap
hills are regularly terraced like stairs. Clouds drifting among the hills, and from
every gully cataracts leaping down in white foam to the sea. The general colour
of the rocks is gray and brown, slightly touched here and there with green.
These islands might be characterized as several groups or chains of hills, lying
nearly parallel to each other and separated by narrow arms of the sea, which
run in straight lines north-west and south-east. The summits of the larger
islands reach an elevation of from one to two thousand feet; while the highest
hill—Slattaretind, near Eide in Oesteroe—is two thousand nine hundred feet
high.
The hills around still exhibit a succession of grassy declivities, alternating with
naked walls of black or brown rock. The flat heights of these islands, we are
told, are either bare rock or marshy hollows. There are also several small lakes,
the largest of which, in Vaagoe, is only two miles in circumference, and lies
surrounded by wild rugged mountain masses.
We count a dozen foaming cataracts, all in sight at once, and falling down over
precipitous rocks around us into the sea. The wind perceptibly sways them
hither and thither, and then dispersing the lower portion of the water raises it
in silvery clouds of vapour on which rainbows play. They resemble the
Staubach in Switzerland; and remind us of the wild mist-veil apparition of
Kühleborn, in the charming story of Undine.
The tidal currents, in the long narrow straits which divide the northern islands
from each other, are strong but regular; running six hours the one way and six
hours the other. Boatmen must calculate and wait for the stream, as the oar is
powerless against it.
The atmospheric effects are beautiful;—a bold headland, ten miles to the
south, appears in the bright sunshine to be of the deepest violet colour; no
magic of the pencil could approach such a tint. It is heightened too by the
white gleaming sail of a fishing smack relieved against it.
When we got clear of the islands, the ground-swell became much heavier; for
the storm of the preceding day had been terrific. Great heavy waves of smooth
unbroken water, worse than Spanish rollers; boat tumbling and plunging
about, with sail set to steady her; walked the deck for an hour and found use
for my sea-legs.
Several gulls follow the ship; I never tire of watching their graceful motions, as,
with white downy plumage and wings tipt with black, they fly forward round
the mast, remain poised over the deck, or fall astern keeping in the steamer’s
wake. Two of our companions have discovered a capital sheltered nook and sit
smoking, perched up inside the large inverted boat which we are taking north
with us.
An Icelander and a Dane are among the second-class passengers; got them to
read aloud to me Icelandic and Danish, also Greek and Latin. In pronouncing
the latter two, they follow the classic mode and give the broad vowel sounds,
as taught in the German and Scottish universities but not at Oxford or
Cambridge.
The dim Faröes are fast falling astern—
“Far-off mountains turnéd into clouds.”

The vessel by the log makes eight knots—course, N. by W. and sails set.
The day lengthens as we go north, and at midnight I can now see to read large
print, although the sky is very cloudy.
No land—no sail in sight; we heave over the billows of the lonely Northern
Sea, and now all is clear before us for Iceland!

PORTLAND HUK.