heir
interest in my behalf. What they said in reply it would be impossible
for me to translate, since the Faroese language is quite as
impenetrable as the Icelandic. They looked so startled and alarmed
withal that a gleam of pity must have manifested its appearance in
the corner of my eyes. The next moment their faces broke into a broad
grin, and each held out a hand audaciously, as much as to say, "My
dear sir, if you'll put a small copper in this small hand, we'll
retract all injurious criticisms, and ever after regard you as a
gentleman of extraordinary personal beauty!" Somehow my hand slipped
unconsciously into my pocket, but, before handing them the desired
change, it occurred to me to secure their likenesses for publication
as a warning to the children of all nations not to undertake a similar
experiment with any hope of success.

[Illustration: FAROESE CHILDREN.]

Thorshavn, so named after the old god Thor, is a small town of some
five or six hundred inhabitants, situated on the southeastern side of
the island of Stromoe. In front lies a harbor, indifferently protected
by a small island and two rocky points. The anchorage is insecure at
all times, especially during the prevalence of southerly and easterly
gales, when it often becomes necessary to heave up and put to sea; and
the dense fogs by which the approach to land is generally obscured
render navigation about these islands extremely perilous. Of the town
of Thorshavn little need be said. Its chief interest lies in the
almost primeval construction of the houses and the rustic simplicity
of its inhabitants. The few streets that run between the straggling
lines of sheds and sod-covered huts scattered over the rocks are
narrow and tortuous, winding up steep, stony precipices, and into
deep, boggy hollows; around rugged points, and over scraggy mounds of
gravel and grit. The public edifices, consisting of two or three small
churches and the amtman's residence, are little better than
martin-boxes. For some reason best known to the people in these
Northern climes, they paint their houses black, except where the roofs
are covered with sod, which nature paints green. I think it must be
from some notion that it gives them a cheerful aspect, though the
darkness of the paint and the chilly luxuriance of the green did not
strike me with joyous impressions. If Scotland can claim some
advantages as a place of residence for snails, Thorshavn must surely
be a paradise