ICELAND 99 



in a favourable spot, and my leave was up in another 

 fortnight. 



It was a beautifully still afternoon as we steamed 

 up to Thorshavn, a little village of wooden houses 

 nestling among the rocks at the foot of the high, 

 green- terraced hills. The place seems very green 

 and homely after barren Iceland, and there was 

 that indescribable charm about the island that 

 appertains to the Orkneys and the Shetlands — 

 the charm that comes of the ever- changing play of 

 shadow and sunshine on land and sea in a bracing 

 and brilliant atmosphere. The harbour was alive 

 Avith boats of the usual slender Norse type — high 

 of prow and light of oar — and the natives rowed 

 their craft with all the dash and go of men born 

 to the water, whilst chanting their wild and not 

 unmusical sagas. Taken as a whole, the Faroese 

 men and women are of the usual Scandinavian 

 type — yellow hair, blue eyes, pointed features, and 

 high cheekbones. Not a particularly fine race, 

 like the northern Norwegians, but amongst them 

 were a few exceptionally handsome men. Some 

 of the young men of Faroe were certainly as dark 

 as Spaniards, the nation to whom they doubtless 

 owed their features, for it is well known that two 

 ships of the ill-fated Armada struck these northern 

 isles, and that some of the crews escaped and 

 doubtless settled amongst the natives. The Beau 

 Brummel of the place was a fine fellow about six 

 feet three inches in height, and dressed in the 

 national costume he made an excellent model for 

 Geoff and his camera. 



There seems to be no history of the origin of 

 the national costume, which is at once picturesque 



