Fields,
Yellow With Flowers, Among Which Stood Here And There A Cottage, Sloped
Softly Down To The Water, And Beyond
Them rose the bare declivities and
summits of the hills, dark with heath, with here and there still darker
spots,
Of an almost inky hue, where peat had been cut for fuel. Not a
tree, not a shrub was to be seen, and the greater part of the soil
appeared never to have been reduced to cultivation.
About one o'clock we cast anchor before Lerwick, a fishing village, built
on the shore of Bressay Sound, which here forms one of the finest harbors
in the world. It has two passages to the sea, so that when the wind blows
a storm on one side of the islands, the Shetlander in his boat passes out
in the other direction, and finds himself in comparatively smooth water.
It was Sunday, and the man who landed us at the quay and took our baggage
to our lodging, said as he left us -
"It's the Sabbath, and I'll no tak' my pay now, but I'll call the morrow.
My name is Jim Sinclair, pilot, and if ye'll be wanting to go anywhere,
I'll be glad to tak' ye in my boat." In a few minutes we were snugly
established at our lodgings. There is no inn throughout all the Shetland
Islands, which contain about thirty thousand inhabitants, but if any of my
friends should have occasion to visit Lerwick, I can cheerfully recommend
to them the comfortable lodging-house of Mrs. Walker, who keeps a little
shop in the principal street, not far from Queen's lane. We made haste to
get ready for church, and sallied out to find the place of worship
frequented by our landlady, which was not a difficult matter.
The little town of Lerwick consists of two-story houses, built mostly of
unhewn stone, rough-cast, with steep roofs and a chimney at each end. They
are arranged along a winding street parallel with the shore, and along
narrow lanes running upward to the top of the hill. The main street is
flagged with smooth stones, like the streets in Venice, for no vehicle
runs on wheels in the Shetland islands. We went up Queen's lane and soon
found the building occupied by the Free Church of Scotland, until a temple
of fairer proportions, on which the masons are now at work, on the top of
the hill, shall be completed for their reception. It was crowded with
attentive worshipers, one of whom obligingly came forward and found a seat
for us. The minister, Mr. Frazer, had begun the evening service, and was
at prayer. When I entered, he was speaking of "our father the devil;" but
the prayer was followed by an earnest, practical discourse, though
somewhat crude in the composition, and reminding me of an expression I
once heard used by a distinguished Scotchman, who complained that the
clergy of his country, in composing their sermons, too often "mak' rough
wark of it."
I looked about among these descendants of the Norwegians, but could not
see any thing singular in their physiognomy; and but for the harsh accent
of the preacher, I might almost have thought myself in the midst of a
country congregation in the United States.
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