A day of rare serenity must have witnessed their arrival on the Westmans, a spot which of all others seemed most unlikely to become their home. Why they remained there, is a secret of the past; most likely they had no other alternative, and freedom on a rock was, at all events, better than slavery under a cruel viking. Thus these weather-beaten islets were first peopled by men from the west, whence they derive their name, and it is supposed that the present inhabitants are the descendants of those children of Erin. No one will be inclined to envy them the heritage bequeathed to them by their fathers. The Westmans are fourteen in number; but of these only one, called Heimaey, or Home Island, is inhabited. It is fifteen miles from the coast of Iceland, and forty-five from Hecla. Though larger than all the others put together, its entire surface is not more than ten square miles. It is almost surrounded with high basaltic cliffs, and an otherwise iron-bound shore; its interior is covered with black ashy-looking cones, bearing undoubted evidence of volcanic action; in fact, the harbor, which lies on its north-east side, and is only accessible to small craft, is formed out of an old crater, into which the sea has worn an entrance. The inhabitants are located in two villages; Kaufstathir, on a little grassy knoll near the landing-place, and Ofanleyte, on the grassy platform of the island. Only three of the other islets produce any vegetation or pasturage, and it is said that on one of these the sheep are hoisted with a rope out of the boats by an islander, who, at the risk of his neck, has climbed to the top of the precipitous rock. The others are mere naked cliffs or basaltic pillars, the abode of innumerable sea-birds, which, when accessible, are a precious resource to the islanders. For, as may well be supposed, the scanty grass lands afford nourishment but to a few cows and sheep; and as the unruly waters too often prevent their fishing-boats from putting to sea, they depend in a great measure for their subsistence upon the sea-birds, in whose capture they exhibit wonderful courage and skill. In the egg-season they go to the top of the cliff, and, putting a rope round a man’s waist, let him down the side of the perpendicular rock, one, two, or three hundred feet; on arriving at the long, narrow, horizontal shelves, he proceeds to fill a large bag with the brittle treasures deposited by the birds. When his bag is full, he and his eggs are drawn to the top by his companions. If the rope breaks, or is cut off by the sharp corners of the rock, which, however, happens but seldom, nothing can save the luckless fowler, who is either precipitated into the sea, or dashed to pieces on the rocks below. [Illustration: 64. HOME OF SEA-BIRDS.]