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My father, Eric Wetherholm, was a Shetlander. He was born in the Isle
of Unst, the most northern of those far-off islands, the Shetlands. He
loved his native land, though it might be said to be somewhat backward
in point of civilisation; though no trees are to be found in it much
larger than gooseberry bushes, or cattle bigger than sheep; though its
climate is moist and windy, and its winter days but of a few hours'
duration. But, in spite of these drawbacks, it possesses many points to
love, many to remember. Wild and romantic, and, in some places, grand
scenery, lofty and rocky precipices, sunny downs and steep hills, deep
coves with clear water, in which the sea-trout can be seen swimming in
shoals, and, better still, kind, honest, warm hearts, modest women with
sweet smiles, and true, honest men.

Once only in my youth was I there. I remember well, on a bright
summer's day, standing on one of the highest of its lofty hills,
sprinkled with thousands of beautiful wild-flowers, and as I looked over
the hundreds of isles and islets of every variety of form, grouping
round the mainland, as the largest island is called, I thought that in
all my wanderings I had never seen a greener or more lovely spot
floating on a surface of brighter blue; truly I felt proud of the region
which my poor father claimed as the place of his birth. I knew very
little of his early history. Like the larger proportion of Shetland
men, he followed the sea from his boyhood, and made several voyages, on
board a whaler, to Baffin's Bay. Once his ship had been nipped by the
ice, whirled helplessly against an iceberg, when he alone with two
companions escaped the destruction which overwhelmed her. Finally he
returned home, and, sickened of voyages in icy regions, became mate of a
merchantman trading out of the port of Hull round the English coast. On
one occasion, his brig having received severe damage in a heavy gale,
put into Plymouth harbour to obtain repairs. He there met an old
shipmate, John Trevelyn, who had given up the sea and settled with his
family on shore.

John had a daughter, Jannet Trevelyn, and a sweet, good girl I am very
certain she must have been. Before the brig sailed my father obtained
her promise to marry him. He shortly returned, when she became his
wife, and accompanied him to Shetland. But the damp, cold climate of
that northern land was a sore trial to her constitution, accustomed, as
she had been, to th