Upon one of the Kingsmill islands, then, I determined to plant my foot, come what come would.  And I was equally determined that one of the ship’s boats should float me thither.  But I had no idea of being without a companion.  It would be a weary watch to keep all by myself, with naught but the horizon in sight.

Now, among the crew was a fine old seaman, one Jarl; how old, no one could tell, not even himself.  Forecastle chronology is ever vague and defective.  “Man and boy,” said honest Jarl, “I have lived ever since I can remember.”  And truly, who may call to mind when he was not?  To ourselves, we all seem coeval with creation.  Whence it comes, that it is so hard to die, ere the world itself is departed.

Jarl hailed from the isle of Skye, one of the constellated Hebrides.  Hence, they often called him the Skyeman.  And though he was far from being piratical of soul, he was yet an old Norseman to behold.  His hands were brawny as the paws of a bear; his voice hoarse as a storm roaring round the old peak of Mull; and his long yellow hair waved round his head like a sunset.  My life for it, Jarl, thy ancestors were Vikings, who many a time sailed over the salt German sea and the Baltic; who wedded their Brynhildas in Jutland; and are now quaffing mead in the halls of Valhalla, and beating time with their cans to the hymns of the Scalds.  Ah! how the old Sagas run through me!

Yet Jarl, the descendant of heroes and kings, was a lone, friendless mariner on the main, only true to his origin in the sea-life that he led.  But so it has been, and forever will be.  What yeoman shall swear that he is not descended from Alfred? what dunce, that he is not sprung of old Homer?  King Noah, God bless him! fathered us all.  Then hold up your heads, oh ye Helots, blood potential flows through your veins.  All of us have monarchs and sages for kinsmen; nay, angels and archangels for cousins; since in antediluvian days, the sons of God did verily wed with our mothers, the irresistible daughters of Eve.  Thus all generations are blended:  and heaven and earth of one kin:  the hierarchies of seraphs in the uttermost skies; the thrones and principalities in the zodiac; the shades that roam throughout space; the nations and families, flocks and folds of the earth; one and all, brothers in essence—­oh, be we then brothers indeed!  All things form but one whole; the universe a Judea, and God Jehovah its head.  Then no more let us start with affright.  In a theocracy, what is to fear?  Let us compose ourselves to death as fagged horsemen sleep in the saddle.  Let us welcome even ghosts when they rise.  Away with our stares and grimaces.  The New Zealander’s tattooing is not a prodigy; nor the Chinaman’s ways an enigma.  No custom is strange; no creed is absurd; no foe, but who will in the end prove a friend.  In heaven, at last, our good, old, white-haired father Adam will greet all alike, and sociality forever prevail.  Christian shall join hands between Gentile