The Jews, at times, though but very rarely, avail themselves of their privilege of four wives granted them in Mahometan countries, and a nice mess they make of it.  I knew a Jew of this description in Tunis.  He was a lively, jocose fellow, with a libidinous countenance, singing always some catch of a song.  He was a silk-mercer, and pretty well off.  His house was small, and besides a common salle-a-manger, divided into four compartments for his four wives, each defending her room with the ferocity of a tigress.  Two of them were of his own age, about fifty, and two not more than twenty.  The two elder ones, I was told by his neighbours, were entirely abandoned by the husband, and the two younger ones were always bickering and quarrelling, as to which of them should have the greater favour of their common tyrant; the house a scene of tumult, disorder and indecency.  Amongst the whole of the wives, there was only one child, a boy, of course an immense pet, a little surly wretch; his growth smothered, his health nearly ruined, by the overattentions of the four women, whom he kicked and pelted when out of humour.

This little imp was the fit type, or interpretation of the presiding genius of polygamy.  I once visited this happy family, this biting satire on domestic bliss and the beauty of the harem of the East.  The women were all sour, and busy at work, weaving or spinning cotton, “Do you work for your husband?” I asked,

The women.—­“Thank Rabbi, no.”

Traveller.—­“What do you do with your money?”

The women.—­“Spend it ourselves.”

Traveller.—­“How do you like to have only one husband among you four?”

The women.—­“Pooh! is it not the will of God?”

Traveller.—­“Whose boy is that?”

The women.—­“It belongs to us all.”

Traveller.—­“Have you no other children?”

The women.—­“Our husband is good for no more than that.”

Whilst I was talking to these angelic creatures, their beloved lord was quietly stuffing capons, without hearing our polite discourse.  A European Jew who knew the native society of Jews well, represents domestic bliss to be a mere phantom, and scarcely ever thought of, or sought after.  Poor human nature!

I took a walk round the suburbs one morning, whilst a strong wind was bringing the locusts towards the coast, which fell upon us like hailstones.  Young locusts frequently crowd upon the neighbouring hills in thousands and tens of thousands.  They are little green things.  No one knows whence they come and whither they go.  These are not destructive.  Indeed, unless swarms of locusts appear darkening the sky, and full grown ones, they do not permanently damage the country.  The wind usually disperses them; they rarely take a long flight, except impelled by a violent gale.  Arabs attempt to destroy locusts by digging pits into which they may fall.  This is merely playing with them.  Jews fry them in oil and salt, and sell them as we sell shrimps, the taste of which they resemble.