Here is a household unlike, indeed, to one of ours; more unlike still to the Oriental harem:  that of an elderly childless man, his days menaced, dwelling alone amid a bevy of women of all ages, ranks, and relationships,—­the mother, the sister, the cousin, the legitimate wife, the concubine, the favourite, the eldest born, and she of yesterday; he, in their midst, the only master, the only male, the sole dispenser of honours, clothes, and luxuries, the sole mark of multitudinous ambitions and desires.  I doubt if you could find a man in Europe so bold as to attempt this piece of tact and government.  And seemingly Tembinok’ himself had trouble in the beginning.  I hear of him shooting at a wife for some levity on board a schooner.  Another, on some more serious offence, he slew outright; he exposed her body in an open box, and (to make the warning more memorable) suffered it to putrefy before the palace gate.  Doubtless his growing years have come to his assistance; for upon so large a scale it is more easy to play the father than the husband.  And to-day, at least to the eye of a stranger, all seems to go smoothly, and the wives to be proud of their trust, proud of their rank, and proud of their cunning lord.

I conceived they made rather a hero of the man.  A popular master in a girls’ school might, perhaps, offer a figure of his preponderating station.  But then the master does not eat, sleep, live, and wash his dirty linen in the midst of his admirers; he escapes, he has a room of his own, he leads a private life; if he had nothing else, he has the holidays, and the more unhappy Tembinok’ is always on the stage and on the stretch.

In all my coming and going, I never heard him speak harshly or express the least displeasure.  An extreme, rather heavy, benignity—­the benignity of one sure to be obeyed—­marked his demeanour; so that I was at times reminded of Samual Richardson in his circle of admiring women.  The wives spoke up and seemed to volunteer opinions, like our wives at home—­or, say, like doting but respectable aunts.  Altogether, I conclude that he rules his seraglio much more by art than terror; and those who give a different account (and who have none of them enjoyed my opportunities of observation) perhaps failed to distinguish between degrees of rank, between ‘my pamily’ and the hangers-on, laundresses, and prostitutes.

A notable feature is the evening game of cards when lamps are set forth upon the terrace, and ‘I and my pamily’ play for tobacco by the hour.  It is highly characteristic of Tembinok’ that he must invent a game for himself; highly characteristic of his worshipping household that they should swear by the absurd invention.  It is founded on poker, played with the honours out of many packs, and inconceivably dreary.  But I have a passion for all games, studied it, and am supposed to be the only white who ever fairly grasped its principle:  a fact for which the wives (with whom I was not otherwise popular) admired