Such is the portrait of the uncle drawn by the nephew.  I can set beside it another by a different artist, who has often—­I may say always—­delighted me with his romantic taste in narrative, but not always—­and I may say not often—­persuaded me of his exactitude.  I have already denied myself the use of so much excellent matter from the same source, that I begin to think it time to reward good resolution; and his account of Tembinatake agrees so well with the king’s, that it may very well be (what I hope it is) the record of a fact, and not (what I suspect) the pleasing exercise of an imagination more than sailorly.  A., for so I had perhaps better call him, was walking up the island after dusk, when he came on a lighted village of some size, was directed to the chief’s house, and asked leave to rest and smoke a pipe.  ’You will sit down, and smoke a pipe, and wash, and eat, and sleep,’ replied the chief, ‘and to-morrow you will go again.’  Food was brought, prayers were held (for this was in the brief day of Christianity), and the chief himself prayed with eloquence and seeming sincerity.  All evening A. sat and admired the man by the firelight.  He was six feet high, lean, with the appearance of many years, and an extraordinary air of breeding and command.  ’He looked like a man who would kill you laughing,’ said A., in singular echo of one of the king’s expressions.  And again:  ’I had been reading the Musketeer books, and he reminded me of Aramis.’  Such is the portrait of Tembinatake, drawn by an expert romancer.

We had heard many tales of ‘my patha’; never a word of my uncle till two days before we left.  As the time approached for our departure Tembinok’ became greatly changed; a softer, a more melancholy, and, in particular, a more confidential man appeared in his stead.  To my wife he contrived laboriously to explain that though he knew he must lose his father in the course of nature, he had not minded nor realised it till the moment came; and that now he was to lose us he repeated the experience.  We showed fireworks one evening on the terrace.  It was a heavy business; the sense of separation was in all our minds, and the talk languished.  The king was specially affected, sat disconsolate on his mat, and often sighed.  Of a sudden one of the wives stepped forth from a cluster, came and kissed him in silence, and silently went again.  It was just such a caress as we might give to a disconsolate child, and the king received it with a child’s simplicity.  Presently after we said good-night and withdrew; but Tembinok’ detained Mr. Osbourne, patting the mat by his side and saying:  ’Sit down.  I feel bad, I like talk.’  Osbourne sat down by him.  ‘You like some beer?’ said he; and one of the wives produced a bottle.  The king did not partake, but sat sighing and smoking a meerschaum pipe.  ’I very sorry you go,’ he said at last.  ’Miss Stlevens he good man, woman he good man, boy he good man; all good man.