The father of the Custom-House—the patriarch, not only of this little squad of officials, but, I am bold to say, of the respectable body of tide-waiters all over the United States—was a certain permanent Inspector.
Then—the morning light still waxing stronger—old patriarchs would rise up in great haste, each in his flannel gown, and matronly dames, without pausing to put off their night-gear.
There are no more uses of "patriarch" in the book.
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He is the patriarch of the extended family.
I think Overbearing Eurocentric Patriarchs would be perfect, but I don’t suggest it.