But
none of these are so redolent of romance as the story of the pearl.
Beneath the rolling of the sea, where the waves pace softly and
restlessly like caged lions, or lift themselves roaring to answer the
voice of the storm; where at times the water lies green and placid
under burning skies; at times, lashed by tornado and monsoon, becoming
a seething caldron of black perdition; where spice-laden vessels sail,
and where in the old days, privateers and pirates lay in wait for prey,
there, at the bottom of the sea, unruffled by storm or pirate,
unmindful of sun and calm, myriads of delicate creatures toil
ceaselessly to strew old ocean's bed with gems. The chaste spheres with
which you toy, while counting up the cost of hanging them round some
fair neck, at one time lay fathoms deep, the ocean rolling over them.
Dusky fishermen, at risk of life, brought them up and turbanned
merchants gave great sums of money to own them; ships carried them, and
dealers in precious things handled, sorted, examined and matched them,
ere they came to rest in fesÂtooned rows within the velvet covers your
jeweller opens to you.
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