Illustrations of political economy, Volume 7 (of 9)Martineau, Harriet
General
Illustrations of political economy, Volume 7 (of 9)
Martineau, Harriet
Didactic fiction, English; Political fiction, English; Social problems -- Fiction
marriage, it gave him the new object of distinguishing himself, and
opened the possibility of his profiting by some stray pearl, or by some
chance opportunity of speculating on a lot of oysters. He walked to join
his company on the beach with a demeanour unlike that by which Rayo was
commonly known; and his young wife looked after him with a new feeling
of pride.
He was sure to be as safe as on shore, for the Charmer was to go in the
same boat, and no shark binder of the whole assemblage was more
confident of having effectually bound the sharks than Marana’s father.
All were confident; and the crowds on the beach looked as joyous for the
night as if the work was going on for their sakes. A city of bowers
seemed to have sprung up like Jonah’s gourd, or like the tabernacles
which, in old times of Jewish festivals, made Jerusalem a leafy paradise
for a short season of every year. Talipot tents, and bamboo huts dressed
with greens and flowers were clustered around the sordid dwellings on
the sands. Throngs of merchants and craftsmen, black, tawny, and white,
with their variety of costumes, mingled in this great fair. The polisher
of jewels was there with his glittering treasure. The pearl-driller
looked to his needles and pearl dust, while awaiting on his low seat the
materials on which he was to employ his skill. The bald, yellow-mantled
priest of Budhoo passed on amidst obeisances in one place, as did the
Catholic pastor in another. The white vested Mahomedan, the turbaned
Hindoo, the swathed Malay merchants exhibited their stores, or looked
passively on the gay scene. The quiet Dutchman from the south sent a
keen glance through the market in quest of precious stones in the hands
of an ignorant or indolent vender. The haughty Candian abated his
fierceness, and stepped out of the path of the European; while the
stealthy Cingalese was in no one’s path, but won his way like a snake in
the tall grass of the jungle. The restless lessees of the banks,
meanwhile, were flitting near the boats, now ranged in a long row, each
with its platform, ropes and pullies; each with its shark-binder, its
pilot, its commander, its crew of ten, and its company of ten divers.
The boat-lights were being kindled, one by one, and scattering a
thousand sparkles over the rippling tide. It was just on the stroke of
ten, and the signal gun was all that was waited for. The buzz of voices
fell into a deep silence as the expectation became more intense. Those
who were wont to make the heavens their clock and the stars its
hour-hand, looked up to mark the precise inclination of the Southern
Cross; while those who found an index in the flow of the tide, paced the
sands from watermark to watermark. Yet more turned their faces southward
towards the dark outline of hill and forest that rose on the horizon,
and watched for the land breeze. It came,—at first in light puffs which
scarcely bowed the rushes around the lagoons, or made a stir among the
stalks in the rice-ground.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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