_A strange manuscript found in a copper cylinder_
          (the tenth installment)

   from _Harper's weekly_ (1888-mar-10) 
           (by James De Mille)


Chapter XIV.  I Learn My Doom (Continued)
 
At last I learned that she was much better, and would be out
on the following _jom_.  This intelligence filled me with a
fever of eager anticipation, so great that I could think of
nothing else.  Sleep was impossible.  I could only wait, and
try as best I might to quell my impatience.  At last the
time came.  I sat waiting.  The curtain was drawn aside.  I
sprang up, and, hurrying towards her, I caught her in my
arms and wept for joy.  Ah me, how pale she looked! She bore
still the marks of her illness.  She seemed deeply
embarrassed and agitated at the fervor of my greeting; while
I, instead of apologizing or trying to excuse myself, only
grew more agitated still.  
 
  "Oh, Almah," I cried.  "I should have died if you had not
come back to me! Oh, Almah, I love you better than life and
I never knew how dearly I loved you till I thought that I
had lost you! Oh, forgive me, but I must tell you--and don't
weep, darling." 
 
  She was weeping as I spoke.  She said nothing, but twined
her arms around my neck and wept on my breast.  
 
  After this we had much to say that we had never mentioned 
before.  I cannot tell the sweet words that she said to me;
but I now learned that she had loved me from the first--when
I came to her in her loneliness, when she was homesick and
heartsick; and I came, a kindred nature, of a race more like
her own; and she saw in me the only one of all around her
whom it was possible not to detest, and therefore she loved
me.  
 
  We had many things to say to one another, and long 
exchanges of confidence to make.  She now for the first time
told me all the sorrow that she had endured in her
captivity--sorrow which she had kept silent and shut up deep
within her breast.  At first her life here had been so
terrible that it had brought her down nearly to death. 
After this she had sunk into dull despair; she had grown
familiar with horrors and lived in a state of unnatural
calm.  From this my arrival had roused her.  The display of
feeling on my part had brought back all her old self, and
roused anew all those feelings which in her had become
dormant.  The darkness, the bloodshed, the sacrifices, all
these affected me as they had once affected her.  I had the
same fear of death which she had.  When I had gone with her
to the _cheder nebilin_, when I had used my _sepet-ram_ to
save life, she had perceived in me feelings and impulses to
which all her own nature responded.  Finally, when I asked
about the _Mista Kosek_, she warned me not to go.  When I
did go she was with me in thought and suffered all that I
felt, until the moment when I was brought back and laid
senseless at her feet.  
 
  "Then," said Almah, "I felt the full meaning of all that 
lies before us."  

  "What do you mean by that?" I asked, anxiously.  "You 
speak as though there were something yet--worse than what
has already been; yet nothing can possibly be worse.  We
have seen the worst; let us now try to shake off these 
grisly thoughts, and be happy with one another.  Your
strength will soon be back, and while we have one another 
we can be happy even in this gloom." 
 
  "Ah me," said Almah, "it would be better now to die.  I 
could die happy now, since I know that you love me." 
 
  "Death!" said I; "do not talk of it--do not mention that 
word.  It is more abhorrent than ever.  No, Almah, let us
live and love--let us hope--let us fly." 
 
  "Impossible!" said she, in a mournful voice.  "We cannot 
fly.  There is no hope.  We must face the future, and make
up our minds to bear our fate." 
 
  "Fate!" I repeated, looking at her in wonder and in deep 
concern.  "What do you mean by our fate?  Is there anything 
more which you know and which I have not heard?" 
 
  "You have heard nothing," said she, slowly; "and all that 
you have seen and heard is as nothing compared with what
lies before us.  For you and for me there is a
fate--inconceivable, abhorrent, tremendous!--a fate of which
I dare not speak or even think, and from which there is no
escape whatever." 
 
  As Almah said this she looked at me with an expression in
which terror and anguish were striving with love.  Her
cheeks, which shortly before had flushed rosy red in sweet 
confusion, were now pallid, her lips ashen; her eyes were
full of a wild despair.  I looked at her in wonder, and
could not say a word.  
 
  "Oh, Atam-or," said she, "I am afraid of death!" 
 
  "Almah," said I, "why will you speak of death?  What is 
this fate which you fear so much?" 

  "It is this," said she hurriedly and with a shudder, "you 
and I are singled out.  I have been reserved for years until
one should be found who might be joined with me.  You came. 
I saw it all at once.  I have known it--dreaded it tried to 
fight against it.  But it was of no use.  Oh, Atam-or, our
love means death; for the very fact that you love me and
I love you seals our doom!" 
 
  "Our doom?  What doom?" 
 
  "The sacrifice!" exclaimed Almah, with another shudder. 
In her voice and look there was a terrible meaning, which I 
could not fail to take.  I understood it now, and my blood
curdled in my veins.  Almah clung to me despairingly.   

  "Do not leave me!" she cried--"do not leave me!  I have 
no one but you.  The sacrifice, the sacrifice!  It is our
doom the great sacrifice--at the end of the dark season.  It
is at the _amir_.  We must go there to meet our doom." 
 
  "The _amir_?" I asked; "what is that?" 
 
  "It is the metropolis," said she.  
 
  I was utterly overwhelmed, yet still I tried to console
her; but the attempt was vain.  
 
  "Oh!" she cried, "you will not understand.  The sacrifice 
is but a part--it is but the beginning.  Death is terrible;
yet it may be endured--if there is only death.  But oh!--oh 
think!--think of that which comes after--the _Mista Kosek_!"

  Now the full meaning flashed upon me, and I saw it all. 
In an instant there arose in my mind the awful sacrifice on
the pyramid and the unutterable horror of the _Mista Kosek_.

  Oh, horror, horror, horror!  Oh, hideous abomination and 
deed without a name!  I could not speak.  I caught her in my
arms, and we both wept passionately.  
 
  The happiness of our love was now darkened by this
tremendous cloud that lowered before us.  The shock of this 
discovery was overpowering, and some time elapsed before I
could rally from it.  Though Almah's love was sweet beyond
expression, and though as the time passed I saw that every
_jom_ she regained more and more of her former health and
strength, still I could not forget what had been revealed.  
We were happy with one another, yet our happiness was
clouded, and amid the brightness of our love there was ever 
present the dread specter of our appalling doom.  
 
  These feelings, however, grew fainter.  Hope is ever ready
to arise; and I began to think that these people, though 
given to evil ways, were after all kind-hearted, and might 
listen to entreaty.  Above all, there was the Kohen, so 
benevolent, so self-denying, so amiable, so sympathetic.  I
could not forget all that he had said during Almah's
illness, and it seemed more than probable that an appeal to
his better nature might not be without effect.  I said as
much to Almah.  
 
  "The Kohen," said she; "why, he can do nothing." 
 
  "Why not?  He is the chief man here, and ought to have
great influence." 
 
  "You don't understand," said she, with a sigh.  "The Kohen
is the lowest and least influential man in the city." 
 
  "Why, who are influential if he is not?" I asked.  
 
  "The paupers," said Almah.  
 
  "The paupers!" I exclaimed, in amazement.  
 
  "Yes," said Almah.  "Here among these people the paupers
form the most honored, influential, and envied portion of
the community." 
 
  This was incomprehensible.  Almah tried to explain, but to
no purpose, and I determined to talk to the Kohen.  


Chapter XV.  The Kohen is Inexorable 

I determined to talk to the Kohen, and try for myself
whether he might not be accessible to pity.  This greatest
of cannibals might, indeed, have his little peculiarities, I
thought--and who has not?--yet at bottom he seemed full of
tender and benevolent feeling; and as he evidently spent
his whole time in the endeavor to make us happy, it seemed 
not unlikely that he might do something for our happiness 
in a case where our very existence was at stake.  

  The Kohen listened with deep attention as I stated my 
case.  I did this fully and frankly.  I talked of my love
for Almah and of Almah's love for me; our hope that we might
be united so as to live happily in reciprocal affection; and
I was going on to speak of the dread that was in my heart 
when he interrupted me: 

  "You speak of being united," said he.  "You talk
strangely.  Of course you mean that you wish to be
separated." 

  "Separated!" I exclaimed.  "What do you mean?  Of course 
we wish to be united." 

  The Kohen stared at me as I said this with the look of 
one who was quite puzzled; and I then went on to speak of 
the fate that was before us, and to entreat his sympathy and
his aid that we might be saved from so hideous a doom.  To
all these words the Kohen listened with an air of amazement,
as though I were saying incomprehensible things.  

  "You have a gentle and an affectionate nature," I said--"a
nature full of sympathy with others, and noble self-denial."

  "Of course," said the Kohen, quickly, as though glad to 
get hold of something which he could understand, "of course
we are all so, for we are so made.  It is our nature.  Who
is there who is not self-denying?  No one can help that." 

  This sounded strange indeed; but I did not care to
criticize it.  I came to my purpose direct and said, 

  "Save us from our fate." 

  "Your fate?" 

  "Yes, from death--that death of horror." 

  "Death--horror!  What do you mean by horror?" said the
Kohen, in an amazement that was sincere and unfeigned.  "I
cannot comprehend your meaning.  It seems as though you
actually dislike death; but that is not conceivable.  It
cannot be possible that you fear death." 

  "Fear death!" I exclaimed, "I do--I do.  Who is there that
does not fear it?" 

  The Kohen stared.  

  "I do not understand you," he said.  

  "Do you not understand," said I, "that death is abhorrent 
to humanity." 

  "Abhorrent!" said the Kohen; "that is impossible.  Is it 
not the highest blessing?  Who is there that does not long 
for death?  Death is the greatest blessing, the chief desire
of man--the highest aim.  And you--are you not to be envied 
in having your felicity so near? above all, in having
such a death as that which is appointed for you--so noble,
so sublime?  You must be mad; your happiness has turned your
head." 

  All this seemed like hideous mockery, and I stared at the 
Kohen with a gaze that probably strengthened his opinion of
my madness.  

  "Do you love death?" I asked at length, in amazement.  

  "Love death?  What a question!  Of course I love
death--all men do--who does not?  Is it not human nature?  
Do we not instinctively fly to meet it whenever we can?  Do
we not rush into the jaws of sea-monsters, or throw
ourselves within their grasp?  Who does not feel within him
this intense longing after death as the strongest passion of
his heart?" 

  "I don't know--I don't know," said I.  "You are of a
different race; I do not understand what you say.  But I
belong to a race that fears death.  I fear death and love
life; and I entreat you, I implore you to help me now in my
distress, and assist me so that I may save my life and that
of Almah." 

  "I--I help you!" said the Kohen, in new amazement.  "Why
do you come to me--to me, of all men?  Why, I am nothing
here.  And help you to live--to live!  Who ever heard of
such a thing?" 

  And the Kohen looked at me with the same astonishment
which I should evince if a man should ask me to help him to
die.  

  Still, I persisted in my entreaty for his help.  

  "Such a request," said he, "is revolting; you must be mad.
Such a request outrages all the instincts of humanity.  And 
even if I could do such violence to my own nature as to help
you to such a thing, how do you think I could face my
fellow-men, or how could I endure the terrible punishment 
which would fall upon me?" 

  "Punishment!" said I.  "What! would you be punished?" 

  "Punished!" said the Kohen.  "That, of course, would be 
inevitable.  I should be esteemed an unnatural monster and 
the chief of criminals.  My lot in life now is painful
enough; but in this case my punishment would involve me in
evils without end.  Riches would be poured upon me; I should
be raised to the rank of Kohen Gadol; I should be removed 
farther away than ever from the pauper class--so far,
indeed, that all hope in life would be over.  I should be
made the first and noblest and richest in all the land." 

  He spoke these words just as if he had said, "the lowest, 
meanest, poorest, and most infamous."  It sounded like fresh
mockery, and I could not believe but that he was amusing 
himself at my expense.  

  "This is cruel," said I.  "You are mocking me." 

  "Cruel--cruel!" said he; "what is cruel?  You mean that 
such a fate would be cruel for me." 

  "No, no," said I; "but alas! I see we cannot understand 
one another." 

  "No," said the Kohen, musingly, as he looked at me.  "No, 
it seems not; but tell me, Atam-or, is it possible that you 
really fear death--that you really love life?" 

  "Fear death! love life!" I cried.  "Who does not?  Who 
can help it?  Why do you ask me that?" 

  The Kohen clasped his hands in amazement.  

  "If you really fear death," said he, "what possible thing 
is there left to love or to hope for?  What, then, do you
think the highest blessing of man?" 

  "Long life," said I, "and riches and requited love." 

  At this the Kohen started back, and stared at me as 
though I were a raving madman.  

  "Oh, holy shades of night!" he exclaimed.  "What is that 
you say?  What do you mean?" 

  "We can never understand one another, I fear," said I.  
"The love of life must necessarily be the strongest passion
of man.  We are so made.  We give up everything for life.  A
long life is everywhere considered as the highest blessing;
and there is no one who is willing to die, no matter what
his suffering may be.  Riches also are desired by all, for 
poverty is the direst curse that can embitter life; and as
to requited love, surely that is the sweetest, purest, and
most divine joy that the human heart may know." 

  At this the Kohen burst forth in a strain of high
excitement: 

  "Oh, sacred cavern gloom!  Oh, divine darkness!  Oh, 
impenetrable abysses of night!  What, oh, what is this!  Oh,
Atam-or, are you mad?  Alas! it must be so.  Joy has turned 
your brain; you are quite demented.  You call good evil, and
evil good; our light is your darkness, and our darkness your
light.  Yet surely you cannot be altogether insane.  Come, 
come, let us look further.  How is it!  Try now to recall
your reason.  A long life--a life, and a long one!  Surely
there can be no human being in a healthy state of nature who
wishes to prolong his life; and as to riches, it is possible
that any one exists who really and honestly desires riches? 
Impossible!  And requited love!  Oh, Atam-or, you are mad
today!  You are always strange, but now you have quite taken
leave of your senses.  I cannot but love you, and yet I can 
never understand you.  Tell me, and tell me truly, what is
it that you consider evils, if these things that you have 
mentioned are not the very worst?" 

  He seemed deeply in earnest and much moved.  I could 
not understand him, but could only answer his questions 
with simple conciseness.  

  "Poverty, sickness, and death," said I, "are evils; but
the worst of all evils is unrequited love." 

  At these words the Kohen made a gesture of despair.  

  "It is impossible to understand this," said he.  "You talk
calmly; you have not the air of a madman.  If your 
fellow-countrymen are all like you, then your race is an  
incomprehensible one.  Why, death is the greatest blessing. 
We all long for it; it is the end of our being.  As for
riches, they are a curse, abhorred by all.  Above all, as to
love, we shrink from the thought of requital.  Death is our
chief blessing, poverty our greatest happiness, and
unrequited love the sweetest lot of man." 

  All this sounded like the ravings of a lunatic, yet the 
Kohen was not mad.  It seemed also like the mockery of some
teasing demon; but the gentle and self-denying Kohen was no
teasing demon, and mockery with him was impossible.  I was
therefore more bewildered than ever at this reiteration of
sentiments that were so utterly incomprehensible.  He, on
the other hand, seemed as astonished at my sentiments and as
bewildered, and we could find no common ground on which to
meet.  

  "I remember now," said the Kohen, in a musing tone,
"having heard of some strange folk at the Amir, who profess 
to feel as you say you feel, but no one believes that they 
are in earnest; for although they may even bring themselves 
to think that they are in earnest in their professions, yet 
after all every one thinks that they are self-deceived.  For
you see, in the first place, these feelings which you
profess are utterly unnatural.  We are so made that we
cannot help loving death; it is a sort of instinct.  We are
also created in such a way that we cannot help longing after
poverty.  The pauper must always, among all men, be the most
envied of mortals.  Nature, too, has made us such that the
passion of love, when it arises, is so vehement, so
all-consuming that it must always struggle to avoid
requital.  This is the reason why, when two people find that
they love each other, they always separate and avoid one
another for the rest of their lives.  This is human nature. 
We cannot help it; and it is this that distinguishes us from
the animals.  Why, if men were to feel as you say you feel,
they would be mere animals.  Animals fear death; animals
love to accumulate such things as they prize; animals, when
they love, go in pairs, and remain with one another.  But
man, with his intellect, would not be man if he loved life
and desired riches and sought for requited love." 

  I sank back in despair.  "You cannot mean all this," I 
said.  

  He threw at me a piteous glance.  "What else can you 
believe or feel?" said he.  

  "The very opposite.  We are so made that we hate and fear 
death; to us he is the King of Terrors.  Poverty is terrible
also, since it is associated with want and woe; it is,
therefore, natural to man to strive after riches.  As to the
passion of love, that is so vehement that the first and only
thought is requital.  Unrequited love is anguish beyond
expression--anguish so severe that the heart will often
break under it." 

  The Kohen clasped his hands in new bewilderment.  

  "I cannot understand," said he.  "A madman might imagine 
that he loved life and desired riches; but as to love, why
even a madman could not think of requital, for the very
nature of the passion of love is the most utter
self-surrender, and a shrinking from all requital;
wherefore, the feeling that leads one to desire requital
cannot be love.  I do not know what it can be--indeed, I
never heard of such a thing before, and the annals of the
human race make no mention of such a feeling.  For what is
love?  It is the ardent outflow of the whole being--the
yearning of one human heart to lavish all its treasures upon
another.  Love is more than self-denial; it is
self-surrender and utter self-abnegation.  Love gives all
away, and cannot possibly receive anything in return.  A
requital of love would mean selfishness, which would be
self-contradiction.  The more one loves, the more he must
shrink from requital." 

  "What!" cried I, "among you do lovers never marry?" 

  "Lovers marry?  Never!" 

  "Do married people never love one another?" 

  The Kohen shook his head.  

  "It unfortunately sometimes happens so," said he, "and
then the result is, of course, distressing.  For the
children's sake the parents will often remain with one
another, but in many cases they separate.  No one can tell
the misery that ensues where a husband and wife love one
another." 

  The conversation grew insupportable.  I could not follow
the Kohen in what seemed the wildest and maddest flights 
of fancy that ever were known; so I began to talk of other 
things, and gradually the Kohen was drawn to speak of his 
own life.  The account which he gave of himself was not one
whit less strange than his previous remarks, and for this
reason I add it here.  

  "I was born," said he, "in the most enviable of positions.
My father and mother were among the poorest in the land. 
Both died when I was a child, and I never saw them.  I grew 
up in the open fields and public caverns, along with the
most esteemed paupers.  But, unfortunately for me, there was
something wanting in my natural disposition.  I loved death,
of course, and poverty, too, very strongly; but I did not
have that eager and energetic passion which is so desirable,
nor was I watchful enough over my blessed estate of poverty. 
Surrounded as I was by those who were only too ready to take
advantage of my ignorance or want of vigilance, I soon fell
into evil ways, and gradually, in spite of myself, I found
wealth pouring in upon me.  Designing men succeeded in
winning my consent to receive their possessions; and so I
gradually fell away from that lofty position in which I was
born.  I grew richer and richer.  My friends warned me, but
in vain.  I was too weak to resist; in fact, I lacked moral
fiber, and had never learned how to say 'No.'  So I went on,
descending lower and lower in the scale of being.  I became
a capitalist, an Athon, a general officer, and finally
Kohen.  

  "At length, on one eventful day, I learned that one of my 
associates had by a long course of reckless folly become the
richest man in all the country.  He had become Athon, Melek,
and at last Kohen Gadol.  It was a terrible shock, but I
trust a salutary one.  I at once resolved to reform.  That
resolution I have steadily kept, and have at least saved  
myself from descending any lower.  It is true, I can hardly 
hope to become what I once was.  It is only too easy to grow
rich; and, you know, poverty once forfeited can never return
except in rare instances.  I have, however, succeeded in  
getting rid of most of my wealth, chiefly through the
fortunate advent of Almah and afterwards of yourself.  This,
I confess, has been my salvation.  Neither of you had any
scruples about accepting what was bestowed, and so I did not
feel as though I was doing you any wrong in giving you all I
had in the world.  Most of the people of this city have
taken advantage of your extraordinary indifference to
wealth, and have made themselves paupers at your expense.  I
had already become your slave, and had received the promise
of being elevated to the rank of scullion in the cavern of
the _Mista Kosek_.  But now, since this event of your love
for Almah, I hope to gain far more.  I am almost certain of 
being made a pauper, and I think I can almost venture to
hope some day for the honor of a public death." 

  To such a story I had nothing to say.  It was sheer
madness; yet it was terribly suggestive, and showed how
utterly hopeless was my effort to secure the assistance of
such a man towards my escape from death.  

  "A public death!" I said, grimly.  "That will be very
fortunate!  And do you think that you will gain the dignity
of being eaten up afterwards?" 

  The Kohen shook his head in all seriousness.  

  "Oh, no," said he; "that would be far beyond my deserts.  
That is an honor which is only bestowed upon the most
distinguished." 


Chapter XVI.  The Kosekin

THESE people call themselves the Kosekin.  Their chief
characteristic, or, at least, their most prominent one, is
their love of darkness, which perhaps is due to their habit
of dwelling in caves.  Another feeling, equally strong and 
perhaps connected with this, is their love of death and
dislike of life.  This is visible in many ways, and affects
all their character.  It leads to a passionate self-denial,
an incessant effort to benefit others at their own expense. 
Each one hates life and longs for death.  He, therefore,
hates riches, and all things that are associated with life. 

  Among the Kosekin every one makes perpetual efforts to
serve others, which, however, are perpetually baffled by the
unselfishness of these others.  People thus spend years in 
trying to overreach one another, so as to make others richer
than themselves.  In a race each one tries to keep behind; 
but as this leads to confusion, there is then a universal
effort for each one to be first, so as to put his neighbor
in the honorable position of the rear.  It is the same way
in a hunt.  Each one presses forward, so as to honor his
companion by leaving him behind.  Instead of injuring, every
one tries to benefit his neighbor.  When one has been
benefited by another, he is filled with a passion which may
be called Kosekin revenge--namely, a sleepless and vehement
desire to bestow some adequate and corresponding benefit on
the other.  Feuds are thus kept up among families and wars 
among nations.  For no one is willing to accept from another
any kindness, any gift, or any honor, and all are
continually on the watch to prevent themselves from being
overreached in this way.  Those who are less watchful than
others are overwhelmed with gifts by designing men, who wish
to attain to the pauper class.  The position of Almah and  
myself illustrates this.  Our ignorance of the blessings and
honors of poverty led us to receive whatever was offered us.
Taking advantage of our innocence and ignorance, the whole
city thereupon proceeded to bestow their property upon us,
and all became paupers through our fortunate arrival.  

  No one ever injures another unless by accident, and when
this occurs it affords the highest joy to the injured party. 
He has now a claim on the injurer; he gets him into his
power, is able to confer benefits on him and force upon him
all that he wishes.  The unhappy injurer, thus punished by
the reception of wealth, finds himself helpless; and where 
the injury is great, the injured man may bestow upon the
other all his wealth and attain to the envied condition of a
pauper.  

  Among the Kosekin the sick are objects of the highest
regard.  All classes vie with one another in their
attentions.  The rich send their luxuries; the paupers,
however, not having anything to give, go themselves and wait
on them and nurse them.  For this there is no help, and the
rich grumble, but can do nothing.  The sick are thus sought
out incessantly, and most carefully tended.  When they die
there is great rejoicing, since death is a blessing; but the
nurses labor hard to preserve them in life, so as to prolong
the enjoyment of the high privilege of nursing.  Of all sick
the incurable are most honored, since they require nursing 
always.  Children also are highly honored and esteemed, and 
the aged too, since both classes require the care of others 
and must be the recipients of favors which all are anxious
to bestow.  Those who suffer from contagious diseases are
more sought after than any other class, for in waiting on 
these there is the chance of gaining the blessing of death; 
indeed, in these cases much trouble is usually experienced 
from the rush of those who insist on offering their
services.  

  For it must never be forgotten that the Kosekin love 
death as we love life; and this accounts for all those 
ceremonies which to me were so abhorrent, especially the 
scenes of the Mista Kosek.  To them a dead human body is no 
more than the dead body of a bird: there is no awe felt, no 
sense of sanctity, of superstitious horror; and so I learned
with a shudder, that the hate of life is a far worse thing 
than the fear of death.  This desire for death is, then, a 
master-passion, and is the key to all their words and acts.
They rejoice over the death of friends, since those friends 
have gained the greatest of blessings; they rejoice also at
the birth of children, since those who are born will one day
gain the bliss of death.  

  For a couple to fall in love is the signal for mutual 
self-surrender.  Each insists on giving up the loved one;
and the more passionate the love is, the more eager is the
desire to have the loved one married to some one else. 
Lovers have died broken-hearted from being compelled to
marry one another.  Poets here among the Kosekin celebrate
unhappy love which has met with this end.  These poets also
celebrate defeats instead of victories, since it is
considered glorious for one nation to sacrifice itself to
another; but to this there are important limitations, as we
shall see.  Poets also celebrate street-sweepers,
scavengers, lamp-lighters, laborers, and above all, paupers,
and pass by as unworthy of notice the authors, Meleks, and
Kohens of the land.  

  The paupers here form the most honorable class.  Next to
these are the laborers.  These have strikes as with us; but 
it is always for harder work, longer hours, or smaller pay. 
The contest between capital and labor rages, but the 
conditions are reversed; for the grumbling capitalist 
complains that the laborer will not take as much pay as he 
ought to while the laborer thinks the capitalist too
persistent in his efforts to force money upon him.  

  Here among the Kosekin the wealthy class forms the mass of
the people, while the aristocratic few consist of the
paupers.  These are greatly envied by the others, and have 
many advantages.  The cares and burdens of wealth, as well 
as wealth itself, are here considered a curse, and from all 
these the paupers are exempt.  There is a perpetual effort
on the part of the wealthy to induce the paupers to accept 
gifts, just as among us the poor try to rob the rich.  Among
the wealthy there is a great and incessant murmur at the 
obstinacy of the paupers.  Secret movements are sometimes 
set on foot which aim at a redistribution of property and a 
leveling of all classes, so as to reduce the haughty paupers
to the same condition as the mass of the nation.  More than 
once there has been a violent attempt at a revolution, so as
to force wealth on the paupers; but as a general thing these
movements have been put down and their leaders severely 
punished.  The paupers have shown no mercy in their hour of
triumph; they have not conceded one jot to the public
demand, and the unhappy conspirators have been condemned to
increased wealth and luxury, while the leaders have been
made Meleks and Kohens.  Thus there are among the Kosekin
the unfortunate many who are cursed with wealth, and the
fortunate few who are blessed with poverty.  These walk
while the others ride, and from their squalid huts look
proudly and contemptuously upon the palaces of their
unfortunate fellow-countrymen.  

(End of tenth installment)