The “Papan Mera” is of all kinds, from a hovel to a brick house of two stories, for which £3 monthly is paid for rent. Generally speaking, the luxury of the pipe is all that the smoker cares for, and all other things, such as commodious apartments, elegant furniture, and proper ventilation are disregarded. In some houses there are apartments beside those entered from the street. The police regulations ordain that at nine P.M. all shall give up their pipes. But is the sound of the curfew always heeded? “Sooner would the panting traveller, under a burning sun, when hours have elapsed, since his parched lips were moistened, dash from his mouth the goblet before his thirst was half quenched, than the opium-smoker be the slave of time.” If nine o’clock comes, and he has not reached his climax, he then retires to an inner chamber, where, at ease and undisturbed, he may realize that enjoyment, and consummate that bliss, of which the owner of “blue coat and bright buttons” would deprive him. Thus he slips into Paradise whilst the Peri and the “peeler” remain outside disconsolate. Our Papan Mera man is a good man, and his wife is a good woman, so we get a peep indoors, upstairs, behind the scenes, the apartment where ladies are at home _de jure_, not being allowed perhaps to smoke at home _de facto_. Of course, the general visitor has no admittance. In the centre stands a large bed, sitting up thereon a female, her back supported with cushions. She is young, she is fair—yea, passing fair, and dressed in the habiliments of the flowery land. Near her stands a table, on which are tea and sweetmeats. She, too, is a votary to the drug; with dreamy eyes half closed, she draws in the inspiring vapour, then sinks back upon the cushions, unconscious that we are gazing upon her, her dark dishevelled tresses hanging over, but scarce concealing the heaving bosom, the only sign of life.