No. 4.
All trace of literary occupation is now gone: the opium scales have taken the place of the classics. In the foreground a servant is preparing extract of opium, for crude opium is never smoked. Before the portable stove stands a small bucket of water, and a little charcoal lies on the ground beside it. The opium is boiled in water, and filtered; and the dregs are again boiled, till all the soluble matter is extracted. The watery solutions are then boiled down to the consistency of treacle, when it is ready for use.
At the table, by her husband, the wife of the smoker sits with pencil in hand, and with a long strip of paper before her. Now she needs to augment the family income. Happy is the wife who in these circumstances is able to execute Indian-ink drawings, or to write out ornamental quotations from the classics.
No. 5.
Creditors will no longer forbear. Either the habit must at once and for ever be given up, or all hope of retaining possession of the ancestral property must be lost. The very graves of the ancestors join, as it were, in the last appeal of the weeping wife and mother, and of the weeping child, whose hopes of education, of literary advancement, and thus of promotion to office, are destroyed by the baneful narcotic.
The aged mother, now needing the support of a staff, is bringing hot tea for her son. Will he bring down her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave? Will he see her turned out, a homeless wanderer, out of the mansion in which she nursed and tended him when a helpless babe upon her lap?
