Close under the tiles was a paper sedan-chair, to be sent for the use of some rich man in heaven.
Painted scrolls of paper were on the walls, and on old ledges were torn books in the Burmese character, which a few boys made a pretence of reading.

Where I slept the floor was raised some feet from the ground, and underneath, seen through the gaping boards--though previously detected by another of the senses--were a number of coffins freighted with dead, waiting for a fit occasion for interment.

Heavy stones were placed on the lids to keep the dead more securely at rest.

The lucky day for burial would be determined by the priests--it would be determined by them as soon as the pious relatives had paid sufficiently for their fears.

So long, then, as the coffins remained where they were, they might be described as capital invested by the priests and returning heavy interest; removed from the temple, they ceased to be productive.
As is the case in so many temples, there is an opium-room in the temple at the back of the gilded shrine, where priests and neophytes, throwing aside their office, can while away the licentious hours till the gong calls them again to prayers.
In the early morning, while I was still lying in my pukai on the floor, I saw many women, a large proportion of whom were goitrous, come to the hall, and make an offering of rice, and kneel down before the Buddha.