The first inscription which I translated
was that on the teapot of my beloved."
"And how many other pieces of porcelain may you have at present in
your possession?"
"About fifteen hundred."
"And how did you obtain them?" I demanded.
"Without much labour," said the old man, "in the neighbouring towns
and villages--chiefly at auctions--of which, about twenty years
ago, there were many in these parts."
"And may I ask your reasons for confining your studies entirely to
the crockery literature of China, when you have all the rest at
your disposal?"
"The inscriptions enable me to pass my time," said the old man;
"what more would the whole literature of China do?"
"And from these inscriptions," said I, "what a book it is in your
power to make, whenever so disposed. 'Translations from the
crockery literature of China.' Such a book would be sure to take;
even glorious John himself would not disdain to publish it." The
old man smiled. "I have no desire for literary distinction," said
he; "no ambition. My original wish was to pass my life in easy,
quiet obscurity, with her whom I loved. I was disappointed in my
wish; she was removed, who constituted my only felicity in this
life; desolation came to my heart, and misery to my head. To
escape from the latter I had recourse to Chinese.
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