“Well,” said I, “and how did you get on with the study of the Chinese?”

And then the old man proceeded to inform me how he got on with the study of Chinese, enumerated all the difficulties he had had to encounter; dilating upon his frequent despondency of mind, and occasionally his utter despair of ever mastering Chinese.  He told me that more than once he had determined upon giving up the study, but when the misery in his head forthwith returned, to escape from which he had as often resumed it.  It appeared, however, that ten years elapsed before he was able to use ten of the two hundred and fourteen keys, which serve to undo the locks of Chinese writing.

“And are you able at present to use the entire number?” I demanded.

“Yes,” said the old man; “I can at present use the whole number.  I know the key for every particular lock, though I frequently find the wards unwilling to give way.”

“Has nothing particular occurred to you,” said I, “during the time that you have been prosecuting your studies?”

“During the whole time in which I have been engaged in these studies,” said the old man, “only one circumstance has occurred which requires any particular mention—­the death of my old friend the surgeon—­who was carried off suddenly by a fit of apoplexy.  His death was a great shock to me, and for a time interrupted my studies.  His son, however, who succeeded him, was very kind to me, and, in some degree, supplied his father’s place; and I gradually returned to my Chinese locks and keys.”

“And in applying keys to the Chinese locks you employ your time?”

“Yes,” said the old man, “in making out the inscriptions on the various pieces of porcelain, which I have at different times procured, I pass my time.  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.  By degrees the misery left my head, but the desolation of the heart yet remains.”