On a table before
him lay a large open volume, in which I observed Roman letters as
well as characters. A few inches beyond the book on the table,
covered all over with hieroglyphics, stood a china vase. The eyes
of the old man were fixed upon it.
"Sit down," said he, motioning me with his hand to a stool close
by, but without taking his eyes from the vase.
"I can't make it out," said he, at last, removing his eyes from the
vase, and leaning back on the chair, "I can't make it out."
"I wish I could assist you," said I.
"Assist me," said the old man, looking at me with a half smile.
"Yes," said I, "but I don't understand Chinese."
"I suppose not," said the old man, with another slight smile; "but-
-but--"
"Pray proceed," said I.
"I wished to ask you," said the old man, "how you knew that the
characters on yon piece of crockery were Chinese; or, indeed, that
there was such a language?"
"I knew the crockery was china," said I, "and naturally enough
supposed what was written upon it to be Chinese; as for there being
such a language--the English have a language, the French have a
language, and why not the Chinese?"
"May I ask you a question?"
"As many as you like."
"Do you know any language besides English?"
"Yes," said I, "I know a little of two or three.
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