I entered the room, which seemed to be a counterpart of the one which I had just left. It was of the same size, had the same kind of furniture, and appeared to be equally well stocked with china; one prominent article it possessed, however, which the other room did not exhibit—namely, a clock, which, with its pendulum moving tick-a-tick, hung against the wall opposite to the door, the sight of which made me conclude that the sound which methought I had heard in the stillness of the night was not an imaginary one. There it hung on the wall, with its pendulum moving tick-a-tick. The old gentleman was seated in an easy chair a little way into the room, having the glass-door on his right hand. 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?”