“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.”

“May I ask their names?”

“Why not?” said I, “I know a little French.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, a little Welsh, and a little Haik.”

“What is Haik?”

“Armenian.”

“I am glad to see you in my house,” said the old man, shaking me by the hand; “how singular that one coming as you did should know Armenian!”

“Not more singular,” said I, “than that one living in such a place as this should know Chinese.  How came you to acquire it?”

The old man looked at me, and sighed.  “I beg pardon,” said I, “for asking what is, perhaps, an impertinent question; I have not imitated your own delicacy; you have never asked me a question without first desiring permission, and here I have been days and nights in your house an intruder on your hospitality, and you have never so much as asked me who I am.”

“In forbearing to do that,” said the old man, “I merely obeyed the Chinese precept, ‘Ask no questions of a guest;’ it is written on both sides of the teapot out of which you have had your tea.”

“I wish I knew Chinese,” said I.  “Is it a difficult language to acquire?”

“I have reason to think so,” said the old man.  “I have been occupied upon it five-and-thirty years, and I am still very imperfectly acquainted with it; at least, I frequently find upon my crockery sentences the meaning of which to me is very dark, though it is true these sentences are mostly verses, which are, of course, more difficult to understand than mere prose.”

“Are your Chinese studies,” said I, “confined to crockery literature?”

“Entirely,” said the old man; “I read nothing else.”

“I have heard,” said I, “that the Chinese have no letters, but that for every word they have a separate character—­is it so?”

“For every word they have a particular character,” said the old man; “though, to prevent confusion, they have arranged their words under two hundred and fourteen what we should call radicals, but which they call keys.  As we arrange all our words in a dictionary under twenty-four letters, so do they arrange all their words, or characters, under two hundred and fourteen radical signs; the simplest radicals being the first, and the more complex the last.”