It would be the suicide of the governing class, and
the governing class knows it.
Comes now the Japanese. On the streets of Antung, of Feng-Wang-
Chang, or of any other Manchurian city, the following is a familiar
scene: One is hurrying home through the dark of the unlighted
streets when he comes upon a paper lantern resting on the ground. On
one side squats a Chinese civilian on his hams, on the other side
squats a Japanese soldier. One dips his forefinger in the dust and
writes strange, monstrous characters. The other nods understanding,
sweeps the dust slate level with his hand, and with his forefinger
inscribes similar characters. They are talking. They cannot speak
to each other, but they can write. Long ago one borrowed the other's
written language, and long before that, untold generations ago, they
diverged from a common root, the ancient Mongol stock.
There have been changes, differentiations brought about by diverse
conditions and infusions of other blood; but down at the bottom of
their being, twisted into the fibres of them, is a heritage in
common--a sameness in kind which time has not obliterated.
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