half-developed creatures whose only merit was that we handed on the
flame of life.

Maybe, maybe, for everything goes by comparison; and at one end of the
ladder is the ape-man, and at the other, as we hope, the angel. No, not
the angel; he belongs to a different sphere, but that last expression of
humanity upon which I will not speculate. While man is man--that is,
before he suffers the magical death-change into spirit, if such should
be his destiny--well, he will remain man. I mean that the same passions
will sway him; he will aim at the same ambitions; he will know the same
joys and be oppressed by the same fears, whether he lives in a Kafir hut
or in a golden palace; whether he walks upon his two feet or, as for
aught I know he may do one day, flies through the air. This is certain:
that in the flesh he can never escape from our atmosphere, and while he
breathes it, in the main with some variations prescribed by climate,
local law and religion, he will do much as his forefathers did for
countless ages.

That is why I have always found the savage so interesting, for in him,
nakedly and forcibly expressed, we see those eternal principles which
direct our human destiny.

To descend from these generalities, that is why also I, who hate
writing, have thought it worth while, at the cost of some labour to
myself, to occupy my leisure in what to me is a strange land--for
although I was born in England, it is not my country--in setting down
various experiences of my life that do, in my opinion, interpret this
our universal nature. I dare say that no one will ever read them;
still, perhaps they are worthy of record, and who knows? In days to
come they may fall into the hands of others and prove of value. At any