“Multum in Parvenu.”

He may rank as less than the parasite on the ant's abdomen in Nature's schedule of comparative utility, but at least he is a thing of infinite variety.

The elephant may have its trunk,
The snake may have its fang,
The over-emanative skunk,
The mad orangutang,
May all lay claim to what they be
In Evolution's plan,
But none has such diversity,
As Cryptic Mister Man.
He's like all insects, beasts and birds,
That hop and fly and run,
And yet, although he lives in herds,
He quite resembles none.
He's neither saint nor Devil's spawn,
(And though he's known to reach,
The heights and depths to which he's born),
He's yet a bit of each.

Man is one man, but men are many. Man is a mammalian bipedagogue and, in this respect, all men are one man; but beneath the skin no man is any other man; for every man is the soup of his ancestors ladled out by the chef Circumstance; every man is the echo of regrets; hopes, passions, aspirations and fears, which are echoes of other earlier echoes, booming, banging, clashing and clanging in acoustic complexity among the crags and crannies

“The monkey and the mental mutability of man.”

page 10 of his natal No-man's-land. No man knows why a red sun sinking into a droth of saffron fills his soul with a desire to fling away his hat and gallop into the tall timber baying like a hockhound on Rum Row. But the muted memories of ten thousand ancestors who existed unwittingly to produce him, have weaved a restless pattern into his mental mat so that, second by second, he cannot cope with his innate impulses.