On the other hand, much of the commonplace, shallow fashionable talk about hereditary genius—­I don’t mean, of course, the talk of our Darwins and Galtons, but the cheap drawing-room philosophy of easy sciolists who can’t understand them—­is itself fully as absurd in its own way as the idea that something can come out of nothing.  For it is no explanation of the existence of genius to say that it is hereditary.  You only put the difficulty one place back.  Granting that young Alastor Jones is a budding poet because his father, Percy Bysshe Jones, was a poet before him, why, pray, was Jones the elder a poet at all, to start with?  This kind of explanation, in fact, explains nothing; it begins by positing the existence of one original genius, absolutely unaccounted for, and then proceeds blandly to point out that the other geniuses derive their characteristics from him, by virtue of descent, just as all the sons of a peer are born honourables.  The elephant supports the earth, and the tortoise supports the elephant, but who, pray, supports the tortoise?  If the first chicken came out of an egg, what was the origin of the hen that laid it?

Besides, the allegation as it stands is not even a true one.  Genius, as we actually know it, is by no means hereditary.  The great man is not necessarily the son of a great man or the father of a great man:  often enough, he stands quite isolated, a solitary golden link in a chain of baser metal on either side of him.  Mr. John Shakespeare woolstapler, of Stratford-on-Avon, Warwickshire, was no doubt an eminently respectable person in his own trade, and he had sufficient intelligence to be mayor of his native town once upon a time:  but, so far as is known, none of his literary remains are at all equal to Macbeth or Othello.  Parson Newton, of the Parish of Woolsthorpe, in Lincolnshire, may have preached a great many very excellent and convincing discourses, but there is no evidence of any sort that he ever attempted to write the Principia. Per contra the Miss Miltons, good young ladies that they were (though of conflicting memory), do not appear to have differed conspicuously in ability from the other Priscillas and Patiences and Mercies amongst whom their lot was cast; while the Marlboroughs and the Wellingtons do not seem to bud out spontaneously into great commanders in the second generation.  True, there are numerous cases such as that of the Herschels, father and son, or the two Scaligers, or the Caracci, or the Pitts, or the Scipios, and a dozen more, where the genius, once developed, has persisted for two or three, or even four lives:  but these instances really cast no light at all upon our central problem, which is just this—­How does the genius come in the first place to be developed at all from parents in whom individually no particular genius is ultimately to be seen?