—­The opinions of relatives as to a man’s powers are very commonly of little value; not merely because they sometimes overrate their own flesh and blood, as some may suppose; on the contrary, they are quite as likely to underrate those whom they have grown into the habit of considering like themselves.  The advent of genius is like what florists style the breaking of a seedling tulip into what we may call high-caste colors,—­ten thousand dingy flowers, then one with the divine streak; or, if you prefer it, like the coming up in old Jacob’s garden of that most gentlemanly little fruit, the seckel pear, which I have sometimes seen in shop-windows.  It is a surprise,—­there is nothing to account for it.  All at once we find that twice two make five.  Nature is fond of what are called “gift-enterprises.”  This little book of life which she has given into the hands of its joint possessors is commonly one of the old story-books bound over again.  Only once in a great while there is a stately poem in it, or its leaves are illuminated with the glories of art, or they enfold a draft for untold values signed by the million-fold millionnaire old mother herself.  But strangers are commonly the first to find the “gift” that came with the little book.

It may be questioned whether anything can be conscious of its own flavor.  Whether the musk-deer, or the civet-cat, or even a still more eloquently silent animal that might be mentioned, is aware of any personal peculiarity, may well be doubted.  No man knows his own voice; many men do not know their own profiles.  Every one remembers Carlyle’s famous “Characteristics” article; allow for exaggerations, and there is a great deal in his doctrine of the self-unconsciousness of genius.  It comes under the great law just stated.  This incapacity of knowing its own traits is often found in the family as well as in the individual.  So never mind what your cousins, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and the rest, say about that fine poem you have written, but send it (postage-paid) to the editors, if there are any, of the “Atlantic,”—­which, by the way, is not so called because it is A notion, as some dull wits wish they had said, but are too late.

—­Scientific knowledge, even in the most modest persons, has mingled with it a something which partakes of insolence.  Absolute, peremptory facts are bullies, and those who keep company with them are apt to get a bullying habit of mind;—­not of manners, perhaps; they may be soft and smooth, but the smile they carry has a quiet assertion in it, such as the Champion of the Heavy Weights, commonly the best-natured, but not the most diffident of men, wears upon what he very inelegantly calls his “mug.”  Take the man, for instance, who deals in the mathematical sciences.  There is no elasticity in a mathematical fact; if you bring up against it, it never yields a hair’s breadth; everything must go to pieces that comes in collision with it.  What the mathematician