In fact, the whole belief in “genius” seems to me rather a mischievous superstition, and if not mischievous always, still always a superstition.  From the account of those who talk about it, “genius” appears to be the attribute of a sort of very potent and admirable prodigy which God has created out of the common for the astonishment and confusion of the rest of us poor human beings.  But do they really believe it?  Do they mean anything more or less than the Mastery which comes to any man according to his powers and diligence in any direction?  If not, why not have an end of the superstition which has caused our race to go on so long writing and reading of the difference between talent and genius?  It is within the memory of middle-aged men that the Maelstrom existed in the belief of the geographers, but we now get on perfectly well without it; and why should we still suffer under the notion of “genius” which keeps so many poor little authorlings trembling in question whether they have it, or have only “talent”?

One of the greatest captains who ever lived [General U. S. Grant D.W.] —­a plain, taciturn, unaffected soul—­has told the story of his wonderful life as unconsciously as if it were all an every-day affair, not different from other lives, except as a great exigency of the human race gave it importance.  So far as he knew, he had no natural aptitude for arms, and certainly no love for the calling.  But he went to West Point because, as he quaintly tells us, his father “rather thought he would go”; and he fought through one war with credit, but without glory.  The other war, which was to claim his powers and his science, found him engaged in the most prosaic of peaceful occupations; he obeyed its call because he loved his country, and not because he loved war.  All the world knows the rest, and all the world knows that greater military mastery has not been shown than his campaigns illustrated.  He does not say this in his book, or hint it in any way; he gives you the facts, and leaves them with you.  But the Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant, written as simply and straightforwardly as his battles were fought, couched in the most unpretentious phrase, with never a touch of grandiosity or attitudinizing, familiar, homely in style, form a great piece of literature, because great literature is nothing more nor less than the clear expression of minds that have some thing great in them, whether religion, or beauty, or deep experience.  Probably Grant would have said that he had no more vocation to literature than he had to war.  He owns, with something like contrition, that he used to read a great many novels; but we think he would have denied the soft impeachment of literary power.  Nevertheless, he shows it, as he showed military power, unexpectedly, almost miraculously.  All the conditions here, then, are favorable to supposing a case of “genius.”  Yet who would trifle with that great heir of fame, that plain, grand, manly soul, by speaking of “genius” and