nice boy, but I could not be troubled with another like him for any
consideration whatever. I have written to Mr. Stevens to let me know his
character, as regards _neatness_ and _perseverance_ in doing anything he
is set about. From you I should like to know whether he is quiet or
boisterous, forward or shy, talkative or silent, sensible or frivolous,
delicate or strong. Ask him whether he can live on rice and salt fish
for a week on an occasion--whether he can do without wine or beer, and
sometimes without tea, coffee or sugar--whether he can sleep on a
board--whether he likes the hottest weather in England--whether he is
too delicate to skin a stinking animal--whether he can walk twenty miles
a day--whether he can work, for there is sometimes as hard work in
collecting as in anything. Can he draw (not copy)? Can he speak French?
Does he write a good hand? Can he make anything? Can he saw a piece of
board straight? (Charles cannot, and every bit of carpenter work I have
to do myself.) Ask him to make you anything--a little card box, a
wooden peg or bottle-stopper, and see if he makes them neat, straight
and square. Charles never does anything the one or the other. Charles
has now been with me more than a year, and every day some such
conversation as this ensues: "Charles, look at these butterflies that
you set out yesterday." "Yes, sir." "Look at that one--is it set out
evenly?" "No, sir." "Put it right then, and all the others that want
it." In five minutes he brings me the box to look at. "Have you put them
all right?" "Yes, sir." "There's one with the wings uneven, there's
another with the body on one side, then another with the pin crooked.
Put them all right this time." It most frequently happens that they have
to go back a third time. Then all is right. If he puts up a bird, the
head is on one side, there is a great lump of cotton on one side of the
neck like a wen, the feet are twisted soles uppermost, or something
else. In everything it is the same, what ought to be straight is always
put crooked. This after twelve months' constant practice and constant
teaching! And not the slightest sign of improvement. I believe he never
will improve. Day after day I have to look over everything he does and
tell him of the same faults. Another with a similar incapacity would
drive me mad. He never, too, by any chance, puts anything away after
him. When done with, everything is thrown on the floor. Every other day
an hour is l