"I assure you I did not look, though I longed to peep at it this morning before you were up. Pray, Charles, do you think _I_ shall ever be able to write essays?" "To be sure," said Howard; "why not?" "Ah," said Oliver, with a sigh, "because I've no genius, you know." "But," said Howard, "have not you found out that you could do a great many things that you thought you could not do?" "Ay, thank you for that: but then you know, those are the sort of things which can be done without genius." "And what _are_ the things," replied Howard, "which cannot be done without genius?" "Oh, a great, _great_ many, I believe," said Oliver: "you know Holloway said so." "But we are not forced to believe it, because Holloway said so, are we? Besides, a _great many things_ may mean any thing, buckling your shoes, or putting on your hat, for instance." Oliver laughed at this, and said, "These, to be sure, are not the sort of things that can't be done without genius." "What are the sort of things?" repeated Howard. "Let us, now I've the pen in my hand, make a list of them." "Take a longer bit of paper." "No, no, the list will not be so very long as you think it will. What shall I put first?--make haste, for I'm in a hurry." "Well--writing, then--writing, I am sure, requires genius." "Why?" "Because I never could write, and I've often tried and tried to write something, but I never could; because I've no genius for it." "What did you try to write?" said Howard. "Why, letters," said Oliver: "my uncle, and my aunt, and my two cousins, desired I would write to them regularly once a fortnight; but I never can make out a letter, and I'm always sorry when letter-writing day comes; and if I sit thinking and thinking for ever so long I can find nothing to say. I used always to beg _a beginning_ from somebody; but then, when I've got over the beginning, that's only three or four lines; and if I stretch it out ever so much, it won't make a whole letter; and what can I put in the middle? There's nothing but that _I am well, and hope they are all well_; or else, _that I am learning Latin, as you desired, dear uncle, and am forward in my English_. The end I can manage well enough, because there's duty and love to send to every body; and about _the post is just going out, and believe me to be, in haste, your dutiful and affectionate nephew_. But then," continued little Oliver, "this is all nonsense, I know, and I'm ashamed to write such bad letters. Now your pen goes on, scratch, scratch, scratch, the moment you sit down to it; and you can write three pages of a nice, long, good letter, whilst I am writing '_My dear uncle John_,' and that's what I call having a genius for writing. I wonder how you came by it: could you write good letters when you were of my age?" "I never wrote any letters at your age," said Howard.