MANNER OF WRITING. 99 



life, so that little remains to be said. I am not con- 

 scious of any change in my mind during the last thirty 

 years, excepting in one point presently to be men- 

 tioned ; nor, indeed, could any change have been 

 expected unless one of general deterioration. But my 

 father lived to his eighty-third year with his mind as 

 lively as ever it was, and all his faculties undimmed ; 

 and I hope that I may die before my mind fails to 

 a sensible extent. I think that I have become a 

 little more skilful in guessing right explanations and 

 in devising experimental tests ; but this may probably 

 be the result of mere practice, and of a larger store 

 of knowledge. I have as much difficulty as ever in 

 expressing myself clearly and concisely; and this 

 difficulty has caused me a very great loss of time ; 

 but it has had the compensating advantage of forcing 

 me to think long and intently about every sentence, 

 and thus I have been led to see errors in reasoning 

 and in my own observations or those of others. 



There seems to be a sort of fatality in my mind 

 leading me to put at first my statement or proposition 

 in a wrong or awkward form. Formerly I used to 

 think about my sentences before writing them down ; 

 but for several years I have found that it saves time 

 to scribble in a vile hand whole pages as quickly as 

 I possibly can, contracting half the words ; and then 

 correct deliberately. Sentences thus scribbled down 

 are often better ones than I could have written 

 deliberately. 



Having said thus much about my manner of writing, 

 I will add that with my large books I spend a good 



H 2 



