had occasion to drive a screw in some unusual and inconvenient place,
after setting the blade of the screw-driver into the slot I have asked
myself, "In which direction does this screw turn?" But the longer I
ask, the more uncertain I am. My only solution lies in trusting my
hand, which knows a great deal more about the matter than I. When we
once begin to meditate how a word is spelled, how helpless we are! It
is better to drop the question, and pick up the dictionary. In all
such cases consideration tends to confuse.

It tends to delay, too, as everybody knows. To survey all the
relations in which a given act may stand, to balance their relative
gains and losses, and with full sight to decide on the course which
offers the greatest profit, would require the years of Methuselah. But
at what point shall we cut the process short? To obtain full
knowledge, we should pass in review all that relates to the act we
propose; should inquire what its remoter consequences will be, and how
it will affect not merely myself, my cousin, my great-grandchild, but
the man in the next street, city, or state. There is no stopping. To
carry conscious verification over a moderate range is slow business.
If on the impulse of occasion we dash off an action unreflectingly,
life will be swift and simple. If we try to anticipate all
consequences of our task it will be slow and endless.

Nor need I dwell on the fatigue such conscious work involves. In
writing a letter, we usually sit down before our paper, our minds
occupied with what we would say. We allow our fingers to stroll of
themselves across the page, and we hardly notice whether they move or
not. If anybody should ask, "How did you write the letter _s?_" we
should be obliged to look on the paper to see. But suppose, instead
of writing in this way, I come to the task to-morrow determined to