He who writes carelessly confesses thereby at the very outset that he
does not attach much importance to his own thoughts. For it is only
where a man is convinced of the truth and importance of his thoughts,
that he feels the enthusiasm necessary for an untiring and assiduous
effort to find the clearest, finest, and strongest expression for
them,--just as for sacred relics or priceless works of art there are
provided silvern or golden receptacles. It was this feeling that led
ancient authors, whose thoughts, expressed in their own words, have
lived thousands of years, and therefore bear the honored title of
_classics_, always to write with care. Plato, indeed, is said to
have written the introduction to his _Republic_ seven times over in
different ways.[1]

[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note._--It is a fact worth mentioning that
the first twelve words of the _Republic_ are placed in the exact order
which would be natural in English.]

As neglect of dress betrays want of respect for the company a man
meets, so a hasty, careless, bad style shows an outrageous lack of
regard for the reader, who then rightly punishes it by refusing to
read the book. It is especially amusing to see reviewers criticising
the works of others in their own most careless style--the style of
a hireling. It is as though a judge were to come into court in
dressing-gown and slippers! If I see a man badly and dirtily dressed,
I feel some hesitation, at first, in entering into conversation
with him: and when, on taking up a book, I am struck at once by the
negligence of its style, I put it away.

Good writing should be governed by the rule that a man can think only
one thing clearly at a time; and, therefore, that he should not be
expected to think two or even more things in one and the same moment.
But this is what is done when a writer breaks up his principal
sentence into little pieces, for the purpose of pushing into the gaps
thus made two or three other thoughts by way of parenthesis; thereby
unnecessarily and wantonly confusing the reader. And here it is again
my own countrymen who are chiefly in fault. That German lends itself
to this way of writing, makes the thing possible, but does not justify
it. No prose reads more easily or pleasantly than French, because, as
a rule, it is free from the error in question. The Frenchman strings
his thoughts together, as far as he can, in the most logical and
natural order, and so lays them before his reade