It is the organ only of a certain kind of reasoning， la raison raisonnante， that requiring the least preparation for thought， giving itself as little trouble as possible， content with its acquisitions， taking no pains to increase or renew them， incapable of， or unwilling to embrace the plenitude and complexity of the facts of real life. In its purism， in its disdain of terms suited to the occasion， in its avoidance of lively sallies， in the extreme regularity of its developments， the classic style is powerless to fully portray or to record the infinite and varied details of experience. It rejects any description of the outward appearance of reality， the immediate impressions of the eyewitness， the heights and depths of passion， the physiognomy， at once so composite yet absolute personal， of the breathing individual， in short， that unique harmony of countless traits， blended together and animated， which compose not human character in general but one particular personality， and which a Saint-Simon， a Balzac， or a Shakespeare himself could not render if the rich language they used， and which was enhanced by their temerities， did not contribute its subtleties to the multiplied details of their observation.[24] Neither the Bible， nor Homer， nor Dante， nor Shakespeare[25] could be translated with this style. Read Hamlet's monologue in Voltaire and see what remains of it， an abstract piece of declamation， with about as much of the original in it as there is of Othello in his Orosmane. Look at Homer and then at Fenelon in the island of Calypso； the wild， rocky island， where "gulls and other sea-birds with long wings，" build their nests， becomes in pure French prose an orderly park arranged "for the pleasure of the eye."In the eighteenth century， contemporary novelists， themselves belonging to the classic epoch， Fielding， Swift， Defoe， Sterne and Richardson， are admitted into France only after excisions and much weakening； their expressions are too free and their scenes are to impressive； their freedom， their coarseness， their peculiarities， would form blemishes； the translator abbreviates， softens， and sometimes， in his preface， apologizes for what he retains. Room is found， in this language， only for a partial lifelikeness， for some of the truth， a scanty portion， and which constant refining daily renders still more scanty. Considered in itself， the classic style is always tempted to accept slight， insubstantial commonplaces for its subject materials. It spins them out， mingles and weaves them together； only a fragile filigree， however， issues from its logical apparatus； we may admire the elegant workmanship； but in practice， the work is of little， none， or negative service.
From these characteristics of style we divine those of the mind for which it serves as a tool. - Two principal operations constitute the activity of the human understanding. -- Observing things and events， it receives a more or less complete， profound and exact impression of these； and after this， turning away from them， it analyses its impressions， and classifies， distributes， and more or less skillfully expresses the ideas derived from them. - In the second of these operations the classicist is superior. Obliged to adapt himself to his audience， that is to say， to people of society who are not specialists and yet critical， he necessarily carries to perfection the art of exciting attention and of making himself heard； that is to say， the art of composition and of writing. - With patient industry， and multiplied precautions， he carries the reader along with him by a series of easy rectilinear conceptions， step by step， omitting none， beginning with the lowest and thus ascending to the highest， always progressing with steady and measured peace， securely and agreeably as on a promenade. No interruption or diversion is possible： on either side， along the road， balustrades keep him within bounds， each idea extending into the following one by such an insensible transition， that he involuntarily advances， without stopping or turning aside， until brought to the final truth where he is to be seated. Classic literature throughout bears the imprint of this talent； there is no branch of it into which the qualities of a good discourse do not enter and form a part. - They dominate those sort of works which， in themselves， are only half-literary， but which， by its help， become fully so， transforming manuscripts into fine works of art which their subject-matter would have classified as scientific works， as reports of action， as historical documents， as philosophical treatises， as doctrinal expositions， as sermons， polemics， dissertations and demonstrations. It transforms even dictionaries and operates from Descartes to Condillac， from Bossuet to Buffon and Voltaire， from Pascal to Rousseau and Beaumarchais， in short， becoming prose almost entirely， even in official dispatches， diplomatic and private correspondence， from Madame de Sévigné to Madame du Deffant； including so many perfect letters flowing from the pens of women who were unaware of it . - Such prose is paramount in those works which， in themselves， are literary， but which derive from it an oratorical turn.
Not only does it impose a rigid plan， a regular distribution of parts[26] in dramatic works， accurate proportions， suppressions and connections， a sequence and progress， as in a passage of eloquence， but again it tolerates only the most perfect discourse. There is no character that is not an accomplished orator； with Corneille and Racine， with Molière himself， the confidant， the barbarian king， the young cavalier， the drawing room coquette， the valet， all show themselves adepts in the use of language. Never have we encountered such adroit introductions， such well-arranged evidence， such just reflections， such delicate transitions， such conclusive summing ups.
