'有一个快乐的绘画之中，画家知道。在写作，你必须与世界抗衡，在绘画，你只进行一个与自然友好的争斗。你坐下来给你的任务，并很高兴。从此刻，你拿起铅笔，并正视自然，你在你自己的心与和平。没有愤怒的情绪产生干扰沉默的工作进展，动摇手，或暗淡的额头：没有急躁体液载顺流：你有没有荒谬的意见，打击，没有点的应变，没有对手，粉碎，没有傻瓜到苦恼 - 你是害怕还是赞成，无人驱动。有'不杂耍这里，'没有狡辩，没有阴谋，没有证据被篡改，没有企图使黑色白色，黑色或白色：但你辞去到一个更大的权力的手中，自己的性质，与简单一个孩子，一个热心奉献 - 'study喜悦她的态度，和她的风格与品味喜悦。心是平静的，并在同一时间爆满。手和眼同样就业。在最常见的追踪对象，一个工厂或一个树桩，你都能学到一些东西的时刻。你看到意想不到的分歧，并在那里发现肖像你没有这样的东西看。您尝试订下你所看到的 - 找出你的错误，并纠正它。你不必弄虚作假，或故意的错误：与所有的疼痛，你仍然远远短的标志。耐心的前身是无休止的追求，它变成一种奢侈。以鲜花，在叶子里，在一个云，一个在旧墙灰色污渍或损坏，色彩皱纹检获连胜是因为这一精神战排序_spolia opima_亲和力，并提供了另一半劳力天。时间的流逝深重，没有懊恼，没有厌倦，也希望你会永远把它们并非如此。纯真是联同行业，商业娱乐;和头脑是满意的，虽然它不是在做思想或从事任何损害[1]。
    我没有在写这些_Essays_，他们或在阅读后，感到十分高兴，虽然我自己的，然后我现在遇到一个短语，我喜欢，或认为打击作为一个真实的我。但在我开始他们，我只是急着要到尽头，因为我很少看到我的网页的方式，甚至一个句子之前，我不敢肯定我会做什么，以及我作为一个奇迹逃脱，我自己麻烦一点他们。我有时不得不写两次以上：那么，要读_proof_，以防止打印机的错误，所以，到时候他们在一个有形的形态出现，人们可以CON组与有意识的，他们对侧目市民的认同，他们已经失去了光泽和津津乐道，并成为'更比一两次传为佳话乏味。对于任何人阅读自己的作品非常高兴了，他应该首先忘记，他曾经说他们。熟悉自然滋生的蔑视。这实际上是一样亲切地研读了一纸空白，从重复，词语表达无明显意义的心灵 - 仅仅是闲置的声音，只是我们的虚荣心索赔1兴趣和他们的财产。我比别人支配他们：有必要的话向我解释了一些事情我的印象，读者更满意自己的想法，但他们反而削弱了面纱，并绘制一个不是加强它自己。不过，我可以说与诗人，'我的心给我的王国是，'但是我没有什么野心'设置在其他人的理解上王位或国家椅子。我们最珍惜的想法存在最好的一类抽象的影子，
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    'There is a pleasure in painting which none but painters know.' In writing, you have to contend with the world; in painting, you have only to carry on a friendly strife with Nature. You sit down to your task, and are happy. From the moment that you take up the pencil, and look Nature in the face, you are at peace with your own heart. No angry passions rise to disturb the silent progress of the work, to shake the hand, or dim the brow: no irritable humours are set afloat: you have no absurd opinions to combat, no point to strain, no adversary to crush, no fool to annoy--you are actuated by fear or favour to no man. There is 'no juggling here,' no sophistry, no intrigue, no tampering with the evidence, no attempt to make black white, or white black: but you resign yourself into the hands of a greater power, that of Nature, with the simplicity of a child, and the devotion of an enthusiast--'study with joy her manner, and with rapture taste her style.' The mind is calm, and full at the same time. The hand and eye are equally employed. In tracing the commonest object, a plant or the stump of a tree, you learn something every moment. You perceive unexpected differences, and discover likenesses where you looked for no such thing. You try to set down what you see--find out your error, and correct it. You need not play tricks, or purposely mistake: with all your pains, you are still far short of the mark. Patience grows out of the endless pursuit, and turns it into a luxury. A streak in a flower, a wrinkle in a leaf, a tinge in a cloud, a stain in an old wall or ruin grey, are seized with avidity as the _spolia opima_ of this sort of mental warfare, and furnish out labour for another half-day. The hours pass away untold, without chagrin, and without weariness; nor would you ever wish to pass them otherwise. Innocence is joined with industry, pleasure with business; and the mind is satisfied, though it is not engaged in thinking or in doing any mischief.[1]
    I have not much pleasure in writing these _Essays_, or in reading them afterwards; though I own I now and then meet with a phrase that I like, or a thought that strikes me as a true one. But after I begin them, I am only anxious to get to the end of them, which I am not sure I shall do, for I seldom see my way a page or even a sentence beforehand; and when I have as by a miracle escaped, I trouble myself little more about them. I sometimes have to write them twice over: then it is necessary to read the _proof_, to prevent mistakes by the printer; so that by the time they appear in a tangible shape, and one can con them over with a conscious, sidelong glance to the public approbation, they have lost their gloss and relish, and become 'more tedious than a twice-told tale.' For a person to read his own works over with any great delight, he ought first to forget that he ever wrote them. Familiarity naturally breeds contempt. It is, in fact, like poring fondly over a piece of blank paper; from repetition, the words convey no distinct meaning to the mind--are mere idle sounds, except that our vanity claims an interest and property in them. I have more satisfaction in my own thoughts than in dictating them to others: words are necessary to explain the impression of certain things upon me to the reader, but they rather weaken and draw a veil over than strengthen it to myself. However I might say with the poet, 'My mind to me a kingdom is,' yet I have little ambition 'to set a throne or chair of state in the understandings of other men.' The ideas we cherish most exist best in a kind of shadowy abstraction,