You Cannot Give Me An Instance Of

People In General Do Not Willingly Read If They Have Anything Else To Amuse Them.

There Is Scarcely Any Writer Who Has Not Celebrated The Happiness Of Rural Privacy, And Delighted Himself And His Reader With The Melody Of Birds, The Whisper Of Groves, And The Murmur Of Rivulets.

Some Read For Style, And Some For Argument: One Has Little Care About The Sentiment, He Observes Only How It Is Expressed; Another Regards Not The Conclusion, But Is Diligent To Mark How It Is Inferred; They Read For Other Purposes Than The Attainment Of Practical Knowledge; And Are No More Likely To Grow Wise By An Examination Of A Treatise Of Moral Prudence, Than An Architect To Inflame His Devotion By Considering Attentively The Proportions Of A Temple.

There Are Certain Topicks Which Are Never Exhausted. Of Some Images And Sentiments The Mind Of Man May Be Said To Be Enamoured; It Meets Them, However Often They Occur, With The Same Ardour Which A Lover Feels At The Sight Of His Mistress, And Parts From Them With The Same Regret When They Can No Longer Be Enjoyed.

Such Is The Common Process Of Marriage. A Youth And Maiden Exchange Meeting By Chance, Or Brought Together By Artifice, Exchange Glances, Reciprocate Civilities, Go Home, And Dream Of One Another. Having Little To Divert Attention, Or Diversify Thought, They Find Themselves Uneasy When They Are Apart, And Therefore Conclude That They Shall Be Happy Together. They Marry, And Discover What Nothing But Voluntary Blindness Had Before Concealed; They Wear Out Life In Altercations, And Charge Nature With Cruelty.