Great cities require public theatres, and romances are necessary to a corrupt people. I saw the manners of the times, and have published these letters. Would to heaven I had lived in an age when I ought rather to have thrown them in the fire!
Though I appear only as the editor of this work, I confess that I have had some share in the composition. But am I the sole author, and is the entire correspondence fictitious? Ye people of the world, of what importance is it to you? Certainly, to you, it is all a fiction.
Every honest man will avow the which he publishes. I have prefixed my name to these letters, not with a design to appropriate them to myself, but that I might be answerable for them. If they deserve censure, let it fall on me; if they have any merit, I am not ambitious of the praise. If it is a bad I am the more obliged to own it: I do not wish to pass for better than I am.
As to the reality of the history, I declare that, though I have been several times in the country of the two lovers, I never heard either of Baron D'Etange, his daughter, Mr. Orbe, Lord B——, or Mr. Wolmar. I must also inform the reader that there are several topographical errors in this work; but whether they are the effect of ignorance or design, I leave undetermined. This is all I am at liberty to say: let every one think as he pleases.
The seems not calculated for an extensive circulation, as it is not adapted to the generality of readers. The stile will offend people of taste, to austere men the matter will be alarming, and all the sentiments will seem unnatural to those who know not what is meant by the word virtue. It ought to displease the devotee, the libertine, the philosopher; to shock all the ladies of gallantry, and to scandalize every modest woman. By whom, therefore, will it be approved? Perhaps only by myself: certain I am, however, that it will not meet with moderate approbation from any one.
Whoever may resolve to read these letters ought to arm himself with patience against faults of language, rusticity of stile, and pedantry of expression; he ought to remember that the writers are neither natives of France, wits, academicians, nor philosophers; but that they are young and unexperienced inhabitants of a remote village, who mistake the romantic extravagance of their own imagination, for philosophy.
Why should I fear to speak my thoughts? This collection of letters, with all their gothic air, will better suit a married lady than of philosophy: it may even be of service to those who, in an irregular course of life, have yet preserved some affection for virtue. As to young ladies, they are out of the question; no chaste virgin ever read a romance: but if perchance any young girl should dare to read a single page of this, she is inevitably lost. Yet let her not accuse me as the cause of her perdition: the mischief was done before; and since she has begun, let her proceed, for she has nothing worse to fear.
May the austere reader be disgusted in the first volume, revile the Editor, and throw the into the fire. I shall not complain of injustice; for probably, in his place, I might have acted in the same manner. But if after having read to the end, any one should think fit to blame me for having published the let him, if he pleases, declare his opinion to all the world, except to me; for I perceive it would never be in my power to esteem such a man.
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