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 books 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 book, 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 book 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 books
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 book 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 book, 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.