You may depend upon my bare word, reader, without any further security, that I could wish this offspring of my brain were as ingenious, sprightly, and accomplished as yourself could desire; but the mischief of it is, nature will have to take its course: every production must resemble its author, and my barren and unpolished understanding can produce nothing but what is very dull, very impertinent, and extravagant beyond imagination.
You may suppose it the child of disturbance, engendered in some dismal prison, where wretchedness keeps its residence, and every dismal sound its habitation. Some parents are so blinded by a fatherly fondness, that they mistake the very imperfections of their children for so many beauties; and the folly and impertinence of the brave boy must pass upon their friends and acquaintance for wit and sense. But I, who am only a stepfather, disavow the authority of this modern and prevalent custom; nor will I earnestly beseech you, with tears in my eyes, which is many a poor author's case, dear reader, to pardon or dissemble my child's faults; for what favour can I expect from you, who are neither his friend nor relation?
You have a soul of your own, and the privilege of free-will, whoever you be, as well as the proudest he that struts in a gaudy outside; you are a king by your own fireside, as much as any monarch on his throne; you have liberty and property, which set you above favour or affection, and may therefore freely like or dislike this history, according to your humour.