become me to trifle with the life to come, for I am upwards of
sixty-four.

My genius and my inclination prompt me to this kind of writing; the more
so as I consider (and with truth) that I am the first who has written
novels in the Spanish language, though many have hitherto appeared among
us, all of them translated from foreign authors. But these are my own,
neither imitated nor stolen from anyone; my genius has engendered them,
my pen has brought them forth, and they are growing up in the arms of
the press. After them, should my life be spared, I will present to you
the Adventures of Persiles, a book which ventures to compete with
Heliodorus. But previously you shall see, and that before long, the
continuation of the exploits of Don Quixote and the humours of Sancho
Panza; and then the Weeks of the Garden. This is promising largely for
one of my feeble powers; but who can curb his desires? I only beg you to
remark that since I have had the boldness to address these novels to the
great Count of Lemos, they must contain some hidden mystery which exalts
their merit.

I have no more to say, so pray God to keep you, and give me patience to
bear all the ill that will be spoken of me by more than one subtle and
starched critic. _Vale_.




CONTENTS.

PAGE