my Brother."

All three are in the same handwriting, which, it may be inferred, is
that of the reverend dean; and, as taken together they form something
like a novel, I at first thought that perhaps the reverend dean wished
to exercise his genius in composing one in his leisure hours; but,
looking at the matter more closely, and observing the natural simplicity
of the style, I am inclined to think now that it is no novel at all, but
that the letters are copies of genuine epistles which the reverend dean
tore up, burned, or returned to their owners, and that the narrative
part only, designated by the biblical title of "Paralipomena," is the
work of the reverend dean, added for the purpose of completing the story
with incidents not related in the letters.

However this may be, I confess that I did not find the reading of these
papers tiresome; I found them, indeed, rather interesting than
otherwise; and as nowadays everything is published, I have decided to
publish them too, without further investigation, changing only the
proper names, so that if those who bear them be still living they may
not find themselves figuring in a book without desiring or consenting to
it.

The letters contained in the first part seem to have been written by a
very young man, with some theoretical but no practical knowledge of the
world, whose life was passed in the house of the reverend dean, his
uncle, and in the seminary, and who was imbued with an exalted religious
fervor and an earnest desire to be a priest.

We shall call this young man Don Luis de Vargas.

The aforesaid manuscript, faithfully transferred to print, is as
follows.

I.

LETTERS FROM MY NEPHEW.

_March 22d._

DEAR UNCLE AND VENERABLE MASTER:

Four days ago I arrived in safety at this my native village, where I
found my father, the reverend vicar, our friends and relations all in
good health. The happiness of seeing them and conversing with them has
so completely occupied my time and thoughts, that I have not been able
to write to you until now.

You will pardon me for this.

Having left this place a mere child, and coming back a man, the
impression produced upon me by all those objects that I had treasured up
in my memory is a singular one. Everything appears to me more
diminutive, much more diminutive, but also more pleasing to the eye,
than my recollection of it. My father's house, which in my imagination
was immense, is, indeed, the large house of