CHAPTER XXVIII

----Now this is the most puzzled skein of all----for in this last chapter, as far at least as it has help’d me through _Auxerre_, I have been getting forwards in two different journies together, and with the same dash of the pen--for I have got entirely out of _Auxerre_ in this journey which I am writing now, and I am got half way out of _Auxerre_ in that which I shall write hereafter ----There is but a certain degree of perfection in everything; and by pushing at something beyond that, I have brought myself into such a situation, as no traveller ever stood before me; for I am this moment walking across the market-place of _Auxerre_ with my father and my uncle _Toby_, in our way back to dinner----and I am this moment also entering _Lyons_ with my post-chaise broke into a thousand pieces--and I am moreover this moment in a handsome pavillion built by _Pringello_,[7.4] upon the banks of the _Garonne_, which Mons. _Sligniac_ has lent me, and where I now sit rhapsodising all these affairs.

----Let me collect myself, and pursue my journey.

[Footnote 7.4: The same Don _Pringello_, the celebrated _Spanish_ architect, of whom my cousin _Antony_ has made such honourable mention in a scholium to the Tale inscribed to his name. --Vid. p. 129, small edit.]

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