It is not, I think, so good a book as my French journeys furnished, mainly to my mind because it was in one small volume instead of two big ones, and both for want of space and want of time was done hurriedly and too compendiously.

The true motto for the writer of such a book is _nihil a me alienum puto_, whether _humanum_ or otherwise.

My own opinion is, to make a perfectly clean breast of it, that I could now write a fairly amusing book on a journey from Tyburn turnpike to Stoke Pogis.

But then such books should be addressed to readers who are not in such a tearing hurry as the unhappy world is in these latter days.
It would seem that I found my two octavo volumes did not afford me nearly enough space to say my say respecting the country traversed, for they are brought to an end somewhat abruptly by a hurried return from Limoges to Paris; whereas my ramble was much more extended, including both the upper and lower provinces of Auvergne and the whole of the Bourbonnais.

My voluminous notes of the whole of these wanderings are now before me.