(_To a Friendly Adviser._) [Illustration] When starting off on foreign trips, I've felt secure if someone gave me Invaluable hints and tips; Time, trouble, money, these would save me. I'm off; you've told me all you know. Forewarned, forearmed, I start, instructed How much to spend, and where to go; Yet free, not like some folks "conducted." Now I shall face, serene and calm, Those persons, often rather pressing For little gifts, with outstretched palm. To some of them I'll give my blessing. To others--"_service_" being paid-- _Buona mano, pourboire, trinkgeld_; They fancy Englishmen are made Of money, made of (so they think) _geld_. The _garçon_, ready with each dish, His brisk "_Voilà, monsieur_" replying To anything that one may wish; His claim admits of no denying. The _portier_, who never rests, Who speaks six languages together To clamorous, inquiring guests, On letters, luggage, trains, boats, weather. The _femme de chambre_, who fills my _bain_; The _ouvreuse_, where I see the _acteur_, A cigarette to _chef de train_, A franc to energetic _facteur_. I give each _cocher_ what is right; I know, without profound researches, What I must pay for each new sight-- Cathedrals, castles, convents, churches. Or climbing up to see a view, From _campanile_, roof or steeple. Those verbal tips I had from you Save money tips to other people. Save all those florins, marks or francs-- Or _pfennige_, _sous_, _kreutzer_, is it?-- The change they give me at the banks, According to the towns I visit. I seem to owe you these, and yet Will money do? My feeling's deeper. I'll owe you an eternal debt-- A debt of gratitude, that's cheaper. * * * * * TO SENTIMENT. (_After a Long Course of Cynicism._) "Sentiment is come again." So says clever Mr. ZANGWILL. Most things tire the human brain; Mugwump mockery and slang will: Pessimism's pompous pose, Hedonism's virus septic; Cynicism's cold cock-nose, Creedless dismals, doubts dyspeptic, All are wearying--being sham. Twopenny Timon tires and sickens. Bitters bore us! We'll try jam! Back to LYTTON, HOOD, and DICKENS? Sorrows of sweet seventeen? Vows that manly one-and-twenty meant? Yes! we're sick of Cynic spleen. Let's hark back again to Sentiment! Saccharine surfeit, after all, Though it be a trifle sickly, Changes our long gorge of gall. Come back, Sentiment, and quickly! * * * * * [Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari Volume 107, September 22nd, 1894, by Various