Summary

Mr. Punch on the Continong

Wonder if there be an inn upon the Continent where you are furnished gratis with a cake of soap and bed candle.
Wonder how many able-bodied English waiters it would take to do the daily work of half a dozen French ones.
Wonder why it is that Great (and Little) Britons are so constantly heard grumbling at the half a score of dishes in a foreign bill of fare, while at home they have so frequently to feed upon cold mutton.
Wonder what amount of beer a German tourist daily drinks, and how many half-pint glasses a waiter at Vienna can carry at a time without spilling a drop out of them.
Source: Gutenberg

Mr. Punch on the Continong

Splendid boats, smooth sea, and a first-rate buffet at Calais.
Dear Paris! Just the place for the inside of a week. Boulevards full of novelties. Theatres in full swing. Evenings outside the cafés perfect happiness. Splendid!
En route. Swiss scenery, as ever, lovely. Mountains glorious, passes, lakes. Delightful. Nothing can compare with a jaunt through the land of Tell.
Italy—dear old Italy. Oh, the blue sky and the tables d'hôte! What more glorious than the ruins of Rome? What more precious than the pictures of Florence? What more restful than the gondolas of Venice?
Source: Gutenberg

Mr. Punch on the Continong

In those immeasurable depths its neat silk covering will decay, its slender frame will fall to pieces. It has gone for ever. Beneath this grey Italian sky some Italian gamp must keep off these Italian showers. Then the captain, the passengers, and the people smile and laugh. I, who write this, am the only one on whose face there is not a grin, for that umbrella was mine.
Source: Gutenberg

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