Summary

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

What a humiliating confession! Why should we any longer consent to be the slaves of the (so-called) Science of Astronomy?
Yours, REFORMING SPIRIT.
SIR,—What's all this fuss about Easter being too early this year? It isn't half early enough. It ought to have come last Christmas, and Whitsuntide the same, and then we should have polished off three public holiday seasons—public nuisances, I call them,—at once.
Yours, gloomily, TRUE PHILANTHROPIST.
SIR,—I have just been horrified to hear that one of my boys now at home from school remains with us for a three weeks' vacation!
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

I pulled myself together. I drank a glass of sherry and finished a sandwich. My voice was in excellent tone, and I felt that the crisis of my life had indeed been reached. I knew that it was now or never. I had this great chance of distinguishing myself by pleasing my clients and securing a practice at the Parliamentary Bar, which might mean hundreds, nay, thousands a-year. I imagined my children at Eton, my wife in a carriage and pair, my address in Grosvenor Place. All I had to do to secure these tardily-attained luxuries was to protect my clients by my careful attention to their interests.
Source: Gutenberg

Various Punch, or the London Charivari…

I made up my mind to hasten to a refreshment-bar I had seen in the corridor before I had entered the room, and hurriedly left my seat. I pushed my way through the public, and had scarcely got outside when I found my faithful clerk laden with sandwiches and sherry making post-haste towards me.
"Get back, Sir, as quick as you can," he cried, as he thrust the invigorating ingredients of my midday meal into my hands; "run, Sir, run; I hope they haven't noticed your absence!"
Source: Gutenberg

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