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    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 1892
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 1892
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 1892
    Ebook99 pages41 minutes

    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 1892

    By Various Various

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 1892

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      Book preview

      Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, August 27, 1892 - Various Various

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103,

      August 27, 1892, by Various

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 103, August 27, 1892

      Author: Various

      Release Date: February 22, 2005 [EBook #15144]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH ***

      Produced by Malcolm Farmer, William Flis, and the PG Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team.

      PUNCH,

      OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

      Vol. 103.

      August 27, 1892.

      TWO-PENN'ORTH OF THEOSOPHY.

      (A Sketch at the Islington Arcadia.)

      SCENE—The Agricultural Hall. A large Steam-Circus is revolving with its organ in full blast; near it is a Razzle-Dazzle Machine, provided with a powerful mechanical piano. To the combined strains of these instruments, the merrier hearts of Islington are performing a desultory dance, which seems to consist chiefly in the various couples charging each other with desperate gallantry. At the further end of the Hall is a Stage, on which a Variety Performance is in progress, and along the side of the gallery a Switchback, the rolling thunder of which, accompanied by masculine whoops and feminine squeaks, is distinctly audible. Near the entrance is a painted house-front with two doors, which are being pitilessly battered with wooden balls; from time to time a well-directed missile touches a spring, one of the doors opens, and an idiotic effigy comes blandly goggling and sliding down an inclined plane, to be saluted with yells of laughter, and ignominiously pushed back into domestic privacy. Amidst surroundings thus happily suggesting the idyllic and pastoral associations of Arcady, is an unpretending booth, the placards on which announce it to be the temporary resting-place of the Far-famed Adepts of Thibet, who are there for a much-needed change, after a 3500 years' residence in the Desert of Gobi. There is also a solemn warning that it is impossible to spoof a Mahatma. In front of this booth, a fair-headed, round-faced, and Spectacled Gentleman, in evening clothes, and a particularly crumpled shirt-front—who presents a sort of compromise between the Scientific Savant and the German Waiter has just locked up his Assistant in a wooden pillory, for no obvious reason except to attract a crowd. The crowd collects accordingly, and includes a Comic Coachman, who, with his Friend—a tall and speechless nonentity—has evidently come out to enjoy himself.

      I have here two ordinary clean clay pipes.

      The Spectacled Gentleman (letting the Assistant out of the pillory, with the air of a man who does not often unbend to these frivolities). Now, Gentlemen, I am sure all those whom I see around me have heard of those marvellous beings—the Mahatmas—and how they can travel through space in astral bodies, and produce matter out of nothing at all. (Here the group endeavour to look as if these facts were familiar to them from infancy, while the Comic Coachman assumes the intelligent interest of a Pantomime Clown in the price of a property fish.) Very well; but perhaps some of you may not be aware that at this very moment the air all around you is full of ghosts.

      The Comic Coachman (affecting extreme terror). 'Ere, let me get out o' this! Where's my friend?

      The Sp. G. I am only telling you the

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