0001

LETTER FROM THE DEAN OF CARLISLE.

TO THE EDITOR OF PUNCH.

SIR,—Although perfectly aware of the malignant hatred which Punch bears to religion, and although profoundly convinced that he is actuated by a burning desire to see every cathedral turned into a hippodrome, and every church into a gin-palace; yet, as I hope I know better than to be uncharitable, I propose to address to you a few remarks on the subject of Pantomimes, with which horrors my name has been unhappily connected. I do not suppose, however, that you will insert my letter, inasmuch as I believe you to be a depraved worldling, and either too bitterly hostile to good men to show them fair play, or too stupidly incapable of comprehending them to see the merits of their arguments. If I were disposed to write harshly, I might use much stronger language.

[Illustration] I love yer to substracshun!

“I have been represented, Sir, as having stated that a Pantomime is a wicked exhibition. I adopt, and repeat that statement.

I have said the thing, Sir, too often to have any doubt in my mind of its truth. But knowing that it is my duty to prove all things, and supposing it possible that the anathemas of myself and other good men might have induced some outward reformation in these accursed spectacles, I came to London on Tuesday last, for the purpose of beholding, with my own eyes, what I deemed it my duty to denounce. I called, in my way, the Editor of the Record, who was so good as to leave unfinished a statement that a leading Puseyite had just eloped with his grandmother, and to accompany me to the theatre.

“We selected Drury Lane Theatre, as being the oldest and largest of these temples of Beelzebub, but as we would not encourage wickedness by paying one farthing we, applied to Mr. Smith for a box. I am bound to say that in the note enclosing it, there was not a single oath or other demoralizing expression, which, alas, shows the hypocrisy of the world. I make no doubt that he and every other manager habitually use lithographed forms of reply, with the most profane and evil language therein, but in Christian charity, I state that there was nothing of the kind in the envelope in question. We were shown into a box marked F, and the initial suggested the word Folly to my friend the Editor. Would that only folly were practised in the Theatre!

The box-opener was in red, the livery of the Scarlet Woman. He did not ask for money, nor would I have given him any; but in exchange for what worldlings call a play-bill I gave him a tract, called ‘Is All Serene, my Cove?’ May it be blessed to the poor creature!

“Sir, the veil disclosing the iniquity called a Pantomime had some time risen, and what is profanely called the Transformation scene was before the audience. And what an audience! Thousands of persons, from the pit (well named) to the ceiling, grinning, with idiotic delight at a glistening spectacle, made up of paint, tinsel, gaudy dresses, red fire (ah!) and bedizened females. What must be the influence of such a spectacle! I do not deny its fascination—even my eye dwelt on it, I blush to say, with a momentary sensation of pleasure, while the good man by my side was permitted to be tempted so far as to mutter the slang word ‘Stunning!’

“Then, Sir, commenced a series of wickednesses which I firmly believe have never been equalled, in so short a time, since the beginning of the world. I write them with a shudder, and even the callous creatures who read your paper must feel some shame at perusing such a description.

“I do not speak of the horrible morals taught. These were atrocious enough. A poor old man, apparently the friend of a fiend called the Clown, was treated more brutally than I could have conceived flesh could bear. He was dashed on the ground, his face was kicked, his eye was slapped, he was knocked on the head, all by his false friend, upon whom incessant remonstrance produced no effect-beyond a mocking jeer. Sometimes under the guise of sociality the athletic ruffian would approach the poor aged creature, whose confidence in him was touching, and suddenly and without provocation would deal him a fearful blow, which resounded over the house. Sometimes he would wound him, or strike him with a huge club, or drive a ladder into his abdomen. It was cruel and barbarous. My good friend, the Editor of the Record, says that these ill-used old men seldom survive more than a night, and that new victims are hired by the managers, to be slaughtered like the horses in Spanish bull-fights. But I speak only of what I saw.

“Sir, I saw with my own eyes several murders that night. I saw a man who represented a policeman (no, Sir, I am not an ignorant bigot, and I am quite aware that. the poor wretch was not really a policeman) blown into fragments by an explosion, caused by an electric wire. I am not to be deceived, I beheld his disjointed limbs fly about, and it is not by the paltry artifice of bringing in another person supposed to be the victim restored to life that I am to be deluded. I also saw a man's head cut off with a large pair of scissors, and the body was thrown down a hole, after Much-brutal treatment had been bestowed upon it. A live man was put in the place of the slain, but again, Sir, I say that I am not to be taken in. And a third time, Mr. Punch, I witnessed a similar spectacle, another policeman (the hatred of the wicked to all constituted authorities is awful) being stunned and thrown into a cucumber frame, whence, again, the substitute arose, but I am not again to be so deceived. My friend, the Editor of the Record, informs me that the manager of the theatre contracts with a hospital to take away the bodies of the persons they put to death, and when we came out I saw a group of medical students at the door of an hotel called the Albion, who were doubtless waiting for the subjects for dissection.

“Sir, the audience evinced no horror at such scenes. On the contrary, they uttered shouts of delight when the victims were stricken down; just such yells, Sir, as the Pagans of the old Roman amphitheatre emitted when the wounded gladiator fell upon the ensanguined sand, and looked round upon the cruel thousands for the signal of mercy; but, alas, saw turned-down thumbs, announcing that he was to perish by the sword of the victor.*

“After such scenes, Sir, permitted in Pantomimes by the authorities, why need I dwell upon lesser, though still great crimes. I am bound to say that the females engaged did not dress in the unseemly fashion which I had heard was usual, and I do not know that there was much more display of their lower limbs that I have habitually witnessed on the part of the miserable but fashionable sinners of my 0002 Cheltenham flock, who wore Crinolines, and had to cross roads. But, for the rest, the whole performance was one of wickedness, lying, thieving, smiting, brawling, and vanity; all, however, thrown into nothingness by the diabolical atrocity of killing several persons in order to make a holiday for a London crowd.

“I returned, Sir, by a late train, but my friend, the Editor of the Record, in order that the carnal pride engendered in him by his extraordinary gifts and graces might be abased, was permitted to eat such a number of whelks at a stall in Vinegar Yard, that he was 0003 excessively unwell next day, and his journal came out for once without a single instance of what the worldlings and the Tractarians call misrepresentation; but which good men know to be the salutary scourgings for the enemies of true religion.

“I am, Sir, your obedient Servant, “Francis Close, D.D.”

“The Deanery, Carlisle.”

* It was just the other way—pollicem vertebant—but the High Church declare that the Evangelicals are not remarkable for the exactitude of their scholarship.—P.