November 16, 1861.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. ^

NURSLINGS OP THE WAVES.

On Monday last week commenced the winter session of the Univer-
sity of Edinburgh, when an eloquent introductory address touching
science in general was delivered by Principal Sir. T)avid Brewster.
Unfortunately the address of the learned Principal was, owing to the
construction- of the hall in disregard of acoustics, very imperfecth
heard (the reporter tells us) by a large proportion of the audience.
Yes, this was very unfortunate. One of the accomplished lecturer’s
sentences began thus :—“ Considering the ocean but as the nursery of
the whale and its congeners.” These words having been very imper-
fectly heard by many of the listeners, were partially misapprehended,
and some literal and stolid students present naturally understood Sir
David Brewster to state that the ocean had been considered the
nursery of the whale and the conger eels.

BATHING EOR BEDLAMITES.

We were surprised beyond measure on Wednesday morning last at
finding in the Times the following intelligence:—

“ The bathing season in Hyde Park has now terminated.”

This startling information was conveyed in a short paragraph relat-
ing to the Royal Humane Society and setting forth, with other highly
interesting details, that—

‘ ‘ The number of bathers in the Serpentine, from thfe commencement of the year
to the 3rd instant, was 71,356 in the mornings, and 296,943 in the evenings. * *
The number of attempted suicides was eight, of whom five were rescued, and the
remainder were not discovered in time to be saved.”

If we remember rightly, “the Serpentine was frozen over at the
commencement of the year,” and the temperature was somewhere in
the neighbourhood of zero -. while on the evening of the third instant
there was a hard frost, and we should at either period about as soon
have thought of blowing out our brains as of bathing in the Serpentine.
Tastes differ, it is true, but if we ever were caught bathing when the
glass wras down to freezing point, we think whoever dragged us out
would be quite justified in fancying we were attempting suicide.
Clearly a Society which calls itself “Humane” should do all within its
power to prevent half-witted persons from taking insane headers when
the snow is on the ground, and thereby catching in all likelihood cold,
ague, cramp, neuralgia, sore-throat, bronchitis, asthma, lumbago, cough,
and rheumatism, and half-a-dozen other highly disagreeable ailments,
proceeding from the chills which human flesh is heir to.

Implacable Jonathan.

It is impossible to please the Yankees. They are not satisfied with
our leaving them to themselves, and they also complain that we will
not stand a loan. No wonder that we do not cotton together, and it is
not likely we shall, so long as they continue to keep us out of cotton.

A LAMENT FOR OLD GUY.

BY AN OLD HIGH AND DRY TRUE BLUE “CHURCH AND KING Mji.v ”

Oh, ancient Guy, the time’s gone by,

When we reioiced in thee;

With lantern dark in fingers stark.

And matches fair to see !

November boys, with squibs and noise,

And begging-box held high,

Still know the hour the streets to scour,

But where’s mine ancient Guy?

A figure still parades the town,

Tied in an elbow-chair,

Still waves and wags its tawdry rags,

And dangling limbs in air.

Gunpowder treason still doth lend
xY licence to the cry.

That fills the air in street and square,

But where’s mine ancient Guy ?

The dummy thus paraded round
Is not our ancient foe,

Who Spooner still with hate doth fill.

And Newdegate also.

’Tis dow the Rope with tinsel cope,

And triple crown set high,

A Blondin e’en, just now I’ve seen—

But where’s mine ancient Guy ?

Is it that history has lost
Its teachings for the young,

That hatred hot of Papist plot
Hath overboard been flung ?

That lukewarmness hath quenched the zeal
Which blazed in times gone by,

Till in mine ire I must inquire—

Where is mine ancient Guy ?

Or is’t the ribaldry which jests
With all things, grave or not,

The sense doth dim of guilt in him
Who plann’d Gunpowder Plot ?

Is it since Punch so oft hath blown
The Parliament sky high,

That Pawk.es is fallen from his throne,

And gone mine ancient Guy ?

Vile Innovation nothing spares
Of all my childhood knew:

The wisdom of our ancestors
In all things we undo :

E’en Punch, with alien characters,

Unknown in days gone by,

Behind his mask must blush to ask—

Where is mine ancient Guy ?

But if November has to mourn
One desecrated day,

Degenerate boys, new-fangled Guys,

And old hates past away,

The mirth is there, with its Lord Mayor,

Who in his state goes by;

So long as he installed shall be,

We’ve still one ancient Guy.

While still in mangy mortar-cap
The sword-bearer shall ride,

While .still in close-curled wigs the grooms
March by the coach’s side.

While still shall pass the man in brass.

Amidst the small boys’ cries—

Eor all we’ve lost, we yet may boast,

We’ve sePral ancient Guys!

Unpleasant Symptoms.

We are very unhappy about the Bishop-Maker. We are sadly afraid
that the Noble Earl is going over to the Church of Rome. He has
been making a speech about the Essays and Reviews, and has assured
his working-class audience that the best way to be religious is to feel,
and not to try to understand. This is sad, from the Protestant Sitaetes-
bury. What else does every Popish priest tell his dupes ? Will none
of the Earl’s own hierarchs call upon the Bishop-MAer, and i'eel his
theological pulse? We repeat—we are very uneasyL