“I DON’T WANT EXPLANATION, I WANT AIR”――_Brougham on Ventilation, Vide Times_. “LORD BROUGHAM has expressed a very natural repugnance to be treated like an animal, shut up for the purpose of having ventilating experiments tried upon him. Such, however, is the fate of all Members of Parliament who are subjected to the horrors of DR. REID’S process. We can fancy the agonies of the Ex-Chancellor, imprisoned in an exhausted receiver, like one of those little figures we have seen ascending and descending in a glass tube, according as the air was let in upon or withdrawn from them. BROUGHAM’S _rencontre_ with REID would be well worthy of a poetical celebration, in a strain somewhat similar to the following:―― We met, ’twas in the House, And I hoped he would shun me; He came, I could not breathe, For his tube was upon me. He puff’d, the air was cold, The thermometer alter’d: I knew ’twas freezing point, For my voice with shivering falter’d. I wore my Russia ducks, In their beautiful whiteness; Cold gusts ran through the House―― How I hated their lightness! I call’d for warmer air, But the pipes never cock’d are―― Oh, thou hast been the cause Of this humbug, my Doctor! And once again we met, And a workman was near him; He smiled and whisper’d low, And I waited to hear him. He gave a gentle breeze; I confessed it was pleasing: But then there came a rush Of air that was freezing. Is no one at my side, Poor BROUGHAM to deliver; Or must he die shut in An exhausted receiver? The world may think him wise, But the House he will smother; Or blow it all away On some day or other. _Punch._ June, 1846. ―――― THE LOST WATCH. We met――’twas in a mob――and I thought he had done me―― I felt――I could not feel――for no watch was upon me; He ran――the night was cold――and his pace was unaltered, I too, longed much to pelt――but my small-boned legs falter’d. I wore my brand new boots――and unrivalled their brightness, They fit me to a hair――how I hated their tightness! I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether, Oh, _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather! And once again we met――and an old pal was near him, He swore, a something low, but ’twas no use to fear him. I seized upon his arm, he was mine and mine only, And stept, as he deserved ――to cells wretched and lonely: And there he will be tried――but I shall ne’er receive her, The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver; The world may think me gay――heart and feet ache together, Oh, _thou_ hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather! TOM HOOD.