MRS. PARTINGTON'S SON ISAAC.

MY DEAR CRIMSON: -

MY mind is greatly exorcised by a letter I've received from "non infant horrible," Isaac, who now is exaltingly undergoing his annual examinations. My son, despite the preconcealed opinion of transducing people, is a literary, ecstatic sort of young man and is always doing concentric things, but now, "miseracordia dictu," he writes to me that he has bought the statute of the most divine woman that ever walked this territorial demisphere, Venus di Medici (I think that's the creature's name, anyhow, it's a heathenish barbacued name), and that he has dropped head over feet in love, with her. Now I have no possible subjection to his being in love, when his heart don't palliate with divine commotion for his "hairy, fairy Lillian," as he calls this woman: but think of it, Mr. Brimstone, he says she's lost both arms! Now how under the sun am I going to give her destruction in the cool and airy art if she's got no arms? Likely she has no hand too! I consume she has two hooks by way of appendixes on the stumps. Two hooks are no good to make bread with. Still, I suppose, when Isaac brings her home, she can pull taffy for him and his chum without burning her fingers.

But I could admit the canker insect of anxiety to rend my heart unalloyed if it were not for other ploughing inflictions which asset my mind about this Venie. Isaac tells me her neck and bust have been jollified by thousands; think of it, Mr. Brimstone, inflect how improper of that girl to be seen in such an informal, decolleti way! How lacking in maidenly preserve she must be! What a brass face the girl must have! The carmine glow profuses my hectic cheeks as I think of it; and then for Isaac not to be ashamed of such coyness! Really, Mr. Brimstone, I'll double my conscription, if you will seek out my Isaac, my stray calf, my angel, and see if all this is voracious or likewise.