“My dear Mac, we have drank our last gin-sling together.  Recal me affectionately to the memory of Joe Parkes, and young Square, and all friends of her Majesty’s Pugilistic Department; and may they all speedily be as happy as I am.  How the wretches will laugh when you tell them that Flowerdew has reformed his ways, and has blackened his last Milo; but I think, my dear fellow, I have convinced you that I write after cool reflection.  We have taken a cottage four miles south of my office.  A sixpenny omnibus will take me back at four o’clock daily, to my little haven.  My Carrie is fond of a garden; and I shall find her, on summer afternoons, waiting at the gate for me, in her garden hat, and leaning upon the smartest little rake in the world.  You, and Joe, and the Pugilistic Department fellows may laugh; but this is the happy life I have chalked out for myself.  As I have told you, some men marry with their eyes shut; but I live only to congratulate myself on my sagacity.  To think that I, of all men, should have won Caroline Cockayne!

“We shall remain here for another week, when we go to Fontainebleau, and thence we return to London.  I may write to you from our next stage; but if not, expect to hear from me on my return, when, if I can persuade my love to brave the presence of a stranger, for friendship’s sake, you shall have a peep at our felicity.

“Your old friend,
“HAPPY TOM FLOWERDEW.”

Mr. Mac’s observations on the foregoing were, no doubt, to this effect:  “He’ll come to his senses by-and-by.  I shouldn’t like to be compelled to buy all the cigars he’ll smoke before he turns his toes up.”

Flowerdew, from Fontainebleau.

“Fontainebleau, July 1.

“MY DEAR MAC,—­I am tempted to send you a few lines from this wonderful place.  You have heard of Fontainebleau grapes—­you have tasted them; but you have not seen Fontainebleau.  My dear Mac, when you marry (and, as your friend, I say, lose no time about it)—­yes, when you marry, take the cara sposa to Fontainebleau.  Let her see the weeping rock, in that wonderful battle between granite and trees, they call the forest.  Let her feed the fat carp with galette behind the Palace in the company of those Normandy nurses (brown and flat as Normandy pippins), and their squalling basked-capped charges.  Give her some of that delicious iced currant-water, which the dragoons who are quartered here appear to drink with all the relish the children show for it.  Never fear that she will look twice at these soldiers, in their sky-blue coats and broad red pantaloons, and their hair cut so close that their eyes must have watered under the operation.  Imagine dragoons drinking currant-water; and playing dominoes for shapeless sous, which they rattle incessantly in their preposterous trousers!  I am meditating a book on the French army, in which I shall lay great stress on the above, I flatter myself, rather acute bit of observation.  Carrie (she grows