“Yes, I am, and very cold besides.” “What a pity you did not say so before! I should have made my stud fly, and beat to atoms that fussy stuff they call steam.” “That’s a good man; show off a bit.” “Pst! pst! pst! Look out for a full charge, Cossack; fly away, Cannon-ball. Pst! pst! that’s it, lads.” We were now nearly at a gallop. “Coachman,” said I, “I see that your horses have martial names, if they have not a very martial appearance. Pray, who gave them such warlike titles?” “The boys in the stable, sir. Everybody dreams of war now, sir; the very air we breathe smells of powder. Don’t you think so, sir?” “No, I think it smells of cheese.” “By-the-bye, there’s a basket of cheese for that foreign gentleman who lives at Virginia Water. Jump up, boy, and move that basket of cheese from here.” We arrived at Wimbledon Common, and stopped to take up parcels and boxes, during which time the coachman pointed out to the old country gentleman with whom he had the argument, the window of the room where Cournet, the French officer of Marines, and the opponent of Barthélemy, who had just been hanged, died after the Windsor duel. He was saying that since Barthélemy had been hanged the house was no longer haunted, and that the pool of blood, which never could be washed out, had suddenly disappeared. “Marvellous!” exclaimed the old gentleman; “I never heard anything like that in my life.” “No more did I,” said our witty coachman, winking at me. The boy now called over the various parcels, and Cossack went off as fast as a cannon-ball. We made a few more stoppages at Englefield Green, to deliver several scolding letters and parcels from mistresses to their servants having charge of the summer abodes of wealthy merchants who reside in London during the winter. At one house, during the unloading of two or three boxes and a child’s cradle, a tidy-looking girl, who was waiting till they were taken in, had opened her letter, over which she appeared very sulky. The coachman, perceiving this, said, smiling--“Any answer, Sally?” “No!” said Sally. “Oh, yes; tell the old lady that I will not live with her any longer;” and the girl cried. “What’s the matter?” said the coachman. “She’s an old plague! there’s my Harry of the 46th has not been here these four months, and she writes to say she hears that he comes every day.” “Of course not--how could he? he’s been gone to the war with his regiment ever since last September.” Sally, crying still louder, and wiping her eyes with her apron, exclaimed, “Perhaps the poor fellow is killed by this time, and don’t care a fig about me.” “Well, well, lass, never mind that; soldiers are used to it.” “Do you think I shall ever see him again, Mr. Coachman?”