It is well known that King Alfred diverted it from its accustomed channel, and by that means left the piratical fleet of the Danes ashore on the green meadows between Ware and Waltham; and the tradition is, that it was never afterwards diverted again into its proper bed, but allowed to wander in divided currents, as we now behold it.

The neighbourhood of Waltham Abbey, especially on the Essex side, is extremely beautiful. There lies the hoary forest of Epping, or the remains of that once secluded, and extensive wildwood. It once took its name from Waltham, but as the distance between that town and its outskirts was gradually increased by the forest-felling hatchet, it borrowed a name from a town more immediately in its thick recesses, and called itself Epping. Henry III. granted a privilege, in 1226, to the citizens, to hunt once a year at Easter, within a circuit of twenty miles of their city. This privilege in the course of time was, by degrees, abandoned, until their hunting restricted itself to Epping and Hainault Forests, whither, until very recently, the citizens proceeded at Easter to hunt a stag, turned out for their diversion. Many are the shafts that ridicule has aimed at them, in consequence, from Tom Durfey, in

his "Pills to purge Melancholy," to Tom Hood, who, though he does not give such a medicinal name to his books, sells pills more effective in purging melancholy than Tom Durfey or any of his predecessors.

On the Hertfordshire side of the Lea is the village of Waltham Cross, celebrated for, and named after the cross, which the affectionate Edward I. raised to the memory of his dearly beloved Queen Eleanor. She died in Lincolnshire; and at every place where the funeral

procession stopped, on its way to London, the King erected a cross. Only three of them are now remaining, namely, those at Geddington, Northampton, and Waltham. That at Waltham was originally a very beautiful structure, but time, the great enemy, has made sad havoc on its fair proportions, defaced its effigies, and eaten into the very heart of its sculptured heraldry. Charing Cross, another of these loving memorials of conjugal truth, disappeared in the tumults of the Revolution; and the bronze image of the chief victim of that revolution now stands upon its site.

Continuing our course down the stream, and keeping as closely as possible to the Lea, we leave Enfield and its celebrated Chace on our right hand, and after a pleasant walk, arrive at Edmonton, once noted for its fair, and famous for ever in the adventures of John Gilpin. The Bell Inn still courts the company of the traveller, where

Gilpin's loving wife
From the balcony spied

Her tender husband; wondering much

To see how he did ride!

and where, after he had been carried so sorely against his will to Ware, and back again, his wife still stood, and pulled out half-a-crown, as a reward to the postboy if he overtook him.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet

John coming back amain !

Whom in a trice he tried to stop

By catching at the rein.

But not performing what he meant,

And gladly would have done,

The frightened steed he frightened more,
And made him faster run!

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went postboy at his heels!

And such a ride as was seen that day was never seen since Turpin rode to York, or since Mazeppa was carried into the deserts on his wild horse. Edmonton is now a busy, populous place, but contains little to arrest the progress of the rambler. If he be a lover of literature, however, he will remember that Charles Lamb died in the village, on the 27th of December 1834, and will stay to visit the churchyard, and read his epitaph, written by the Rev. H. F. Carey, the translator of Dante :

Farewell, dear friend! That smile, that harmless mirth, No more shall gladden our domestic hearth;

That rising tear, with pain forbid to flow,

Better than words, no more assuage our woe;

That hand outstretched from small, but well-earned store, Yield succour to the destitute no more!

Yet art thou not all lost through many an age, With sterling sense and humour, shall thy page

Win many an English bosom, pleased to see
That old and happier vein revived in thee;
This for our earth; and if with friends we share
Our joys in heaven, we hope to meet thee there.

The next remarkable place on the banks of the Lea is Tottenham, renowned in facetious poetry for its famous tournament in the bygone days, when these sights were as fashionable as Lord Eglintoun, the Marquis of Londonderry, and the Queen of Beauty have desired to make them since. Who can enter this village without a pleasing emotion, as he remembers the quaint old ballad that celebrates it, and its rustic beauty, and its flailarmed heroes. It is related of the French soldiers who invaded Spain, committing all manner of excesses, that they became sobered down as they entered the city of Tobosa, and forbore to indulge in any outrage upon the spot so familiar to them as the birth-place of the fair Dulcinea, for whose charms the immortal Don Quixote waged fierce warfare against all the world. Why should not we, who lay claim to more refinement than a French trooper, indulge in similar feelings at Tottenham, when we remember the lovely Tyb? It is not precisely known when the old ballad was written, but it was first published in 1631,