In those days they went to Enfield by coach twice a week or so, from one or another of the old inns, left standing to-day in Aldgate or Bishopsgate. No coaches run now, but it is a pleasant walk, up through the long northern suburb, still showing, spite of its being so citified, traces of its old-time gentility in the square, stately, stolid brick mansions, the rural homes of rich city merchants a century since. We pass the High Cross at Tottenham, and beside it the _Swan Inn_, descendant of that _Swan_ in front of which, within sight of their beloved Lea, Anceps and Piscator rested “in a sweet, shady arbour which nature herself has woven with her own fine fingers:” but the stream is polluted now, and the arbour has gone, and Izaak Walton would not care for the new _Swan_. So we pass by Bruce Castle, thus named because it was owned by Robert Bruce, father of the Scotch king--now a boys’ school--and come into that bit of road famous for John Gilpin’s ride, and so on into Edmonton. Here we turn from the highway--by which the stage-coaches kept on northward to Ware and Hatfield--and going three miles farther, along the cross road, we reach Enfield. By rail it is ten miles from Liverpool Street Station, and we whisk there in forty minutes by many trains each day; underground, behind houses, over their roofs; along by Bethnal Green and Hackney Downs and London Fields--where now can be seen no green nor downs nor any fields--past Silver Street and Seven Sisters and White Hart Lane, and many such prettily named places; and last of all through a stretch of real country into the dapper little station of Enfield.