And Piff himself? Whether he was a highwayman or was murdered by a highwayman; or if he were a suicide who hanged himself from the elm associated with him, or a criminal gibbeted there, I cannot tell you, nor can any one else. Some stories say one thing, some another, and others still put quite different complexions upon it. In that choice of legends lurks romance itself, perhaps reduced from the highest realms of tragedy by the unfortunately farcical name of the mysterious Piff. Equally romantic, and irreducible to cold-drawn fact, is the legend of King James and the Tinker, associated with the “King and Tinker” inn at White Webbs Lane, in what was once Enfield Chase. According to the tale, King James the First, hunting in the woodlands that surrounded his palace of Theobalds, lost himself, and, drawing rein at the inn--whatever then was the sign of it--encountered a tinker drinking a modest stoup of ale in the porch. “What news, good fellow?” asked the horseman. “No news that I wot of,” replied the tinker, “save that they say the King’s out a-hunting in the Chase to-day. I should like to see the King, although I suppose he’s very much like other folk.” “So you’d like to see the King?” queried his Majesty. “Ay, just for the sake of saying so,” replied the tinker. “Mount behind me, then,” said the King, “and I will show you him.” “But how shall I know him when I see him?” “Easily enough. You will know him by his remaining covered.” Soon the King came upon his retinue, all of whom promptly bared their heads. “Now, my friend, where is the King?” asked his Majesty, turning, with a smile, in his saddle. “There’s only we two covered, and since I know I’m no king, I--O! pardon, your Majesty!” replied the now trembling tinker. The King laughed. “Now,” said he, “since you have seen how a King looks, you shall also see how he acts,” and then, drawing his sword, he knighted the tinker on the spot; or, in the words of the brave old ballad: “Come, tell me thy name.” “I am John of the Dale, A mender of kettles, and fond of good ale.”-- “Then rise up, Sir John, for I’ll honour thee here,-- I make thee a Knight of five hundred a year!”