To one given to idle and desultory wanderings, and to idle and desultory thoughts, the quaint old nooks and corners that may often be found in the midst even of the most populous towns, have far more charms than the busier haunts of men, for to those who love to muse on bygone days there is a strange and constantly increasing fascination in the conventual quiet, the faded grandeur of many of these time-worn spots. In truth, however, the old squares of that ancient Inn of Court called Gray's Inn, though quiet and retired, are by no means gloomy. Not only are they cool and restful in the glowing days of summer, but in their pleasant courts some remains may still be found of the sweet country sights, of the sweet country sounds that centuries ago made the drives and walks by Oldbourne Hill, with its pretty lanes and paths, and its fragrant hedgerows, the favourite resort, not only of the tired and heated citizens of London, but also of the great lords whose stately palaces were either grouped around Westminster, or stretched far along the picturesque river-bank then, as now, called the Strand. No doubt the beautiful and rapidly flowing river had many charms, and we know from Pepys, that during the summer heats its broad bosom was covered with pleasure-boats and wherries. In those days smoke did not darken, nor did evil smells and sights defile the waters of the sweet Thames. Fair gardens then bordered its banks, and trees and flowers dipped tendrils and branches into its waves. Still, notwithstanding these attractions, the Londoners dearly loved Oldbourne Hill, where the fresh cool breezes came from the Kent and Surrey hills laden with the sweet scent of gorse and broom (that favourite badge of our Plantagenet Princes), and from the valleys and sunny slopes below came the richer perfumes of innumerable vineyards and hop-grounds. It is difficult to realise, while wandering amongst the wilderness of houses that now surrounds and connects the cities of London and Westminster, that once fair fields and shady woods extended for miles, where now are only found grimy streets and dismal courts. Still more difficult is it to believe that within the last hundred years these same fair fields were dangerous to traverse after dark, by reason of the many footpads who infested the neighbourhood. Beyond St. Pancras Church a bell was rung at stated hours, in order that foot passengers who wished to cross the meadows towards Hampstead and Highgate, or go to those suburbs called Camden and Somers Towns, should have the protection of an armed watchman. In those days few persons ventured abroad after nightfall without carrying some defensive weapon. Without gas, without police, London streets as well as London suburbs were fraught with danger. Now, when dazzled by the glare of the streets, when wearied by the overpowering noise of the great town, a shady corner in quiet Gray's Inn Square seems doubly attractive.