But to find the true monastic air of retirement, with something of the tone of an ancient park or grounds long forsaken, commend us to Gray’s Inn. From the din and roar of the noisy, clattering Holborn, we can escape by arches and alleys, and then of a sudden find ourselves in this still, sequestered retreat. We wander along a quaint flagged lane, by the old chambers propped on stout pillars, or a short arcade, with glimpses of the green plaisaunce seen through old well-wrought iron railings. Most effective are the elaborate iron gates and piers that open on the gardens. Here we have the welcome rooks, the few survivors of the tribe in London.[8] [Illustration: GRAY’S INN HALL.] The somewhat bare and gaunt squares are set off by the old Hall and Chapel, disfigured, however, by modern plastering and other garnishing in the Nash manner. It is a pity that the honest old brick could not be restored to view. The hideous modern platitude, known as Verulam Buildings, and which excited Elia’s indignant lamentations, is of course hopeless, and must be endured. Curious as an instance of antique squalor and dilapidation is the row of buildings on the west side of Gray’s Inn Road. Some years ago there was a delightful entertainment given here, which proves that the practical spirit of the age has not wholly extinguished the poetical sense. A “Masque of Flowers” was presented in the old Hall under the direction of Mr. Arthur à Beckett, performed by a bevy of fair maidens and brave youths, most of whom--as was fitting--were connected with the profession of the law. The old squares became ablaze with light and crowded with gallant company, the unfrequented lanes well filled with “coaches” from the West End. It was altogether a pleasant and appropriate festival. [Illustration: GARDEN GATE, GRAY’S INN.] CHAPTER XII. DICKENS IN LONDON.