We may glance up Bond Street, the Rue de la Paix of London, at the house occupied by Messrs. Agnew. Bond Street is specially devoted to the craze for picture exhibitions, where there are a half-dozen, including the Grosvenor and Doré Galleries. The portico of the Grosvenor Gallery was originally that of some palace in Italy, and is admired for its elegance. It was purchased by the owner, and set up here. In the South Kensington Museum is the screen and balcony of a church, a beautiful work, which had been torn down and condemned, and was rescued in the same manner. Here is found the home of the Fine Art Society; and above, Goupil’s, a model of elegance. Note the bronze decorations of the era and the rich tone of the interior. In Bond Street, too, is Long’s Hotel, lately rebuilt, an historic house, celebrated in fashion and fiction. There is an old novel called “Six Weeks at Long’s,” and it is probably the scene of the fight between Nickleby and Sir Mulberry Hawk. Opposite, where a number of new shops stand, used to be the Clarendon, a fashionable dining place forty years ago. At the corner of Grafton Street stands a big house, unpretending and old-fashioned. Here, at “No. 22A,” resides Henry Irving, the favourite and fashionable tragedian. His rooms are rich and luxurious, as becomes so conspicuous a person. In Bond Street we find the agents who enabled the impoverished aristocrat to enjoy the pleasures of the theatre, for here has flourished time out of mind the great “Mitchell.” The annals of the Mitchell House might be about as interesting as those of the Christies. It was Mitchell who introduced the French plays, and engaged the famous Ballerinas. His shop even to this hour preserves the old tradition, and the windows are filled with the graceful lithographs, after Chalon and D’Orsay, of Mario, Grisi, Cerito, Taglioni, together with little plastic figures of Tamburini, Paganini, and other artists. It is enough to look at one of the _figurantes_ to see what an exquisite art dancing was in these old exploded days. It was then literally the poetry of motion. There is now motion enough, but no poetry. The ghosts of these personages must haunt this place. There are still on sale here that curious series of likenesses of his contemporaries executed by D’Orsay, a vast number. They are clever, but amateurish, and not such rigid, literal likenesses as the photographers have accustomed us to.