There is in London, society without intercourse, contact without communion, which, if it hath its pains, is also not without its pleasures; the living, moving panorama of the streets is society; the book-stalls and the print-shops are our intimate friends; we are on very good terms with Grove's fish and venison shop, in Charing Cross, and often stand for half an hour before the window, eating a luxurious imaginary dinner; we then adjourn to Griquon's, Morel's, or one of the gourmand shops, and imagine a second course; then, we take a few turns in the Burlington Arcade, which affords us at least as much entertainment as an evening party; after listening to the opera airs of the last season but six, or a Savoyard's hurdy-gurdy, which must serve us for a concert ...