“One night, after a day of constant pain, Nelson retired early to bed ... the family was soon disturbed by a mob knocking loudly and violently at the door. The news of Duncan’s victory had been made public, and the house was not illuminated. But when the mob was told that Admiral Nelson lay there in bed, badly wounded, the foremost of them made answer, “You shall hear no more from us to-night.” Sir Thomas Picton, who fell at Waterloo, was living in Bond Street at the same time that Nelson and Lady Hamilton were there, and a few years later we find the redoubtable Lord Camelford a resident at No. 148. His rooms were so typical of those of a man about town of the day, that Cruickshank introduced the interiors in his illustrations to Pierce Egan’s “Tom and Jerry”; while the authors of the “Rejected Addresses” have also left on record an enumeration of the various lethal weapons that decorated the walls. Lord Camelford was one of those fire-eaters who never seem able to exist for any length of time without “entrance to a quarrel.” He was known and feared throughout the town, and few cared to tackle the man who was so ready to seek an occasion for fighting, and so deadly in the field. It is thus that the best stories told of him are those which relate his encounters with strangers, one of which I will give, in the words of Timbs, who collected much interesting data about Lord Camelford’s career. “Entering one evening the Prince of Wales’s Coffee-house in Conduit Street, Lord Camelford sat down to read the papers. Soon after came in a conceited fop, who seated himself opposite his Lordship, and desired the waiter to ‘bring a pint of Madeira and a couple of wax candles and put them into the next box.’ He then drew to himself Lord Camelford’s candle and began to read. His Lordship glanced at him indignantly and then continued reading. The waiter announced commands completed, when the fop lounged round into the box and began to read. Lord Camelford then, mimicking the tone of the coxcomb, called for a pair of snuffers, deliberately walked to the next box and snuffed out both the candles, and returned to his seat. The coxcomb, boiling with rage, roared out, ‘Waiter, who is this fellow that dares thus to insult a gentleman? Who is he? What is he? What do they call him?’ ‘_Lord Camelford_, sir,’ replied the waiter. ‘Who? Lord Camelford!’ returned the fop, in a tone of voice scarcely audible, terror-struck at his own impertinence. ‘Lord Camelford! What have I to pay?’ On being told, he laid down the money and stole away without daring to taste his Madeira!” [Illustration: “THE WESTERN EXCHANGE,” BOND STREET.]