It was while living in Bond Street that Lord Camelford chose to ignore the general illuminations for the peace of 1801, and would allow no lights to shine in the windows of his rooms. The result was that the mob attacked the house, and proceeded to break all the windows, whereat the pugnacious peer, undaunted, sallied forth with a thick stick, and proceeded to lay about him to such good effect that it was not till a considerable space of time had elapsed that he was overpowered by numbers, and was, perforce, constrained to retreat in an almost unrecognizable and wholly undignified condition. To-day Bond Street, Old and New, is as nearly a complete street of shops as any in London; indeed, it is pre-eminently the “street of beautiful shops,” as Mr. Meredith calls it, and is, in this connection, known throughout the world. Anyone walking down it would have to draw heavily on his imagination, if he would try to realise that, as Bramston writes:--“Pease, cabbages, and turnips once grew where now stands New Bond Street ...”, so completely has time metamorphosed this once rural spot into a promenade of bricks and mortar, where the ends of the world seem to have been ransacked to fill its marts with all the riches of Nature and Art conceivable by the mind of man. The shops of Bond Street have always been famous. In the early years of the 19th century the so-called Western Exchange was established there, but has long since disappeared. Its size can be estimated by the illustration here given, taken from an old coloured print of the day. But undeniably fashionable and central as is Bond Street, the stranger will be struck at its exceeding tenuity, especially in that part where Grafton Street joins it. Here, during the season, one is accustomed to see carriages and carts in apparently inextricable confusion, until the white glove of authority is raised aloft and confusion ceases to be confounded. Lord Beaconsfield, who knew and loved his London thoroughly, once wrote that, “Those who know Bond Street only in the blaze of fashionable hours can form but an imperfect conception of its matutinal charm when it is still shady and fresh, when there are no carriages, rarely a cart, and passers-by gliding about on real business.” Should, then, we wish to feel “as in some Continental city,” which the author of “Endymion” assures us is the case, if we share Bond Street with the lark, we must join this blythe spirit, before the late breakfasted “West End” surges through its long vista. One of the street’s former residents, we may be sure, never did this, for, when the poet Thomson was lodging at a milliner’s here, he, to use Mrs. Piozzi’s words, “seldom rose early enough to see the sun do more than glisten on the opposite windows of the streets.” [Sidenote: BURLINGTON STREET AND BURLINGTON GARDENS.]