Part 21 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXII.

CROCKFORD'S--”THE HOOKS AND EYES”--DOUGLAS JERROLD.

”Crockford's” has become a mere reminiscence, but worthy, in many respects, of being preserved as part of the history of London. It was historic in many of its a.s.sociations as well as its incidents, and men who made history as well as those who wrote it met at Crockford's. It was celebrated alike for high play and high company.

As I never had a real pa.s.sion for gambling, it was to me a place of great enjoyment, for there were some of the celebrated men of the day amongst its invited guests--wits, poets, novelists, playwrights, painters--in fact, all who had distinguished themselves in art or literature, law, science, or learning of any kind were always welcomed.

It was as pleasant a lounge as any in London, not excepting Tattersall's, which has equal claims on my memory. At Crockford's I met Captain H----, a wonderful gamester; he died early, but not too early for his welfare, seeing that all the chances of life are against the gambler. Padwick, too, I knew; he entertained with refined and lavish hospitality. He was one of the winners in the game of life who did not die early. He told good stories and put much interest into them. He knew Palmer, the Rugeley poisoner--a sporting man of the first water, who poisoned John Parsons Cook for the sake of his winnings, and his wife and mother, it was said, for the sake of the insurance on their lives. Padwick knew everybody's deeds and misdeeds who sought to increase his wealth on the turf or at the gaming-table.

He was a just and honourable man, but without any sympathy for fools.

Others I could recall by the score, men of character and of no character. Some I knew afterwards professionally, and especially one, who, although convicted of crime, escaped by collusion the sentence justly pa.s.sed upon him. Another was a man of position without character, whose evil habits destroyed the talent that would have made him famous.

But I need not dwell on the manifold characters and scenes of Crockford's. There has been nothing like it either in its origin or its subsequent history. There will never be anything like it in an age of refinement and laws, which have been wisely pa.s.sed for the protection of fools.

The founder of this fas.h.i.+onable gambling place was at one time a small fishmonger in either the Strand or Fleet Street, I forget which, and lived there till he removed to St. James's Street, where he became a fisher of men, but never in any other than an honourable way.

”His Palace of Fortune” was of the grandest style of architectural beauty. It was one in which the wors.h.i.+ppers of Fortune planked down the last acre of their patrimonial estates to propitiate the fickle G.o.ddess in the allurements of the gaming-table. But how _can_ Fortune herself give two to one on all comers? Some _must_ lose to pay the winners.

At this palatial abode the most sumptuous repasts were prepared by the most celebrated _chefs_ the world could produce, and were eaten by the most fastidious and expensive gourmands Nature ever created; gamblers of the most distinguished and the most disreputable characters; gentlemen of the latest pattern and the oldest school, the worst of men and the best, sporting politicians and political sportsmen, place-hunters, Ministers, ex-Ministers, scions of old families and ancient pedigrees, as well as men of new families and no pedigrees, who purchased, as we do now, a coat of arms at the Heralds' tailoring shop, and selected their ancestors in Wardour Street.

Only the wealthy could be members of this club, for only the wealthy could lose money and pay it. Landscape painters might be guests, but it was only the man who belonged to the landscape who could belong to the body that gambled for it. Young barristers might visit the place, possibly with an eye to business, but only members of large practice or Judges could be members of this society.

Lord Palmerston defended it manfully before the committee appointed really for its destruction. He said it did a great deal of good--much more good than all the gambling h.e.l.ls of London did harm. Whether his lords.h.i.+p contended that there was no betting carried on at Crockford's I am not prepared to say, but when evidence is given before Parliamentary Committees it is sometimes difficult to understand its exact meaning. Palmerston, however, positively said, without any doubt as to his meaning, that candidates were not elected in order that they might be plucked of every feather they possessed, and that any one who maintained the contrary was slandering one of the most respectable clubs in London. Some men would rather have pulled down St. Paul's than Crockford's.

It was the very perfection of a club, said the statesman, and its princ.i.p.al game was chicken hazard. What could be stronger evidence than that of its usefulness and respectability? At this game they usually lost all they had, of little consequence to those who could not do better with their property, and perhaps the best thing for the country, because when it got into better hands it stood some chance of being applied to more legitimate purposes.

After a while Crockford quarrelled with his partner, and they separated.

Whatever men may say in these days against an inst.i.tution which flourished in those, ex-Prime Ministers, Dukes, Earls, and ex-Lord Chancellors, as well as future Ministers of State and future Judges, belonged to it, or sought eagerly for admission to its members.h.i.+p. To be under the shadow of the fishmonger was greatness itself.

At the mention of the name of Crockford's a procession of the greatest men of the day pa.s.ses before my eyes; their name would be legion as to numbers, but an army of devoted patriots I should call them in every other sense, for they were English to the backbone, whether gamblers or saints.

Of course there were some amongst them, as in every large body of men, who were not so desirable to know as you could wish; but they were easy to avoid and at all times an interesting study.

There were wise men and self-deluded fools, manly, well-bred men, and effeminate, conceited c.o.xcombs, who wore stays and did up their back hair, used paint, and daubed their cheeks with violet powder. These men, while they had it, planked down their money with the longest possible odds against them. There was one who was the very opposite to these in the person of old Squire Osbaldistone. True, he had squandered more money than any one had ever seen outside the Bank of England, but he had done it like a gentleman and not like a fool. A real grand man was the old squire, and I enjoyed many a walk with him over Newmarket Heath, listening to his amusing anecdotes, his delightful humour and brilliant wit. His manner was so buoyant that no one could have believed he had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds, but he had, without compunction or regret.

The novelist and the painter could artistically describe Squire Osbaldistone. I can only say he was a ”fine old English gentleman, one of the olden time.” It was in a billiard-room at Leamington where I first met him, and as he was as indifferent a player as you could meet, he thought himself one of the best that ever handled a cue.

I neither played chicken hazard nor any other game, but enjoyed myself in seeing others play, and in picking up crumbs of knowledge which I made good use of in my profession.

The inst.i.tution was not established for the benefit of science or literature, except that kind of literature which goes by the name of bookmaking. Its founder was a veritable dunce, but he was the cleverest of bookmakers, and made more by it in one night than all the authors of that day in their lives. One hundred thousand pounds in one night was not bad evidence of his calculation of chances and his general knowledge of mankind.

To be a member of this club, wealth was not the only qualification, because in time you would lose it; you had to be well born or distinguished in some other way. The fishmonger knew a good salmon by its appearance; he had also a keen respect for the man who had ancestors and ancestral estates.

I ought not to omit to mention another celebrated bookie of that day; he was second only to Crockford himself, and was called ”The Librarian.” He was also known as ”Billy Sims.”

Billy lived in St. James's Street, in a house which has long since been demolished, and thither people resorted to enjoy the idle, witty, and often scandalous gossip of the time. It was as easy to lose your reputation there as your money at Crockford's, and far more difficult to keep it. The only really innocent conversation was when a man talked about himself.