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 associations 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 passion 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 passed 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 passed for the protection of fools.
The founder of this fashionable 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 worshippers of Fortune planked down the last acre of their patrimonial estates to propitiate the fickle goddess 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 hells of London did harm. Whether his lordship 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 principal 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 institution 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 membership. 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 passes 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 coxcombs, 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 institution 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.
From that popular gossiping establishment I heard a little story told by the son of Sydney Smith. His father had been sent for to see an old lady who was one of his most troublesome parishioners. She was dying. Sad to say, she had always been querulous and quarrelsome. It may have been constitutional, but whatever the cause, her husband had had an uncomfortable time with her. When Sydney Smith reached the house the old lady was dead, and the bereaved widower, a religious man in his way, and acquainted with Scripture, said,—
"Ah, sir, you are too late: my poor dear wife has gone to Abraham's bosom."
"Poor Abraham!" exclaimed Sydney; "she'll tear his inside out."
As all these things pass through my memory, I recall another little incident with much satisfaction, because I was retained in the case. It was a scandalous fraud in connection with the gaming-table. An action was brought by a cheat against a gentleman who was said to have lost £20,000 on the cast of the dice. I was the counsel opposed to plaintiff, who was said to have cheated by means of loaded dice. I won the case, and it was generally believed that the action was the cause of the appointment of the "Gaming Committee," at which tribunal all the rascality of the gaming-tables was called to give evidence, and the witnesses did so in such a manner as to shock the conscience of the civilized world, which is never conscious of anything until exposure takes place in a court of law or in some other legal inquiry.
Diabolical revelations were brought to light. However, as I have said, Lord Palmerston effectually cleared Crockford's, and it almost seemed, from the evidence of those who knew Crockford's best, that they never played anything there but old-fashioned whist for threepenny points, patience, and beggar-my-neighbour.
His Royal Highness the then Prince of Wales came into court during the trial I refer to, and seemed interested in the proceedings. I wonder if his Majesty now remembers it!
In those days Baron Martin and I met once a year, he on the Bench and I in court, with a hansom cab waiting outside ready to start for the Derby. It is necessary for Judges to sit on Derby Day, to show that they do not go; but if by some accident the work of the court is finished in time to get down to Epsom, those who love an afternoon in the country sometimes go in the direction of the Downs. There is usually a run on the list on that day.
There was another club to which I belonged in those old days, called "The Hooks and Eyes," where I met for the last time poor Douglas Jerrold. He was one of the Eyes, and always on the lookout for a good thing, or the opportunity of saying one. He was certainly, in my opinion, the wittiest man of his day. But at times his wit was more hurtful than amusing. Wit should never leave a sting.
He was sometimes hard on those who were the objects of his personal dislike. Of these Sir Charles Taylor was one. He was not a welcome member of the Hooks and Eyes, and Jerrold knew it. There was really no reason why Sir Charles should not have been liked, except perhaps that he was dull and prosaic; rather simple than dull, perhaps, for he was always ready to laugh with the rest of us, whether he understood the joke or not. And what could the most brilliant do beyond that?
Sir Charles was fond of music. He mentioned in Jerrold's company on one occasion "that 'The Last Rose of Summer' so affected him that it quite carried him away."
"Can any one hum it?" asked Jerrold.