7. CROCKFORD'S CLUB.
This once celebrated gaming house is now 'The Wellington,' where the rattle of knives and forks has succeeded that of dice. It was erected in 1827, and at its opening it was described as 'the new Pandemonium—the drawing-rooms, or real hell, consisting of four chambers: the first an ante-room, opening to a saloon embellished to a degree which baffles description; thence to a small curiously-formed cabinet or boudoir, which opens to the supper-room. All these rooms are panelled in the most gorgeous manner; spaces are left to be filled up with mirrors and silk, or gold enrichments; while the ceilings are as superb as the walls. A billiard-room on the upper floor completes the number of apartments professedly dedicated to the use of the members. Whenever any secret manoeuvre is to be carried on, there are smaller and more retired places, both under this roof and the next, whose walls will tell no tales.'
'It rose,' says a writer in the Edinburgh Review, 'like a creation of Aladdin's lamp; and the genii themselves could hardly have surpassed the beauty of the internal decorations, or furnished a more accomplished maitre d'hotel than Ude. To make the company as select as possible, the estabishment was regularly organized as a club, and the election of members vested in a committee. "Crockford's" became the rage, and the votaries of fashion, whether they like play or not, hastened to enroll themselves. The Duke of Wellington was an original member, though (unlike Blucher, who repeatedly lost everything he had at play) the great captain was never known to play deep at any game but war or politics. Card-tables were regularly placed, and Whist was played occasionally; but the aim, end, and final cause of the whole was the Hazard bank, at which the proprietor took his nightly stand, prepared for all comers. Le Wellington des Joueurs lost L23,000 at a sitting, beginning at twelve at night, and ending at seven the following evening. He and three other noblemen could not have lost less, sooner or later, than L100,000 a piece.(39) Others lost in proportion (or out of proportion) to their means; but we leave it to less occupied moralists and better calculators to say how many ruined families went to make Mr Crockford a MILLIONNAIRE—for a millionnaire he was in the English sense of the term, after making the largest possible allowance for bad debts. A vast sum, perhaps half a million, was sometimes due to him; but as he won, all his debtors were able to raise, and easy credit was the most fatal of his lures. He retired in 1840, much as an Indian chief retires from a hunting country when there is not game enough left for his tribe, and the club tottered to its fall.'
(39) 'Le Wellington des Joueurs was the name given to Lord Rivers in Paris. The other three, we believe, were Lord Sefton, Lord Chesterfield, and Lord Granville or Lord Talbot.' Times, 7 Jan. 1868.
Crockford was originally a FISHMONGER, keeping a shop near Temple Bar. By embarking in this speculation he laid the foundation of the most colossal fortune that was ever made by play.
It was said there were persons of rank and station, who had never paid their debts to Crockford, up to 1844, and that some of his creditors compounded with him for their gambling debts. His proprietorship had lasted 15 or 16 years.
Crockford himself was examined by the committee of the House of Commons on the Gaming Houses; but in spite of his assurance by the members that were indemnified witnesses in respect of pending actions, he resolutely declined to 'tell the secrets of his prison-house.' When asked whether a good deal of play was carried on at his club, he said:—'There may have been so; but I do not feel myself at liberty to answer that question—to DIVULGE THE PURSUITS OF PRIVATE GENTLEMEN. Situated as I was, I do not feel myself at liberty to do so. I do not feel myself at liberty to answer that question.'
When asked to whom he had given up the house, he fenced in like manner, saying that he had given it up to a 'committee' of about 200 gentlemen,—concerning which committee he professed to 'know absolutely nothing'—he could not even say to whom he had given up the house—he gave it up to the gentlemen of the club four years before—he could not even say (upon his word) whether he signed any paper in giving it up—he believed he did not—adding—'I said I grew too old, and I could not continue in the club any longer, and I wished to give up the club to the gentlemen, who made their own arrangement.'
Being asked, 'Do you think that a person is just as honourably bound to pay a debt which he loses upon a game of Hazard, as he would be to pay a bet which he loses on a horse-race?' Crockford replied—'I think most certainly he would honourably be bound to pay it.'—'Do you think that if the loser of a bet on a game at Hazard had no charge to make of any kind of unfairness, and he were to commence an action to recover that money back again, he would lay himself open to a charge in the world of having acted dishonourably?' The old gambler's reply was most emphatic, overwhelming, indignant—'I should take all the pains I could to avoid such a man.'
If this evidence was not satisfactory, it was, at any rate, very characteristic.