‘—— He thought there might be picking
Even in the breast bone of a chicken.’
Bennet of Jermyn Street is tall and robust, with black hair and eyes, and a rather blue beard; and, as for Crockford, ‘Do you know me? Excellent well! You’re a fishmonger.’”
CHAPTER VIII
Crockford’s Club—His Life—His new Club-house—Epigrams thereon—Ude and the Magistrate—Description of Club-house—Anecdotes of Crockford’s.
À propos of Crockford, or Crockey, as he was familiarly called, his was perhaps the most celebrated gambling house in London, and deserves especial mention. It was on the site now occupied by the Devonshire Club, No. 50 St James’s Street.
William Crockford was born in 1775, his father being a fishmonger in a small way of business, having a shop adjoining Temple Bar, which was pulled down in 1846. His father dying when he was young, the business was carried on, first by his mother, and afterwards by himself, but he soon took to betting and gambling, became a proficient at cards, and was more particularly skilled in the games of whist, piquet and cribbage; he frequented the better kind of sporting houses in the neighbourhood of St James’s market, where the latter game, more especially, was much played, and for large sums, by opulent tradesmen and others. He made some money at gambling, became connected with a gaming house in King Street, St James’s, and then he turned his attention to horse racing; frequenting Tattersalls as a bookmaker, and becoming the owner of race horses. He had a splendid mansion and grounds at Newmarket, where he trained his stud, and at one time owned the celebrated horse Sultan, the sire of Bay Middleton, who won the Derby in 1836. But the roguery at Newmarket was too much even for him, and he sold his racing stud, and confined himself to his London businesses. About this time he is metrically described in a little pamphlet called “Leggiana,” which described the Legs who used to frequent The Sun tavern in Jermyn Street.
“Seated within the box, to window nearest,
See Crocky, richest, cunningest, and queerest
Of all the motley group that here assemble
To sport their blunt, chaff, blackguard and dissemble;
Who live (as slang has termed it) on the mace,
Tho’ Crocky’s heavy pull is, now, deuce ace.
His wine, or grog, as may be, placed before him,
And looking stupid as his mother bore him,
For Crock, tho’ skilful in his betting duty,
Is not, ‘twill be allowed, the greatest beauty;
Nor does his mug (we mean no disrespect)
Exhibit outward sign of intellect;
In other words, old Crocky’s chubby face
Bespeaks not inward store of mental grace;
Besides, each night, he’s drunk as any lord,
And clips his mother English every word.
His head, howe’er, tho’ thick to chance beholders,
Is screw’d right well upon his brawny shoulders;
He’s quick as thought, and ripe at calculation,
Malgrè the drink’s most potent visitation.
His pencil, list, and betting book on table,
His wits at work, as hard as he is able,
His odds matur’d, at scarce a moment’s pains,
Out pops the offspring of his ready brains,
In some enormous, captivating wager,
‘Gainst one horse winning Derby, Oaks and Leger.
The bait is tak’n by some astonished wight,
Who chuckles, thinking it a glorious bite,
Nor takes the pains the figures o’er to run,
And see, by calculation, that he’s done;
While Crocky books it, cash, for certain, won.
And why, forsooth, is Crocky to be blamed
More than those legs who’re honourable named,
Whose inclination is plain sense to jockey,
But who lack brains to work the pull like Crocky?
Who, by the way, gives vast accommodation,
Nor bothers any one by litigation.
And, if a bet you’d have, you’ve nought to do,
But give it Crock, and, with it, sovereigns two;
You’ll quickly, if you win it, touch the treasure,
For Crock (unlike some legs) dubs up with pleasure.”