Both clubs, although more or less instituted for the purpose of gambling, were at first political. White’s, however, soon took down the Tory flag and received members without reference to their political opinions. Brooks’s, on the other hand, remained true to its Whig traditions; and it was to counterbalance the influence of this institution—the “Reform” of that time—that the Carlton Club was organised by Lord Clanwilliam and others. These, with Boodles’, were the great resorts of the dandies; and the bay window at White’s, when Brummell was the lion, was one of the sights of the town. The Prince of Wales was a member of Brooks’s; but when his boon companions Tarleton and Jack Payne were blackballed he withdrew, and on his own account founded a new club, of which the manager was Weltzie, his house-steward.
Watier’s, the great macao gambling-house, was founded in 1807; but play was very high, and it lasted only for twelve years. According to Gronow it came into existence in a somewhat curious way. When some members of White’s and Brooks’s were dining at Carlton House, the Prince of Wales asked what sort of dinners were served at these institutions. One of the guests complained: “The eternal joints and beefsteaks, the boiled fowl with oyster sauce, and an apple-tart. This is what we have, sir, at our clubs, and very monotonous fare it is.” The Prince sent for Watier, his chef, and asked if he would take a house and organise a club-dinner. Watier was willing. The scheme was carried out, and the club was famed for its exquisite cuisine.
Another and more circumstantial account of the founding of the club is given by Raikes. He says it was originally instituted as a harmonic meeting by the Maddochs, Calverts and Lord Headfort, who took a house in Piccadilly, at the corner of Bolton Street, and engaged Watier as master of the revels. “This destination of the club was soon changed. The dinners were so recherché and so much talked of in town that all the young men of fashion and fortune became members of it. The catches and glees were then superseded by cards and dice; the most luxurious dinners were furnished at any price, as the deep play at night rendered all charges a matter of indifference. Macao was the constant game, and thousands passed from one to another with as much facility as marbles.”
The Duke of York was a member of Watier’s, and so too was Byron, who christened it “The Dandy Club.”
Another member was Robert Bligh, whose eccentricities were already verging upon insanity. One night, at the macao-table, Brummell was losing heavily, and in an affected tone of tragedy he called to a waiter to bring him a pistol. Thereupon Bligh, who was his vis-à-vis, produced from his coat pockets a pair of loaded pistols, and laying them on the table, said, “Mr Brummell, if you are really desirous to put a period to your existence, I am extremely happy to offer you the means without troubling the waiter.” The feelings of the members may be imagined when the knowledge was forced upon them that in their midst was a madman who carried loaded firearms.
Brummell, Raikes has recorded, was the supreme dictator at Watier’s, “the club’s perpetual president.” At the height of his prosperity, one night when he entered, the macao-table was full. Sheridan was there trying his luck with a few pounds he could ill spare, for he had fallen upon evil days. Brummell, whose good luck was notorious at this time, offered to take Sheridan’s seat and go shares in his deal. He added two hundred pounds in counters to the ten pounds in front of him, took the cards, dealt, and in a quarter of an hour had won fifteen hundred pounds. Then he left the table and divided his gains with Sheridan. “Go home, Sheridan,” he said quietly; “go home and give your wife and brats a supper, and never play again.” It is good to be able to record a generous act, delicately done, of a much-abused man.
Of Brummell’s witty insolence mention has already been made, but the laugh was once at least against him. He was at the card-table playing with Combe the brewer, an Alderman who had passed the chair. “Come, Mashtub,” he said, being the caster, “what do you set?” “Twenty-five guineas.” “Well, then, have at the mare’s pony” (twenty-five guineas). The game progressed, and Brummell won twelve times in succession. “Thank you, Alderman,” he said; “for the future I shall never drink any porter but yours.” “I wish, sir,” retorted Combe, “that every other blackguard in London would say the same.”
Everybody played cards in those days. Even at the quiet Court of “Farmer” George the tables were set out in the Queen’s drawing-rooms. Ladies gambled with as much zest as their husbands and brothers, and at the end of the eighteenth century several held gaming-tables. “Faro goes on as briskly as ever; those who have not fortune enough of their own to live on have recourse to this profitable game in order to raise contributions on their friends,” wrote Anthony Storer to Lord Auckland in 1791. “The ladies are all embarked in banks. Mrs Strutt, Lady Archer, Mrs Hobart, Lady Elizabeth Luttrell (sister of the Duchess of Cumberland), are avowed bankers; others, I suppose, are secretly concerned.” Information was laid against Lady Archer and Lady Buckinghamshire, who were convicted and fined; and Lord Kenyon, delivering judgment in another case, actually declared that if any titled ladies were found guilty of the offence before him they should stand in the pillory. No one was bold enough to test the sincerity of the threat. As The Morning Post put it in its issue for 15th January 1800: “Society has reason to rejoice in the complete downfall of the Faro Dames who were so long the disgrace of human nature. Their die is cast, and their odd tricks avail no longer. The game is up, and very few of them have cut with honours.”
Play was taken very seriously, for the stakes were always heavy, and conversation was resented. Sir Philip Francis came to Brooks’s wearing for the first time the ribbon of the Order of the Bath, for which Fox had recommended him. “So this is the way they have rewarded you at last,” remarked Roger Wilbraham, coming up to the whist-table. “They have given you a little bit of red ribbon for your services, Sir Philip, have they? A pretty bit of red ribbon to hang about your neck; and that satisfies you, does it? Now, I wonder what I shall have. What do you think they will give me, Sir Philip?” “A halter, I trust and hope!” roared the infuriated player.
It was at Almack’s, and later at White’s, Brooks’s, Weltzie’s and Watier’s, that the heaviest play prevailed. It is no exaggeration to say that during the long sittings at macao, hazard and faro many tens of thousands changed hands. Nelson won three hundred pounds at a gaming-table when he was seventeen; but he was so horrified when he reflected if he had lost he could not have paid that he never played again. Pitt gambled, and George Selwyn, and Fox, who was always unlucky.