CROCKFORD'S.
Sir Rupert Harborough, Mr. Albert Egerton, and Mr. Arthur Chichester
were walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars, along the West Strand,
about ten minutes after the little incident which closed the preceding
chapter, when they were met by two tall and fashionable-looking
gentlemen, who immediately recognised the baronet and Chichester.
Both parties stopped; and the two gentlemen were in due course
introduced to Mr. Egerton as Lord Dunstable and the Honourable Colonel
Cholmondeley.
By the significant tone and manner of the baronet,—a sort of freemasonry
known only to the initiated,—both Dunstable and the Colonel were given
to understand that a flat had been caught in the person of Mr. Albert
Egerton; and they immediately received their cue as completely as if
they had been prompted by half an hour's explanation.
"What have you been doing with yourselves, gentlemen, this evening?"
inquired Dunstable, as they all now proceeded together through Trafalgar
Square.
"My friends and myself have been supping at the Paradise," answered the
baronet, carelessly.
Mr. Egerton drew himself up an inch higher immediately, although
somewhat top-heavy with the champagne and cigars;—but he felt quite
proud—quite another man, indeed—at being numbered amongst Sir Rupert
Harborough's _friends_, and at walking familiarly in the company of a
real lord.
"Cholmondeley and I were thinking of looking in at Crockford's before we
encountered you," observed Dunstable, forgetting at the moment that
himself and friend were proceeding in quite a contrary direction when
the meeting alluded to took place. "What say you? shall we all go to
Crockford's?"
Egerton noticed not the little oversight. The word "Crockford's"
perfectly electrified him. He had often passed by the great pandemonium
in St. James's Street, and looked with wistful eyes at its
portals—marvelling whether they would ever unfold to give admission to
him; and now that there seemed a scintillation of a chance of that
golden wish, which he had so often shadowed forth, being substantially
gratified, he could scarcely believe that he was in truth Albert
Egerton, the son of an outfitter, and having a very respectable widowed
aunt engaged in the haberdashery line on Finsbury Pavement;—but it
appeared as if he had suddenly received a transfusion of that
aristocracy in whose company he found himself.
Already did he make up his mind to cut the good old aunt and the
half-dozen of fair cousins—her daughters—for ever:—already did he vow
never to be seen east of Temple Bar again. But then he thought how
pleasant it would be to drop in at Finsbury Pavement on some Sunday—just
at the hour of dinner, which he could make his lunch—and then astound
his relatives with the mention of his aristocratic acquaintances,—no,
his _friends_,—Lord Dunstable, Sir Rupert Harborough, the Honourable
Colonel Cholmondeley, and the Honourable Arthur Chichester!
And what glorious names, too:—nothing plebeian about them—nothing lower
than an Honourable!
Had he known how cheaply Mr. Chichester held his titular decoration,
Albert Egerton would have perhaps assumed one himself: but he did not
entertain the least suspicion concerning the matter, and therefore
envied the pawnbroker's son almost as much as either of the others.
But to return.
Lord Dunstable had said, "Shall we all go to Crockford's?"
Deep was the suspense of Mr. Egerton until Sir Rupert Harborough
replied, "With much pleasure. It would be the very thing to teach our
young friend Egerton here a little of life."
"But I am not a member" he murmured, in a disconsolate tone.
"_We_ are all members, however," said Lord Dunstable; "and can pass you
in with ease. Let me and Harborough take charge of you."
This arrangement was rendered necessary by the fact that Mr. Chichester
was _not_ a member of Crockford's, and would, therefore, require to be
introduced by Colonel Cholmondeley. Dunstable, Harborough, and Egerton
accordingly walked on together; while the Colonel and Chichester
followed at some little distance, as it was not thought worth while to
allow the young flat to perceive that the Honourable Arthur Chichester
must be smuggled in, as it were, as well as himself.
In this manner the two parties repaired to the celebrated—or rather
notorious—Saint James's Club; and Egerton's wildest dream was
realized—the acmé of his ambition was reached—the portals of Crockford's
were darkened by his plebeian shadow!
Although excited by wine and by the novelty of his situation, he
nevertheless maintained his self-possession so far as to avoid any
display of vulgar wonderment at the brilliant scene upon which he now
entered. Leaning on the arms of Lord Dunstable and Sir Rupert
Harborough, he passed through the marble hall, and was conducted to the
coffee-room on the right-hand side.
There they waited for a few minutes until Cholmondeley and Chichester
joined them; and Egerton had leisure to admire the superb pier-glasses,
the magnificent chandeliers, the handsome side-boards, the costly plate,
and the other features of that gorgeous apartment.
When the Colonel and Chichester made their appearance, the party
proceeded to the supper-room. There Egerton's eyes were completely
dazzled by the brilliant looking-glasses, all set in splendid frames
with curious designs—the crystal chandeliers—the elegant sconces—the
superb mouldings—the massive plate—and the immense quantities of cut
glasses and decanters. The curtains were of the richest damask silk; the
walls were hung with choice pictures; and the whole magic scene was
brilliantly lighted up with innumerable wax candles, the lustre of which
was reflected in the immense mirrors. In a word, the voluptuousness and
luxury of that apartment surpassed any thing of the kind that young
Egerton had ever before witnessed.
Seated near one of the fire-places in conversation with an elderly
gentleman, was an old man, somewhat inclined to stoutness, and very
slovenly in his costume. His clothes were good; but they appeared to
have been tossed upon him with a pitch-fork. His coat hung in large
loose wrinkles over his rounded shoulders: his trousers appeared to
hitch up about the thighs, as if through some defect in their cut; two
or three of his waistcoat buttons had escaped from their holes, or else
had not been fastened in them at all; his cravat was limp; and his
shirt-frill was tumbled. His countenance was pale and sickly, and
totally inexpressive of that natural astuteness and sharpness which had
raised him from the most obscure position to be the companion of the
noblest peers in the realm. His eyes were of that lack-lustre species
which usually predicate mental dullness and moral feebleness, but which
was at variance with the general rule in this instance. In a word, his
entire appearance bespoke an individual whose health was wasted by long
vigils and the want of needful repose and rest.
When Lord Dunstable's party entered the room, there were already three
or four groups occupying supper-tables, on which the French dishes,
prepared in Ude's best style steamed, with delicious odour.
"Will you take supper, Mr. Egerton?" inquired Lord Dunstable.
"No, I thank you, my lord," was the reply. "I believe Sir Rupert
Harborough informed you that we had already been feeding together."
It was not true that Egerton had supped with the baronet and Chichester,
as the reader knows; but Sir Rupert had already said so of his own
accord, and Mr. Egerton was not the young man to contradict a statement
which seemed to place him upon a certain degree of intimacy with the
aforesaid baronet.
"Vot, no supper, my lord?" cried the stout gentleman, rising from his
seat near the fire, and accosting Dunstable. "Yes—your lordship and your
lordship's friends vill do that honour to Mosseer Ude's good things."
"No, I thank you," said Dunstable, coolly: "we shall not take any
supper. We mean to step into the next room and amuse ourselves for an
hour or so—eh, Mr. Egerton?"
And a significant glance, rapid as lightning, from Lord Dunstable's
eyes, conveyed his meaning to the stout elderly gentleman with the
sickly face.
"Wery good, my lord. I'll send some nice cool claret in; and the
groom-porters is there. Valk that vay, my lord: valk that vay,
gentlemen;—valk that vay, sir."
These last words were addressed to Egerton, and were accompanied by a
very low bow.
Dunstable took the young man's arm, and led him into the next apartment,
where there was a French hazard table.
"Who is the good-natured old gentleman that spoke so very politely, my
lord?" inquired Egerton, in a whisper, when they had passed from the
supper-room.
"That good-natured old gentleman!" cried Dunstable, aloud, and bursting
out into a fit of laughter so hearty that the tears ran down his cheeks:
"why—that's Crockford!"
"Crockford!" repeated Egerton, in astonishment; for, although he had
denominated the presiding genius of the place "a good-natured old
gentleman," he had not failed to observe the execrable English which he
spoke, and was overwhelmed with surprise to learn that the friend of
nobles was at such open hostilities with grammar.
"Yes—that is no other than the great Crockford," continued Lord
Dunstable, in an under tone. "He once kept a small fishmonger's shop
near Temple Bar; and he is now rich enough to buy up all the
fishmongers' shops in London, Billingsgate to boot. But let us see what
is going on here."
There were only three or four persons lounging about in the Hazard-Room,
previously to the entrance of Dunstable, Egerton, Harborough,
Cholmondeley, and Chichester; and no play was going on. The moment,
however, those gentlemen made their appearance, the loungers to whom we
have just alluded, and who were decoy-ducks connected with the
establishment, repaired to the table and called for dice, while his
croupiers took their seats, and the groom-porter instantly mounted upon
his stool.
"What does he get up there for?" asked Egerton, in a whisper.
"To announce the _main_ and _chance_," replied Lord Dunstable. "But
don't you play hazard?"
"No, no—that is, not often—not very often," said the foolish young man,
afraid of being deemed unfashionable in the eyes of his new
acquaintances if he admitted that he never yet handled a dice-box in his
life.
"Oh! no—not often—of course not!" exclaimed Dunstable, who saw through
the artifice: "neither do I. But here comes Crockey with the bank."
And, as he spoke, Mr. Crockford made his appearance, holding in his
hands an elegant rosewood case, which he placed upon the table, and
behind which he immediately seated himself.
The dice-box was now taken by Lord Dunstable, who set ten sovereigns,
called "five" as a main, and threw seven.
"Seven to five!" exclaimed the groom-porter.
"Three to two are the odds," said Sir Rupert Harborough to Egerton:
"I'll take them of you in fifties?"
"Done," cried Egerton; and in another moment he had the pleasure of
handing over his money to the baronet.
After Lord Dunstable had thrown out, Mr. Chichester took the box, and
Cholmondeley in his turn ensnared Egerton into a private bet, which the
young man of course lost. But he parted from his bank-notes with a very
good grace; for, although considerably sobered by the soda-water which
he had drunk at the Paradise, yet what with the wine and the idea of
being at that moment beneath Crockford's roof, he was sufficiently
intoxicated to be totally reckless of his financial affairs.
Thus, after having lost a bet to each of his friends, he was easily
persuaded to take the box, and dispense a little more of his cash for
the especial benefit of Mr. Crockford.
"I'll set a hundred pounds," cried Egerton, "and call five the main."
He then threw ten.
"Ten to five!" cried the groom-porter.
"Put down three fifties," said Dunstable; "and you have four fifties to
three. That's right. Now go on."
Egerton threw.
"Five—trois, deuce—out!" cried the groom-porter.
And the young man's money was swept towards the bank in a moment.
"Try a _back_, Egerton," exclaimed Chichester.
"Well—I don't mind," was the reply—for the waiter had just handed round
goblets of the most delicious claret, and the lights began to dance
somewhat confusedly before the young victim's eyes. "I'll set myself
again in two hundred; and five's the main."
"Five's the main," cried the groom-porter: "deuce, ace—out."
And away went the bank-notes to the rosewood case at the head of the
table.
Colonel Cholmondeley now took the box.
"Will you set me a pony, Egerton?" he said.
"I should not mind," was the reply, given with a stammer and a blush;
"but—to tell you the truth—I have no more money about me. If my cheque
will do——"
Dunstable nodded significantly to Crockford.
"Oh! my dear sir," said the old hell-keeper, rising from his seat and
shuffling towards Egerton, whom he drew partially aside; "I means no
offence, but if you vants monies, I shall be werry 'appy to lend you a
thousand or two, I'm sure."
"Take a thousand, Egerton," whispered Lord Dunstable. "You'll have
better luck, perhaps, with old Crockey's money—there's a spell about
it."
"I—I," hesitated the young man for a moment, as the thought of his
previous losses flashed to his mind, even amidst the dazzling influence
of Crockford's club and his aristocratic acquaintances: "I——"
"Glass of claret, sir?" said the waiter, approaching him with a massive
silver salver on which stood the crystal goblets of ruby wine.
"Thank you;"—and Egerton quaffed the aromatic juice to drown the
unpleasant ideas which had just intruded themselves upon him: then, as
he replaced the glass upon the salver, he said, "Well, give me a
thousand—and I'll have another throw."
Sir Rupert Harborough took the box, set himself in ten pounds, and
cried, "Nine's the main."
He then threw.
"Six to nine!" exclaimed the groom-porter.
"Five to four in favour of the caster," observed Colonel Cholmondeley.
"I'll bet the odds," cried Egerton.
"'Gainst the rules, sir," said the pompous groom-porter: "you're not a
setter this time."
"Pooh, pooh!" cried Crockford, affecting a jocular chuckle. "The
gentleman has lost—let the gentleman have a chance of recovering
his-self. Take the hodds of the gentleman."
"Then I bet five hundred to four in favour of the caster," said Egerton,
now growing interested in the play as he began to understand it better.
[Illustration]
Sir Rupert threw a few times, and at last turned up six and three.
"Nine—six, trois—out!" cried the groom-porter.
Egerton now insisted upon taking the box again; and in a few minutes he
had not a fraction left of the thousand pounds which he had borrowed.
He turned away from the table and sighed deeply.
"Glass of claret, sir?" said the waiter, as composedly as if he were
offering the wine through civility and not for the systematic purpose of
washing away a remorse.
Egerton greedily swallowed the contents of a goblet; and when he looked
again towards the table, he was astounded to find another bundle of Bank
notes thrust into his hand by the obliging Mr. Crockford, who said in
his blandest tones, "I think you vas vaiting, sir, for more monies."
"Take it—take it, old chap," whispered Dunstable: "you can turn that
second thousand into ten."
"Or into nothing—like the first," murmured Egerton, with a sickly smile:
but still he took the money.
He then played rapidly—wildly—desperately,—drinking wine after each new
loss, and inwardly cursing his unlucky stars.
The second thousand pounds were soon gone; and Dunstable whispered to
Crockford, "That's enough for to-night. We must make him a member in a
day or two—and then you'll give me back the little I. O. U. you hold of
mine."
"Certainly—certainly," answered the hell-keeper. "But mind you doesn't
fail to bring him again."
"Never fear," returned Dunstable;—then turning towards his party, he
said aloud, "Well, I think it is pretty nearly time to be off."
"So do I, my lord——hic," stammered Egerton, catching joyfully at the
chance of an immediate escape from the place where fortunes were so
speedily engulphed;—for tipsy as he now was again, the idea of his
losses was uppermost in his mind.
"Well, my lord—well gentlemen," said Crockford, bowing deferentially; "I
wishes you all a wery good night—or rather morning. But perhaps your
friend, my lord, would just give me his little I. O. U.——"
"Oh! certainly, he will" interrupted Dunstable. "Here, Egerton, my
boy—give your I. O. U. for the two thousand——"
"I'd ra-a-ther—hic—give my draft," returned the young man.
But, as his hand trembled and his visual faculties were duplicated for
the time, he was ten minutes ere he could fill up a printed cheque in a
proper manner.
The business was, however, accomplished at last, and the party withdrew,
amidst the bows of decoy-ducks, croupiers, waiters, groom-porters,
door-porters, and all the menials of the establishment.
* * * * *
William Crockford was the founder of the Club which so long bore his
name, and which was only broken up a short time ago.
He began life as a fishmonger; and when he closed his shop of an
evening, was accustomed to repair to some of the West End hells, where
he staked the earnings of the day. Naturally of a shrewd and far-seeing
disposition, he was well qualified to make those calculations which
taught him the precise chances of the hazard-table; and a lucky bet upon
the St. Leger suddenly helped him to a considerable sum of ready money,
with which he was enabled to extend his ventures at the gaming-house.
In due time he gave up the fish-shop, and joined some hellites in
partnership at the West End. Fortune continued to favour him; and he was
at length in a condition to open No. 50, St. James's Street, as a Club.
The moment the establishment was ready for the reception of members,
announcements of the design were made in the proper quarters; and it was
advertised that all persons belonging to other Clubs were eligible to
have their names enrolled _without ballot_ as members of the St.
James's. The scheme succeeded beyond even the most sanguine hopes of
Crockford himself; and hundreds of peers, nobles, and gentlemen, who
were fond of play, but who dared not frequent the common gaming-houses,
gladly became supporters and patrons of the new Club.
In the course of a short time No. 51 was added to the establishment; and
No. 52 was subsequently annexed. The rules and regulations were made
more stringent, because several notorious black-legs had obtained
admission; but, until the very last, any member was permitted to
introduce a stranger for one evening only, with the understanding that
such visitor should be balloted for in due course. The entrance-fee was
fixed at twenty guineas a year; and an annual payment of ten guineas was
required from every member.
The three houses, thrown into one, were soon found to be too small for
the accommodation of the members: they were accordingly pulled down, and
the present magnificent building was erected on their site. It is
impossible to say how much money was expended upon this princely
structure; but we can assert upon undoubted authority that the internal
decorations alone cost ninety-four thousand pounds!
The real nature of this most scandalous and abominable establishment
soon transpired. Hundreds of young men, who entered upon life with
fortune and every brilliant prospect to cheer them, were immolated upon
the infernal altar of that aristocratic pandemonium. Many of them
committed suicide:—others perpetrated forgeries, to obtain the means of
endeavouring to regain what they had lost, and ended their days upon the
scaffold;—and not a few became decoy-ducks and bonnets in the service of
the Arch-demon himself. Even noblemen of high rank did not hesitate to
fill these ignominious offices; and for every flat whom they took to the
house, they received a recompense proportionate to the spoil that was
obtained. To keep up appearances with their fellow members, these ruined
lacqueys of the great hellite actually paid their subscriptions with the
funds which he furnished them for the purpose.
So infamous became the reputation of Crockford's, that it was deemed
necessary to devise means to place the establishment apparently upon the
same footing with other Clubs. A committee of noblemen and gentlemen
(what precious _noblemen_ and _gentlemen_, good reader!) was formed to
administer the affairs of the institution; but this proceeding was a
mere blind. The Committee's jurisdiction extended only to the laws
affecting the introduction of new members, the expulsion of unruly ones,
and the choice of the wines laid in for the use of the Club. The French
Hazard Bank and all matters relating to the gambling-rooms were under
the sole control of Crockford, who reaped enormous advantages from that
position.
Thus was it that a vulgar and illiterate man—a professed gambler—a
wretch who lived upon the ruin of the inexperienced and unwary, as well
as on the vices of the hoary sinner,—thus was he enabled to make noble
lords and high-born gentlemen his vile tools, and thrust them forward as
the ostensible managers of a damnable institution, the infamous profit
of which went into his own purse![36]
-----
Footnote 36:
So far back as 1824, _The Times_ newspaper thus directed attention to
the atrocious nature of Crockford's Club:—
"'Fishmongers' Hall,' or the _Crock_-odile Mart for gudgeons,
flat-fish, and pigeons (which additional title that 'Hell' has
acquired from the nature of its 'dealings') has recently closed for
the season. The opening and closing of this wholesale place of plunder
and robbery, are events which have assumed a degree of importance, not
on account of the two or three unprincipled knaves to whom it belongs,
and who are collecting by it vast fortunes incalculably fast, but for
the rank, character, and fortunes of the many who are weak enough to
be inveigled and fleeced there. The profits for the last season, over
and above expenses, which cannot be less than £100 a day, are stated
to be full £150,000. It is wholly impossible, however, to come at the
exact sum, unless we could get a peep at the Black Ledger of accounts
of each day's gain at this Pandemonium, which, though, of course omits
to name of whom, as that might prove awkward, if at any time the book
fell into other hands. A few statements from the sufferers themselves
would be worth a thousand speculative opinions on the subject, however
they might be near the fact, and they would be rendering themselves,
and others, a vital benefit were they to make them. Yet some idea can
be formed of what has been sacked, by the simple fact that _one
thousand pounds_ was given at the close of the season to be divided
among the waiters alone, besides the Guy Fawkes of the place, a head
servant, having half that sum presented to him last January for a New
Year's gift. A visitor informed me, that one night there was such
immense play, he was convinced a million of money was, to use a
tradesman's phrase, turned on that occasion. This sum, thrown over six
hours' play of sixty events per hour, 360 events for the night, will
give an average stake of £2777 odd to each event. This will not appear
very large when it is considered that £10,000 or more were
occasionally down upon single events, belonging to many persons of
great fortunes.
"Allowing only one such stake to fall upon the points of the game in
favour of the bank per hour, full £16,662. were thus sacrificed; half
of which, at least, was hard cash from the pockets of the players,
exclusively of what they lost besides.
"Now that there is a little cessation to the satanic work, the
frequenters to this den of robbers would do well to make a few common
reflections;—that it is their money alone which pays the rent and
superb embellishments of the house—the good feeding and the
fashionable clothing in which are disguised the knaves about it—the
refreshments and wine with which they are regaled, and which are
served with no sparing hand, in order to bewilder the senses to
prevent from being seen what may be going forward, but which will not
be at their service, they may rest well assured, longer than they have
money to be plucked of; and above all, it is for the most part their
money, of which are composed the enormous fortunes the two or three
keepers have amassed, and which will increase them prodigiously while
they are still blind enough to go. To endeavour to gain back any part
of the lost money, fortunes will be further wasted in the futile
attempt, as the same nefarious and diabolical practices by which the
first sums were raised, are still pursued to multiply them. One of
these 'Hellites' commenced his career by pandering to the fatal and
uncontrollable appetites for gambling of far humbler game than he is
now hunting down, whose losses and ruin have enabled him to bedeck
this place with every intoxicating fascination and incitement, and to
throw out a bait of a large sum of money, well hooked, to catch the
largest fortunes, which are as sure to be netted as the smaller ones
were. Sum up the amount of your losses, my lords and gentlemen, when,
if you are still sceptical, you must be convinced of these things.
Those noblemen and gentlemen, just springing into life and large
property, should be ever watchful of themselves, as there are two or
three persons of some rank, who themselves have been ruined by similar
means, and now condescend to become 'Procurers' to this foul
establishment, kept by a '_ci-devant_' fishmonger's man, and who are
rewarded for their services in the ratio of the losses sustained by
the victims whom they allure to it.
"They wish to give the place the character of a subscription club,
pretending that none are admitted but those whose names are first
submitted for approval to a committee, and then are balloted for. All
this is false. In the first place, the members of different clubs at
once are considered 'eligible;' and in the next, all persons are
readily admitted who are 'well' introduced, have money to lose, and
whose forbearance under losses can be safely relied upon. Let the
visitors pay a subscription—let them call themselves a club, or
whatever they choose—still the house having a bank put down from day
to day by the same persons to be played against, and which has points
of the games in its favour, is nothing but a common gaming-house, and
indictable as such by the statutes; and in the eye of the law, the
visitors are 'rogues and vagabonds.' Were it otherwise—why don't the
members of this club! be seen at the large plate-glass windows of the
bow front, as well as at the windows of reputable club-houses? No one
is ever there but the creatures of the 'hell,' dressed out and
bedizened with gold ornaments (most probably formerly belonging to
unhappy and ruined players), to show off at them, and who look like so
many jackdaws in borrowed plumes; the players, ashamed of being seen
by the passers by, sneak in and out like cats who have burnt their
tails. Some of the members of the different clubs will soon begin to
display the real character of this infernal place—those who will
ultimately be found to forsake their respectable club-houses, and
merge into impoverished and undone frequenters to this 'hell.'"