outside the card-room treated for reversionary interests, post-obits, and other means for raising the wind. The game was what is called ‘French Hazard,’ in which the players play against the bank. Thousands were every night lost and won. As much as a million of money has been known to change hands in a single night, and the banker was ready to meet any stake offered. Those who lost borrowed more in order to continue the game, and lost that as well. But Crockford seems never to have been accused of any dishonourable practices. He trusted to the chances of the table, which were, of course, in his favour. In his ledgers--where are they now?--he was accustomed to enter the names of those who borrowed of him by initials or a number. He began life as a small fishmonger just within Temple Bar, and, fortunately for himself, discovered that he was endowed with a rare talent for rapid mental arithmetic, of which he made good use in betting and card-playing. The history of his gradual rise to greatness from a beginning so unpromising would be interesting, but perhaps the materials no longer exist. He was a tall and corpulent man, lame, who never acquired the art of speaking English correctly,--a thing which his noble patrons--the Duke of Wellington was a member of his club--passed over in him. Everybody went to Crockford’s. Everybody played there. That a young fellow just in possession of a great estate should drop a few thousands in a single night’s play was not considered a thing worthy of remark; they all did it. We remember how Disraeli’s ‘Young Duke’ went on playing cards all night and all next day--was it not all the next night as well?--till he and his companions were up to their knees in cards, and the man who was waiting on them was fain to lie down and sleep for half an hour. The passion of gambling--it is one of those other senses outside the five old elementary endowments--possessed everybody. Cards played a far more important part in life than they do now; the evening rubber was played in every quiet house; the club card-tables were always crowded; for manly youth there were the fiercer joys of lansquenet, loo, vingt-et-un, and écarté; for the domestic circle there were the whist-table and the round table, and at the latter were played a quantity of games, such as Pope Joan, Commerce, Speculation, and I know not what, all for money, and all depending for their interest on the hope of winning and the fear of losing. Family gambling is gone. If in a genteel suburban villa one was to propose a round game, and call for the Pope Joan board, there would be a smile of wonder and pity. As well ask for a glass of negus, or call for the Caledonians at a dance!