"Who the deuce was
the queer-looking _cawker_?" we all at once inquired of Crony.
"What, gentlemen! not know the director-general, the accomplished
commander-in-chief, the thrice-renowned Cocker Crockford? (so named from
his admirable tact at calculation): why, I thought every one who
had witnessed a horse-race, or a boxing-match, or betted a guinea at
Tattersall's, must have known the _director_, who has been a notorious
character among the sporting circles for the last thirty years: and,
if truth be told, is not the worst of a bad lot. About five-and-twenty
years since I remember him," said Crony, "keeping a snug little
fishmonger's shop, at the corner of Essex-street, in the Strand, where I
have often betted a guinea with him on a trotting match, for he was then
fond of _the thing_, and attended the races and fights in company with
old Jerry Cloves, the lighterman, who is now as well _breeched_ as
himself. It is a very extraordinary fact," continued Crony, "and one
which certainly excites suspicion, that almost all those who have made
large fortunes by the turf or play are men of obscure origin, who, but a
few years since, were not worth a guinea, ~333~~while those by whom
they have risen are now reduced to beggary." How many representatives of
noble houses, and splendid patrimonies, handed down with increasing care
from generation, to generation, have been ruined and dissipated by this
pernicious vice! --the gay and inexperienced nipped in the very bud of
life, and plunged into irretrievable misery--while the high-spirited and
the noble-minded victims to false honour, too often seek a refuge from
despair in the grave of the suicide! Such were the reflections that
oppressed my mind while contemplating the scene before me: I was,
however, roused from my reverie by Crony's continuation of the
_director's_ history.
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