A Letter to Sir Richard Ford and the Other Police Magistrates: Upon the Prevalancy of Gaming, and the Infamous Practices of Common Informers

In Short

This impassioned pamphlet serves as an urgent petition to the London magistrates of the early nineteenth century. It documents a systemic crisis where "common informers"—predatory individuals who secure police warrants to shutter gaming houses—actually use their legal authority to terrorize citizens and demand illicit protection money. By pulling back the curtain on this racket, the text highlights the dangerous intersection of moralistic legislation and institutional corruption, remaining a classic study of how well-intentioned laws, when poorly administered, inevitably create more crime than they suppress.

The Story

The narrative begins as a formal address to Sir Richard Ford and his fellow magistrates, setting the stage for a critique of how the legal system has been hijacked by a criminal class of "informers." These men, under the guise of public duty, weaponize warrants against gaming houses and lottery offices. Instead of bringing these proprietors to trial, they use the threat of exposure and incarceration as leverage to extort exorbitant sums from the owners. The author argues that the magistrates, while ostensibly fighting the vice of gambling, have become "dupes" of these villains, inadvertently facilitating a cycle of robbery and perjury.

The argument expands into a broader survey of the human impulse to gamble, noting that despite the severity of the laws and the efforts of legislators throughout history, no society has ever successfully legislated away this "unquenchable thirst." From the ancient Greeks and Romans to the modern English, the author observes that gaming is an inherent, if destructive, human passion. He presents a meticulous catalog of English statutes—from Henry VIII to George II—designed to curb card games, dice, and horse racing. He shows that these laws are theoretically robust, often threatening offenders with imprisonment or heavy fines, yet they are practically toothless because they are often too rigid, local, or convoluted for consistent enforcement.

The focus then sharpens to the specific, modern actors who perpetuate this fraud. We are introduced to the figures of John Bell, a man who masquerades as a moral crusader to terrorize establishments in Pall Mall, and John Barnes Hart, a career criminal who has been "drummed out" of the legal system but continues to operate by proxy. These men, and their cohorts, treat the law as a business. They secure warrants to trigger a "negotiation," where silence is purchased with heavy bribes. The author recounts instances where victims, once exploited, finally found the courage to report their tormentors to the authorities at Bow Street.

The arc reaches its conclusion with a call to action. The author does not suggest that the magistrates should ignore gambling, but rather that they must exercise extreme circumspection when issuing warrants. He insists that even those considered social outcasts deserve the protection of the law. By providing the magistrates with a list of known informers, the author demands a cleanup of the police process. The letter closes with a final, biting postscript, suggesting that the names of these "wretches" be posted in every public office to prevent future impositions.

How It Unfolds

The grievance is stated The author opens with a direct appeal to the magistrates, warning them that their authority is being used to sanction extortion. He frames the issue not as a failure of the law itself, but as a failure of its administration by corrupt middlemen.

The history of the vice A brief, panoramic look at the universal nature of gambling shows that it has persisted through every civilization, from China to Rome. The author uses this to argue that while gambling is an intractable vice, it is one that cannot be solved by the current, broken system of informers.

The anatomy of the statutes The text provides a detailed, plain-language digest of the various acts of Parliament intended to govern gaming. This serves to demonstrate that the legal framework is already heavy-handed, making the informers' subsequent interference even more redundant and infuriating.

The villains are identified The narrative shifts from theory to reality, exposing the specific names and tactics of men like John Bell and John Barnes Hart. By showing how these men operate—using the law as a "terrific engine" of plunder—the author brings the abstract danger into sharp focus.

The final demand for reform The author concludes by reminding the magistrates that even the most reviled members of society have rights under the law. He finishes with an offer to assist the authorities in identifying the criminal network, urging them to finally act with the integrity their office demands.

The People

The text is defined by the stark opposition between the "magistrates" and the "informers." The Magistrates, particularly Sir Richard Ford, are addressed as men of erudition and legal standing whose primary failing is a lack of vigilance. The author treats them with a mixture of respect and sharp reprimand, viewing them as well-intentioned but dangerously naive for allowing their warrants to fall into the wrong hands.

The Informers, represented by the central figures of John Bell and John Barnes Hart, are cast as the true villains of the story. Bell is depicted as a "demagogue" who uses the appearance of moral outrage as a mask for "Arabian freebootery," holding victims captive with the threat of prosecution. Hart is described as a "reptilised miscreant" who has been barred from court but still trains others in the "science" of perjury. These men are motivated entirely by financial gain, viewing the law not as a moral imperative but as a convenient tool for "private plunder."

Finally, the Victims—the gaming house owners—are presented in a complex light. While the author acknowledges their business is often a public nuisance, he argues that their status as criminals does not grant the informers the right to become criminals themselves. By the end, these figures shift from being victims of their own illicit trade to being the necessary witnesses required to dismantle the extortion ring.

In Its Own Voice

"Instead of causing such warrants to be executed for the ends of public justice, they prostitute them to the accomplishment of private plunder, turning them into terrific engines, to alarm the objects of supposed delinquency into a compliance with the most exorbitant pecuniary demands."

The author describes the exact mechanism by which corrupt informers manipulate the legal process to extort money from gaming house owners.

"The prejudice of vulgar errors over the minds of Englishmen perhaps is more prevalent than in any other people, the major part of whom have as little idea that gaming exists in any other country as that roast beef can be met with in France or Italy."

The author notes a certain insular pride in the English people, who falsely believe their struggles with gambling vices are uniquely tied to their own shores.

"If the human passions come in contact with human reason, the former will ever be the strongest."

This reflection serves as the core of the author's argument regarding the futility of using harsh, rigid laws to attempt to erase the deep-seated human desire for gambling.

What It's Really About

At its heart, this book is an exploration of the dangers inherent in "moral policing." The central argument is that when a society creates laws to suppress vice, it inevitably creates a secondary, more dangerous market for those who enforce them. The author asks: what happens to the integrity of the state when it relies on professional informers to perform its duties? He suggests that such systems are built on "fraud, perjury, and subornation," and that they ultimately undermine the rule of law. It is a cautionary tale about the necessity of judicial oversight and the reality that legal power, if left unchecked, will always be co-opted by those who wish to profit from the suffering of others.

Why Read It Today

This book will appeal to readers interested in legal history, the evolution of policing, and the perennial tensions between personal morality and public law. The experience of reading it is like uncovering an old, dusty investigative report—it is sharp, biting, and surprisingly modern in its skepticism of authority.

However, prospective readers should be prepared for the specificities of late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth-century English prose. The vocabulary is formal, and the author relies heavily on references to specific, now-obscure statutes and individuals of the era. The text assumes a reader familiar with the local geography of London and the political climate of the day, which can occasionally make the narrative dense.

Yet, what stays with you is the author’s unwavering voice. The text remains powerful because its core dilemma—how to prevent the "remedy" from becoming worse than the "disease"—is timeless. The author's demand for the state to act with fairness, even toward those it finds distasteful, serves as a sharp reminder that the legitimacy of a justice system is measured by how it treats the most vulnerable or most reviled. It is a brief, intense, and deeply cynical look at the fragility of public order.