In my early days there were a lot of small race-meetings in the vicinity of London which have ceased to exist, their suppression or extinction, owing to natural causes, being a circumstance on which Society may be greatly congratulated. Of these, Hampton was one of the most notorious. It was a great Cockney carnival, and was held on the ground over which Hurst Park now stretches. All the costers of the East End drove down to this event on their “flying bedsteads,” in the shafts of which conveyances were harnessed their “mokes.” On one side of the bedstead, with legs hanging over the front, was the coster, urging his “moke” with comic blasphemies. On the other side sat his “dona,” all hat and feathers, howling snatches of the music-hall songs of the moment, and in the intervals plying her “bloke” with beer. All the pickpockets, welchers, thimble-riggers, and confidence-tricksters of the Metropolis turned up at this event, and nowhere else would you be likely to come across scenes of more unbridled blackguardism. The inhabitants of Hampton—standing as it does on one of the prettiest of the nearer reaches of the Thames—were naturally incensed by the annual Saturnalia. Not all those who were attracted to the meeting came down for the sport. Many of them hired skiffs and went on the water. These greatly daring adventurers had but the most rudimentary use of the sculls, and their immunity from accident can only be traced to that watchful Providence which is believed to look after drunken men and infants. On one occasion I happened during these races to be at Hampton, which is, of course, on the other side of the river. I there saw a rather cranky skiff let out by a local boat-owner to a party of a dozen happy Cockneys, male and female of their kind, not one of whom could row and few of whom could swim. As they zigzagged their way to midstream, I thought it my duty to remonstrate with the boat-owner. “I shouldn’t have let a boat to that lot: they’re sure to capsize,” I ventured to suggest. “It’s orright, guv’nor,” answered the man cheerily; “_I’ve ’ad a quid deposit_!” Funny thing, the point of view. I was solicitous about the safety of the Cockney excursionists. My boat-hiring friend could only imagine that I was anxious lest his skiff should come to grief, and was happy to assure me that he had secured himself against all possible loss!