From sketch-book and diary

by Elizabeth Butler

“Nothing makes me laugh more than a toboggan in full flight with its helpless load. I had the pace moderated, in spite of protests, for I really did not care to have a variation of the too recent Bay of Biscay; but the toboggans got out of hand sometimes or had to be given their heads round the corners. It was vertigo then.

“Ah, good night, or rather good morning, peerless Madeira!”

Then followed days of blue weather and ever-increasing heat. A lonely voyage—not a sail to be seen. In that long-drawn-out monotony we made the most of trivialities.

I read in my diary one night in the Tropics:—

“There is to be a fancy-dress ball to-night, in connection with crossing the Line the other day, I suppose; the second class passengers are to come over and dance with the first class on the gaily decorated promenade deck. I am pleased at the appearance of the three children. C. has made up from some Eastern muslins a very coquettish Turkish costume with a little cap, which becomes her to my entire satisfaction. E. looks the typical ‘duck’ in a poke bonnet all over little pink roses, and I have buckled up little M. in a colonial cavalry ‘rig,’ slouched hat and all, Captain S. lending his sabre, which is somewhat longer than the temporary owner.”

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Here I must interpolate the statement of certain facts which will enable you more fully to sympathise with me in the catastrophe that closes this mid-ocean episode.

You must know that white servants are impossible to find at the Cape, and one must bring all one’s staff out with one, “for better, for worse,” it may be for three, four, five years. If any turn out badly, it is true you may send them home, but—who is to replace them? I could not persuade my cook at Dover Castle to undertake this expatriation, her courage failing her at the last moment, and I had to find an untried substitute. She was a Dane with the blood of generations of bellicose Vikings coursing through her veins, and I had watched her daily on the other deck from afar with apprehensions.

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“The ball is over and I feel decidedly limp. I thought I was going to have a pleasant evening. I was sitting with Lady —— and all the others who were not masquerading, enjoying the sight of the figures in all kinds of extempore costumes appearing on the deck from below and mustering prior to setting to, the band playing a spirited waltz, when there slowly emerged from the saloon stairway, as though rising from the waves she rules—Britannia! First a high brass helmet with scarlet crest, then a trident held in one hand, a shield in the other, and the folds of the Union Jack draping her commanding form. She stepped on deck. ‘I say,’ said a voice, ‘this is the success of the evening; who is it?’ ‘Who is it?’ you heard on every side. ‘Who is it?’ asked Lady —— turning to me. ‘My cook,’ I faintly answered. The last speaker knew her South Africa, and all the possibilities of the future might have spoken in my face to judge by the choking laughter that caused her precipitate withdrawal. Each time she ventured back within sight of my smileless face the fit seized her again. Later on I saw Britannia dancing in a small set of Lancers hand in hand with the Marchioness. Shall I ever get her harnessed now?”