Maritzburg, February 10, 1876.

In the South African calendar this is set down as the first of the autumnal months, but half a dozen hours of the midday are still quite as close and oppressive as any we have had. I am however bound to say that the nights—at all events up here—are cooler, and I begin even to think of a light shawl for my solitary walks in the verandah just before bed-time. When the moon shines, these walks are pleasant enough, but when only the “common people of the skies” are trying to filter down their feebler light through the misty atmosphere, I have a lurking fear and distrust of the reptiles and insects who may also have a fancy for taking exercise at the same time in the same place. I say nothing of bats, frogs, and toads, mantis, or even huge moths; to these we are quite accustomed. But although I have never seen a live snake in this country myself, still one hears such unpleasant stories about them, that it is just as well to “mak siccar,” as the Scotch say, with a candle, before beginning a consitutional in the dark.

It is not a week ago since a lady of my acquaintance, being surprised at her little dog's refusal to follow her into her bedroom one night, instituted a search for the reason of the poor little creature's terror and dismay, and discovered a snake coiled up under her chest of drawers.