Maritzburg, November, 1875.

The weather at the beginning of this month was lovely, and the climate perfection; but now (I am writing on its last days) it is getting very hot and trying. If ever people might stand excused for talking about the weather when they meet, it is us Natalians, for, especially at this time of year, it varies from hour to hour. All along the coast one hears of terrible buffeting and knocking about among the shipping in the open roadsteads which have to do duty for harbours in these parts; and it was but a few days since that the lifeboat, with the English mail on board, capsized in crossing the bar at Durban. The telegram was, as telegrams always are, terrifying in its vagueness, and spoke of the mail-bags as “floating about.” When one remembered the vast size of the breakers on which this floating would take place, it sounded hopeless for our letters. They turned up, however, a few days later, in a pulpy state, it is true, but quite readable, though the envelopes were curiously blended and engrafted upon the letters inside, so much so that they required to be taken together, for it was impossible to separate them. I had recourse to the expedient of spreading my letters on a dry towel and draining them, before proceeding to turn over the pages with a knife and fork.