T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.

REST.

    In deepest weariness I lay so still
      One might have thought it death,
    For hush of motion and a sleep of will
      Gave me but soundless breath.

    And yet I slept not; only knew that Rest
      Held me all close to her: 
    Softly but firmly fettered to her breast,
      I had no wish to stir.

    “Oh, if,” I thought, “death would but be like this!—­
      Neither to sleep nor wake,
    But have for ages just this conscious bliss,
      That perfect rest I take.”

    The soul grows often weary, like the flesh: 
      May rest pervade her long,
    While she shall feel the joy of growing fresh
      For heavenly work and song!

CHARLOTTE F. BATES.

LETTERS FROM SOUTH AFRICA.

BY LADY BARKER.

MARITZBURG, February 10, 1876.

In the South African calendar this is set down as the first of the autumnal months, but the half dozen hours about mid-day 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 bedtime.  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 bugs who may also have a fancy for promenading at the same time and 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 what the Scotch call “mak siccar” with a candle before beginning a constitutional 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.  At this moment, too, the local papers are full of recipes for the prevention and cure of snake-bites, public attention being much attracted to the subject on account of an Englishman having been bitten by a black “mamba” (a very venomous adder) a short time since, and having died of the wound in a few hours.  In his case, poor man! there does not seem to have been a chance from the first, for he was obliged to walk some distance to the nearest house, and as they had no proper remedies there, he had to be taken on a farther journey of some miles to a hospital.  All this exercise and motion caused the poison to circulate freely through the