Every day's experience of the climate of Bombay assures me that, in what is called the cold season, at least, it is the most treacherous in the world; and that, moreover, its dangers are not sufficiently guarded against by the inhabitants. Cold weather, such as takes place during the period from November to March, in all parts of Bengal, is not felt here, the days being more or less sultry, and tempered only by cold, piercing winds.
The land-wind, which blows alternately with the sea-breezes, comes fraught with all the influences most baneful to health; cramps, rheumatic pains, even head-aches and indigestion, brought on by cold, are the consequences to susceptible persons of exposure to this wind, either during the day or the night: so severe and so manifold are the pains and aches which attend it, that I feel strongly inclined to believe that Bombay, and not "the vexed Bermoothes," was the island of Prospero, and that the plagues showered upon Caliban still remain. Though the progress of acclimation can scarcely fail to be attended by danger to life or limb, the process, when completed, seems to be very effectual, since little or no pains are taken by the old inhabitants to guard against the evil.
Some of the withdrawing-rooms of Bombay are perfectly open at either end, and though the effect is certainly beautiful--a charming living landscape of wood and water, framed in by the pillars at the angles of the chamber--yet it is enjoyed at too great a risk. Dining-rooms are frequently nearly as much exposed, the aim of everybody apparently being to admit as great a quantity of air as possible, no matter from what point of the compass it blows. Strangers, therefore, however guarded they may be in their own apartments, can never emerge from them without incurring danger, and it is only by clothing themselves more warmly than can be at all reconciled with comfort, that they can escape from rheumatic or other painful attacks.
These land-winds are also very destructive to the goods and chattels exposed to them; desks are warped and will not shut, leather gloves and shoes become so dry that they shrink and divide, while all unseasoned wood is speedily split across. It is said that the hot weather is never so fierce in Bombay as in Bengal, the sea-breezes, which sometimes blow very strongly, and are not so injurious as those from the land, affording a daily relief.