It lies at the height of 7,000 feet above the sea.
While London is a perfect gridiron, here am I, at 13 degrees North from the equator, by a blazing wood fire, with my windows closed.

My bed is heaped with blankets, and my black servants are coughing round me in all directions.

One poor fellow in particular looks so miserably cold that, unless the sun comes out, I am likely soon to see under my own roof the spectacle which, according to Shakespeare, is so interesting to the English,--a dead Indian.

[The Tempest, act ii.

scene 2.] I travelled the whole four hundred miles between this and Madras on men's shoulders.