Getting my baggage into a hand-cart, I set off for the hotel, where at least was shade and tolerable coolness, say some 90° Fahrenheit. But in spite of its dreary aspect, in spite of the dull monotony of its colouring, one gets quite fond of Aden. The cheery hospitality of the garrison, the gorgeous early mornings and evenings, the delicious warm January nights, the club, the verandahs of which are laved by the sea, the white hulls of the men-of-war in the bay, and the pleasant evenings spent under their awnings, dispel all the unfavourable impressions which are at first so numerous and apparent. In a few days one has forgotten that the whole place, from the top of Sham-sham down to the sandy isthmus, is all a volcanic hideosity; one has forgotten that the whole is so impregnated with salt as to almost forbid any verdure to grow, and that, should it by chance take root, the sun is there to kill it. One sees after a time only the picturesqueness of the place,—the strange torn mountain-peaks; the gay thronging crowd of many nationalities all bent on their several businesses, except the Jews, who seem bent upon everybody else’s; and the Somalis, who are as indifferent to the general world as they are to the heat, excepting when a passing steamer lands for an hour or two a flock of extraordinarily habited travellers—and then the cabs fly backwards and forwards, the ponies kicking up the dust, their feet rattling along the hard roads and making almost as much noise as the cracking of the jehus’ whips; then the Jews, the money-changers, pass and repass, spilling their coins one by one from hand to hand, until the very jingling drives one frantic; and the black urchins, who have learnt English enough to lie with facility, and to beg, worry, and bother until they are paid to go away, appear. Then the curio-seller, be he Greek or Jew or swarthy Indian, creeps out from amongst his moth-eaten lion and leopard skins and his boxes of stale “Turkish delight,” and with outstretched hands bids the traveller enter. Then, too, there is the jingling of long tumblers on the wide verandah of the hotel, and a crowd of boats in readiness at the landing-place. Just like a flock of locusts they come and stay their hour or two, and just like a flock of locusts they go, some outward bound, some returning home; and Steamer Point is itself again. Often as Aden has been described, it is necessary here to make some mention of its various sights and the varied scenes it presents; for, as part and parcel of the Yemen, it cannot be passed over in a book that attempts to deal with that country. If, however, the reader has been there, or has read more pretentious accounts of it, let him skip it over.