It was upon these tanks and a few poor wells that Aden at one time depended entirely for water, until in fact, in the fifteenth century, when Abdul Wahab constructed the aqueduct that brought water from Bir Ahmed into the town. Beyond these tanks there is but little to see of the long-past glories of old Aden; nor have the Arabs displayed in their modern buildings, with the exception of one decorative mosque, any attempt at architectural beauty. Mons. de Merveille, who visited Aden in 1708, has left a description of the ruins of wonderful marble baths that he saw at that time; but no remains of these are known to exist to-day, nor is there any trace of the mosque built by Yasir or the pulpit of the Day Imran. In fact, beyond the tanks, its historical traditions, and the strange peoples who flock its streets, Aden can claim but little to interest the traveller. What a sight the bazaars of Aden present of an evening! Often and often I would drive out just to spend the last hour or two of daylight in idly sauntering through its streets. What strange peoples are to be seen there! Indians gorgeous in scarlet and gold and tinsel; Somalis in their plain white _tobes_, their hair left long and hanging like the cords of a Russian poodle on either side of their heads, and often their raven locks are dyed a strange brick-dust red colour by a clay they smear over them; Arabs, too, with long black silky curls bursting from under their small turbans, nude fellows, except for their loin-cloth of native-dyed indigo cotton, the colour of which clings to their copper skins with strange effect; creeping, crawling Jews; niggers from Zanzibar; Persians and Arabs from Bagdad; Parsees and Greeks. Then is the time, when the heat of the day is over, to seek some _café_ at the corner of a street, and watch the people pass. Here at a table four Somali warriors, glorious in their very blackness, are playing dominoes with the manners of _bourgeois_ on the boulevards; there a group of Arabs are chatting over a hubble-bubble pipe, the mouthpiece of which they pass one to another, over cups of the husks of the coffee-berry, their favourite beverage. Great strings of camels pass and repass in the street. Rickety cabs rattle along, the drivers calling to the crowd to make way; and throughout the whole permeates Tommy Atkins, sublime in his self-consciousness, and a very good fellow withal. Ay, the bazaars of an evening are a sight to be seen,—a collection of strange peoples, only to be equalled perhaps on the bridge between Stamboul and Galata at Constantinople. There remains but one more sight to see in Aden, the tunnel that connects the town with the isthmus, and which passes under the Munsoorie hills. This excavation is three hundred and fifty yards in length, and is lit throughout with artificial lights. It is sufficiently high and wide to allow of carriage and caravan traffic. A second tunnel connects two separate portions of the isthmus lines.