A journey through the Yemen and some general remarks upon that country

By Harris

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Title: A journey through the Yemen and some general remarks upon that country

Author: Walter Harris

Release date: August 28, 2025 [eBook #76757]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: W. Blackwood, 1893

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN AND SOME GENERAL REMARKS UPON THAT COUNTRY ***

A JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN

[Illustration: BAZAAR AT DHAMAR.]

A
JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN
AND
SOME GENERAL REMARKS UPON
THAT COUNTRY

BY
WALTER B. HARRIS, F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF
‘THE LAND OF AN AFRICAN SULTAN; TRAVELS IN MOROCCO’

_ILLUSTRATED FROM SKETCHES AND PHOTOGRAPHS
TAKEN BY THE AUTHOR_

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCXCIII

_All Rights reserved_

MY FATHER AND MOTHER

_I DEDICATE THIS BOOK_.

PREFACE.

But very few words are necessary as a preface to this book, as more than
once in its pages its objects are stated.

An account of my journey through the Yemen appeared last autumn in a
series of articles in the ‘Illustrated London News,’ and it is with
kind permission of the proprietors of that paper that some of the
illustrations reappear here. Many of the illustrations, however, have not
seen the light of day before.

The chapter on the Yemen rebellion was published as an article in
‘Blackwood’s Magazine’ for February last.

The remainder of the book consists of entirely new matter.

I cannot attempt to thank here the many persons who aided me and rendered
me services during the time I was in the Yemen. Without their assistance
my journey would probably have failed. To them I am most grateful.

W. B. H.

_Sept. 1893._

CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAGE

PART I.—SOME GENERAL REMARKS ON THE YEMEN.

I. THE YEMEN, 3

II. THE YEMEN BEFORE THE HEJIRA, 27

III. THE YEMEN SINCE THE HEJIRA, 47

IV. THE INFLUENCES OF ISLAM IN THE YEMEN, 70

V. THE REBELLION IN THE YEMEN, 92

PART II.—A JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN.

I. ADEN, 121

II. ADEN TO LAHEJ, 151

III. LAHEJ TO KHOREIBA, 174

IV. ACROSS THE TURKISH FRONTIER, 200

V. SOBEH TO YERIM, 223

VI. YERIM TO DHAMAR, 247

VII. DHAMAR TO SANAA, 263

VIII. SANAA, THE CAPITAL OF THE YEMEN, 299

IX. SANAA TO MENAKHA, 323

X. MENAKHA To HODAIDAH, 341

XI. HODAIDAH, 358

APPENDIX.

GENEALOGICAL AND CHRONOLOGICAL TREE OF THE IMAMS OF SANAA, 374

A LIST OF THE IMAMS OF SANAA, GIVING THEIR FULL TITLES, 375

PEDIGREE OF THE REIGNING ABDALI SULTAN OF LAHEJ, 376

INDEX, 377

ILLUSTRATIONS.

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS.

BAZAAR AT DHAMAR, _Frontispiece_

COFFEE PLANTATION ON TERRACES AT ATTARA, NEAR
MENAKHA, _To face page_ 8

VIEW OF MOUNTAIN-RANGES NEAR SÔK EL-KHAMIS, ON THE
ROAD FROM SANAA TO HODAIDAH, ” 18

ANCIENT TANK AT MENURA, NEAR DHAMAR, ” 38

HOWTA, THE CAPITAL OF LAHEJ, ” 60

MENAKHA, ” 110

TOMB AND MOSQUE OF SHEIKH OTHMAN NEAR ADEN, ” 122

PALACE OF THE SULTAN OF LAHEJ, ” 162

MY RECEPTION BY THE SULTAN OF LAHEJ, ” 170

KHOREIBA, ” 198

VIEW OF AZAB, ” 218

MAN AND WOMAN OF THE HIGHLANDS OF THE YEMEN, ” 228

MOSQUE AT BEIT SAÏD, ” 232

UPPER FLOOR OF A KHAN AT YERIM, ” 248

MY QUARTERS AT DHAMAR, ” 260

KARIAT EN-NEGIL, ” 262

JIBEL DORAN—EARLY MORNING, ” 282

KHADAR, ” 286

VIEW FROM WAALAN, ” 288

THE AUTHOR BEING EXAMINED AND HIS PASSPORT READ IN THE
PRESENCE OF AHMED FEIZI PASHA, GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF
THE YEMEN, ” 292

MENAKHA, FROM THE NORTH, ” 322

THE VILLAGE OF EL-HAJRA, ” 342

TURKISH CAMP OF HOJAILA, ” 348

GATE OF A WALLED VILLAGE IN THE YEMEN, ” 354

ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT.

A NATIVE OF THE TEHÁMA, 68

A YEMENI, 78

JEW OF THE YEMEN, 82

TURKISH TROOPS ON THE MARCH, 103

MAIN PASS, ADEN, 144

A VALLEY IN YEMEN, 193

CASTLE OF AMIR OF DHALA, 195

A GIRL OF THE YEMEN, 204

VILLAGE OF AREDOAH, 213

BEIT EN-NEDISH, 226

INSCRIBED STONE AT MUNKAT, NEAR YERIM, 243

MOSQUE AND MINARET AT DHAMAR, 259

HIRRAN, 273

CAVE-TOMBS, HIRRAN, 274

GROUND-PLAN OF TOMB III., 275

INTERIOR OF TOMB III., HAIT HIRRAN, 276

ENTRANCE TO TOMB IV., HAIT HIRRAN, 277

THE AUTHOR IN PRISON AT SANAA, 295

TURKISH OFFICERS IN A _CAFÉ_ AT SANAA, 308

TURKISH MOSQUE AT SANAA, AS SEEN FROM THE PRISON WINDOW, 316

TURKISH SOLDIER, 317

GORGE NEAR MENAKHA, 332

VIEW NEAR WISIL, 344

A STREET IN HODAIDAH, 364

MAPS.

ADEN AND ITS SURROUNDINGS, _To face page_ 122

DHAMAR TO SANAA, ” 264

THE COUNTRY OF THE YEMEN, _At the end_

A JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN.

PART I.

SOME GENERAL REMARKS ON THE YEMEN

CHAPTER I.

THE YEMEN.

The Yemen may be described as forming the south-west corner of Arabia.
So little is known of the geography of the interior, and to such a
slight extent do even the natives define the boundaries between their
own land and the surrounding provinces, that any exact description of
the country is impossible. The same may be said of nearly all oriental
frontiers, except where, taking an example from European customs, a clear
line of demarcation has been agreed upon; for, as a rule, limits depend
far more upon tribal position and inheritance than upon any natural
features of the land in question; and in many cases in the settlement of
frontier questions with oriental Powers, even European Governments have
been obliged to follow upon these lines. This is especially clearly
exemplified in the case of the Algerian and Moroccan frontier, in the
southern parts of which no absolute boundary has been fixed, certain
tribes, whether in French or Moorish territory, belonging to whichever of
the two nationalities under which they are enrolled.

How infinitely difficult it is, then, in the case of the Yemen, to state
where that province begins and ends, will be appreciated.

As to two of its limits, the task of definition is simple; for on the
west the Red Sea, and on the south that portion of the Indian Ocean
known as the Gulf of Aden, allow of no question. On the north and east
far more serious difficulties arise. Without attempting to delineate any
exact frontier, which, with our present geographical knowledge of the
country, would fail at the best to be anything more than roughly correct,
more general terms must be used than would be justifiable in a more
pretentious work than the present.

It may be stated, then, that the province of Arabia known as the Yemen
is bounded on the east by the Hadramaut tribes, and on the north by the
Asir, although some authorities include the latter, making the north
frontier of the Yemen adjacent with the southern limit of the Hejaz,
the province of Arabia in which are situated the holy cities of Mecca
and Medina. As far as the writer was able to gather, however, from the
natives themselves, the Asir is considered to be an entirely different
district, although its inhabitants are nearly related to the Yemenis by
blood. In fact, it may be said without much exaggeration that the present
divisions of Arabia as marked upon the maps are but little in advance
geographically of the ancient Greek and Roman arbitrary distinctions of
Arabia Felix, Arabia Petræa, and Arabia Deserta. Even allowing for the
widest limits claimed for the Yemen, the whole country lies between 42°
and 46° east longitude and 12° and 20° north latitude.

Although no natural formation of the Yemen can assist one in correctly
determining its inland frontiers, the same cannot be said of the two
great divisions into which the country is split up. These are so apparent
that, from the earliest geographers to the present day, they have
remained unchanged and fully recognised. But in order to appreciate this,
a few words must be said as to the formation of the country. While the
interior consists of vast mountain-ranges and elevated plateaux, some of
which lie at an altitude of over eight thousand feet above the sea-level,
the seaboard consists, both on the west and south, of low-lying sandy
deserts and plains, varying in breadth from thirty to nearly a hundred
miles. The only exception where a spur of the mountains approaches the
sea is at the headland of Sidi Sheikh, the south-west corner of the Red
Sea—a spur of land a few miles in width exactly opposite the island of
Perim, from which it is divided by a narrow channel. It may be remembered
that only a few years back there was a false report that France had
purchased this advantageous spot from the Turkish Government.

The formation of these maritime plains is such that it may be safely
surmised that a very considerable portion, at least of what is now
desert, was at one time covered by the sea. So fast, indeed, has been the
silting action, that more than one former port now lies well inland. As
an example of this, Sir R. L. Playfair, in his excellent ‘History of the
Yemen,’ mentions the town of Muza, once a flourishing sea-port, now over
twenty miles inland. In many places, too, shells and chips of coral are
to be found at great distances from the coast. The same retrograde action
of the sea can be traced, too, at Aden, which was, no doubt, at one time
an island, and is now joined to the mainland by a low isthmus, formed by
the silting of sea-sand upon a submarine basis of rock.

The name Teháma is applied to these plains of the Yemen. It is a district
exceedingly subject to drought, and with a very small rainfall. What
water-supply it boasts, with the exception of oases, is principally due
to the mountain torrents, which, originating in the highlands, rush
impetuously down the steep slopes, usually to be entirely exhausted by
the desert before reaching the sea. It is said, however, that even in
the driest seasons water may be found by sinking wells in the river-beds.
Although the supply thus obtained is sufficient to maintain the lives
of Bedouins and their flocks and herds, it is far from proving of any
great utility to cultivation, in such spots where, even in good years,
cultivation is possible. However, fortunately for the inhabitants,
there are scattered over these deserts many oases, where cereals can be
reared with tolerable certainty of reaping the crops. The poor quality
of the soil as a rule renders agriculture, except in the most favourable
positions, an unprofitable pursuit. The plains serve, too, for the
breeding of camels,—those of the Abdali and Foudtheli country, lying
to the north and north-east of Aden, being especially famous for their
swiftness and carrying capabilities.

The Jibál, or highlands, display entirely opposite features. Enormous
ranges of mountains rise abruptly from the Teháma to great altitudes, in
places probably 14,000 and 15,000 feet. These ranges for the most part
take a general south-easterly direction, and are split up into a series
of wide, fertile, parallel valleys. It was doubtless the luxuriance and
agricultural wealth, added to the attractiveness of the climate, of this
portion of Arabia, that won for the Yemen in former days the title of
Arabia Felix. In these great valleys the coffee is grown, sharing with
the production of the indigo-plant and other dye-giving species the
attention of the mountaineers. Added to this, the climate is such as to
allow nearly all European vegetables to grow and flourish, and also many
varieties of fruit-trees. The nature of the country renders necessary
for cultivation the terracing of the steep mountain-sides, and over this
laborious task an almost incredible amount of work and time is expended.
But of this I shall have opportunity of speaking anon.

There is, as might be expected, a vast difference in the temperature of
the highlands and the plains. While at Aden and the surrounding country
the thermometer averages all the year round some 85° Fahrenheit, it
probably does not rise above a mean of 61° or 62° in the shade at Sanaa,
the capital of the Yemen, where, as in all the elevated country, frosts
are by no means uncommon in winter. Nor is it solely in temperature
that great differences are apparent with regard to the low and high
elevations; for whereas also in the former the rainfall is uncertain and
sometimes almost nil,[1] the mountain country boasts two regular wet
seasons—in spring and in autumn respectively. In this respect the seasons
may be said to correspond with those of the plateaux of Harrar and the
Galla country. In both cases the rain is said to be of almost daily
occurrence, but lasting only a short time, the showers being broken by
periods of bright sunshine.

Nothing can be imagined more beautiful than the scenery of the mountains
of the Yemen. Torn into all manner of fantastic peaks, the rocky crags
add a wildness to a view that otherwise possesses the most peaceful
charms. Rich green valleys, well timbered in places, and threaded
by silvery streams of dancing water; sloping fields, gay with crops
and wild-flowers; the terraced or jungle-covered slopes,—all are so
luxuriant, so verdant, that one’s ideas as to the nature of Arabia are
entirely upset. Well known as is, and always has been, the fertility
of this region, its extent is almost startling, and it can little be
wondered at that Alexander the Great intended, after his conquest of
India, to take up his abode in the Yemen, had not death cut short his
career.

[Illustration: COFFEE PLANTATION ON TERRACES AT ATTARA, NEAR MENAKHA.]

Thus briefly described, it will be seen that the Yemen consists of
two entirely different systems of country, influenced by two entirely
different climates: the one arid plains, without much appreciable
rainfall; the other a mountainous district, producing cereals, dyes,
aromatic gums, coffee, and other rich produce—a country of valleys and
plateaux, well watered withal, and enjoying a climate that for salubrity
may be said to equal any in the tropics. Having now pointed out in a
general way the difference of the two districts, I purpose to enter a
little more definitely into the description of each.

To commence with the Teháma, as being the seaboard. It consists, as
already stated, of plains varying from thirty to a hundred miles in
breadth, and separating the highlands from the sea, both on the west
and south. These, for the sake of distinction, I shall call respectively
the western and southern Teháma. The former contains some five cities
of importance, situated either on the coast of the Red Sea or in that
district which divides it from the mountains. Almost in the Asir country
lies Lohaya, a small town on the coast, to which I shall refer more
particularly in a chapter on the Yemen rebellion. Proceeding south, the
next coast town of importance is Hodaidah, to-day the capital of that
portion of the Yemen, and still farther south Mokha. As it was my lot
to spend a week in the fever-stricken town of Hodaidah, I shall reserve
anything I have to say about it for another opportunity; but as it was
my ill fortune to see Mokha only from the sea and not to land there,
and as I shall therefore not have to narrate any personal experiences
in reference to it, I shall add some description of the place and its
history at this juncture.

There is certainly no name of any city in the Yemen as familiar to
Englishmen as that of Mokha, with the exception of Aden. This it owes
to its having for a long time enjoyed almost the sole reputation of the
export city of the coffee-berry. However, it is not generally known that
no coffee grows at all in the immediate vicinity of Mokha, and that
all that was shipped from there was previously carried to the city by
caravans from the mountains, often over very great distances. Almost as
suddenly as Mokha rose to fame has it fallen again. Before the arrival in
the Red Sea of the English and Portuguese traders it scarcely existed at
all, the outlets for the trade of this portion of the Yemen being Okelis
and Muza. It was not, in fact, until the fifteenth century A.D. that
Mokha became a place of resort for ships, and it owes its origin more
to the discovery of coffee than to any advantages or attractions of its
own. In the early part of the seventeenth century the English and Dutch
founded trading “factories” there, and from that time for a period of
some two hundred years its fame and wealth were renowned. Van den Broeck
describes the place as it existed at the time of his visit in 1616, and
notes that to such an extent has its trade recently augmented that goods
from Hungary and Venice were found in the market, which had been carried
by caravans the whole length of Arabia, to be exchanged for the produce
of the far east.[2] He further describes the town as a most flourishing
community, containing within its walls numbers of numerous nationalities
who had flocked there on hearing of its fame and renown.

A century after the Dutch and English had founded their factories the
French followed their example, while in 1803 the Americans commenced
to trade direct with the Red Sea ports. On the British occupation of
Aden in 1839, the immense superiority of that place as a port, and the
security and advantages assured by British rule, drew the commerce from
Mokha thence, the former celebrated city fast falling to decay and
ruin.[3] Before this period, however, serious outrages had been offered
to British subjects, and during the first twenty years of this century
there had been constant trouble brewing between the fanatical natives and
the Christians, augmented no doubt by the jealousy felt by the former
for the manner in which the Europeans had annexed their trade. More
extraordinary still than these outrages was the manner in which their
perpetration was looked upon by the British Government, and it was not
until things became unbearable that forcible means were taken to punish
the offenders, and in 1820 a force under Captain Bruce, who had been sent
thither to enforce a treaty with the Imam’s Amir, and Captain Lumley of
H.M.S. Topaz, bombarded Mokha, and succeeded in forcing an entry into the
town. The result of this long-delayed act of reparation on the part of
the Indian Government was the placing upon an honourable footing of the
British “factory,” and the carrying through of a treaty of commerce with
the Government of the Yemen.[4]

Although the author did not land in Mokha, the captain of the steamer
on which he proceeded from Hodaidah to Aden very kindly approached as
near the shore as was compatible with the ship’s course, and with the aid
of glasses a very good view of the place was obtained. From a distance
it still has the appearance of being a flourishing town, but on nearer
approach one can see that, although the walls of the houses are still
standing, the roofs and floors have for the most part fallen in, and
Mokha is to-day little more than a vast ruin, from which a few tall
minarets still rise to tell of its former beauties. A handful of Turkish
soldiers and a few Bedouins are all that remain of its once heterogeneous
population; and where once the streets were filled with richly robed
merchants, goats feed to-day on the coarse weeds.

As Lohaya and Hodaidah are more particularly mentioned elsewhere in this
book, little more remains to be said of the ports of the western Teháma.
Some mention must be made, however, of the islands of Kamaran and Perim,
the two most important of the many that lie on the eastern side of this
part of the Red Sea. The former owes its importance to-day from the fact
that it is a British possession, and serves as the quarantine station of
the pilgrims going to and returning from Jeddah, _en route_ to and from
Mecca. It is situated in latitude 15° 20′ N. and longitude 42° 30′ E.,
and is about ten miles in length, varying from two to four wide. In some
parts it is little more than a swamp, in others some low hills allow of
the growth of palm-trees; but the inhabitants are nearly all engaged in
the pearl and turtle fisheries.[5]

The other island which may be included in a description of the Teháma
is Perim. It is situated in the Straits of Bab el-Mandeb, a mile and a
half from the Arabian and about ten miles from the African shores. It is
formed of dark volcanic igneous rock and plains of sand on which a few
sand-loving flowers grow. The highest point of the island is between two
and three hundred feet above the sea-level. What, however, compensates
for its aridness and hideous character is the grand harbour it possesses.
This bay is a mile long by half a mile wide, well sheltered, and
averaging a depth of five fathoms in the good anchorages. In 1799, in
consequence of the invasion of Egypt by the French, a British naval
force, under Admiral Blanket, proceeded to the Red Sea, while the
Bombay Government, acting in conjunction with the other force, seized
Perim in the name of the East India Company. No fresh water, however,
being procurable, it was during the next year abandoned as a station
for troops. To-day, under the hands of the Perim Coal Company not only
offices but a hotel has been erected there, and the place promises to
become a flourishing coaling-station. All the water is, of course,
produced by condensers. A few British troops are habitually quartered
there, being sent from time to time for that purpose from Aden, and there
is telegraphic communication both with that port and Hodaidah.

Two cities of importance lie in the interior of the western
Teháma—namely, Zebeed and Beit el-Fakih. The former has throughout all
the medieval history of the Yemen played a part of great importance;
for not only has Zebeed been a seat of learning and art, but also has
been inseparably connected with all the great civil wars and religious
differences that have from time to time shaken the Yemen to its very
foundations. Before the invasion of the Turks it was the capital and
seat of government of the Teháma, though to-day Hodaidah has usurped its
position as such.

The foundations of Zebeed were laid by Ibn Ziad after his conquest of
the Teháma in 204 A.H.[6] The city is described not only by Omarah but
also by many other native historians, who one and all make mention of
its political importance as well as of its size. The account most to
the point, perhaps, is that of El Khasraji, who states that the city is
circular in form; that near it to the south flows the river of the same
name, while to the north is the Wadi Rima, the two ensuring a fertile
situation and a constant water-supply. He adds that it stood midway
between the mountains and the sea, and almost equidistant from both, the
time taken to reach either the one or the other being half a day.

Of Beit el-Fakih little need be said here, as to-day it is a place of but
slight importance. Like all these cities of the Teháma, it is irregularly
built of sun-dried mud bricks. Its name, “The House of the Scholar,”
is derived from its being the place of burial of a certain Seyed Ahmed
ibn Musa, whose tomb is still much reverenced and visited as a place of
veneration. The town possesses no claim to interest either politically or
commercially.

The next portion of the Yemen of which notice must here be taken are
the plains commencing from the Straits of Bab el-Mandeb, and extending
to some sixty miles east of Aden. These plains are included in the
Teháma, but in order to distinguish them from that part already noticed,
I describe them as the southern Teháma. Like the western Teháma, they
separate the mountains from the sea, and in many respects these two
portions of desert bear great resemblance. The southern Teháma varies
from fifty to a hundred miles in breadth, and is inhabited by wild
tribes, the most important of which are the Subaiha, the Abdali, and
the Foudtheli, the first being nomad in character. These plains boast
no cities of any size except Howta, the capital of the Sultan of Lahej,
chief of the Abdali tribe, which lies some twenty-seven miles north-west
of Aden, and Taiz,—though the latter, from its situation on a spur of
the mountains, may be said rather to dominate than to belong to these
southern plains. Ibn Khaldun, in his geography of the Yemen, refers to
Taiz as an important city overlooking the Teháma, and mentions that it
had at all times been a royal residence. Without much further mention
of this city, which the author did not visit, a few remarks may be made
upon its later history. Owing to jealousies between members of its ruling
family, a certain Seyed Kassim, uncle to the then ruling Imam, Ali
Mansur, treacherously sold the place to the Egyptians in 1837, and it
was taken without resistance by Ibrahim Pasha, a general in the service
of the famous Mahammed Ali Pasha, who held it until in 1840 a fanatical
Mahdi el-Fakih Saïd took the town, only to have it wrested from him in
1841 by the Imam Seyed Mahammed el-Hadi. During the late Yemen rebellion
it fell into the hands of the Arabs, for formerly it lay within the limit
of Turkish influence, and has probably by this time been reoccupied by
the Osmanli troops.

With these few remarks upon the plain districts of the Yemen, scanty as
they are, notice may now be taken of the mountainous districts. Such
parts as the author travelled through will be more minutely treated
of in the narration of his journey, together with the towns of Yerim,
Dhamar, and Sanaa, the three principal cities of the Yemen plateaux.
However, there are other places of importance to which reference must
be made here, and which, although not situated upon the plateau, must
by their position be included in this division of the Yemen. Of these
the most important are Ibb and Jiblah. Both of these mountain-fortresses
are of some antiquity, and have played no mean part in the history of
the country. Ibb is mentioned by Omarah as being situated upon the great
pilgrim-road built by Huseyn ibn Salaamah, a slave-vizier, which led
from the Hadramaut, east of Aden, to Mecca itself, which was constructed
about the year 400 A.H. After leaving Aden this great pilgrim-route was
split up into two parts, one proceeding _viâ_ Ibb and the mountains,
joining the author’s route at Kariat en-Nekil, north of Dhamar; the other
following the Teháma. The road which leads _viâ_ Ibb proceeds through
Sanaa, and thence _viâ_ Sadah and Taif to the Holy City.

Jiblah, or Dhu Jiblah, as it was formerly called, owes its name to
the fact that it was built upon the site of a pottery belonging to a
Jew, Jiblah by name. It lies some ten miles to the south-west of Ibb.
Ibn Khaldun gives a short description of the place. It is, he says, a
fortress, and was founded by Abdullah, the Sulayhite, in the year 458
A.H. Like Taiz, it was a royal residence.

[Illustration: VIEW OF MOUNTAIN-RANGES NEAR SÔK EL-KHAMIS.

_On the road from Sanaa to Hodaidah._]

The other cities of the mountain district, lying principally north of
Sanaa, the capital, and therefore not coming under that portion of the
country which it was the author’s lot to travel over, will be noticed
anon.

Rough as these notes are, they will, I venture to think, help to
illustrate the map. To attempt here the task of identifying the ancient
sites with modern names would be not only a task of great difficulty,
but also one unsuitable to the present book. Mr Kay, in his most able
translation of Omarah’s History, has pointed out how extremely laborious
and uncertain has been his attempt to do so, even with such maps as
to-day exist of the country. The author, after consideration, thought it
more advisable to avoid entering into discussions that bear but little
relation to his work, and would, he fears, but prove uninteresting to
the general reader. He has therefore confined his geographical notes to
such portions of the country as he himself passed through, supplemented
by a few remarks upon places that demand some notice, either from their
importance to-day or from historical interest. In the chapter relating to
the history of the country the same course has been pursued, a few pages
of print being put aside for what would fill volumes were it taken in
hand.

Having now treated of the Yemen as it appears from a cursory glance
at the map, it is intended to enter a little more fully into its
description, unconnected with its natural formation of plains and
highlands.

Ibn Khaldun, in the preface to his Geography, states that the Yemen
is divided into seven royal seats of Government;[7] but Niebuhr gives
a larger list of provinces, which is again added to by Sir Lambert
Playfair. These divisions of the country, it must be understood, are
entirely Arab in origin, and to-day have been more or less altered to
suit the Turks. However, on inquiry from the natives, the writer found
that, although disregarded by the Osmanli conquerors, the names are still
in common use amongst the indigenous peoples.

The author gives the list of these provinces in the order in which they
are printed in Playfair’s ‘Yemen’:—

Aden.
The Teháma.
Sanaa.
Lahej.
Kaukeban.
Beled el-Kabail (Hashid wa Bakil).
Abou Arish.
A district lying between Abou Arish and the Hejaz, inhabited by
Bedouins, &c.
Khaulán.
Sahán (including Sadah).
Nejrán.
Nehm.
East Khaulán (several small principalities).
Beled el-Jehaf (or Mareb),
and
Yaffa.

“These are,” says Playfair, “as nearly as they can be classified, the
great political divisions of the country; but numerous smaller states
and tribes exist which cannot be classed with propriety in any of the
above districts, yet which are too insignificant to require a separate
notice.”[8]

The first two of these provinces, the _Teháma_ and _Aden_, are described
elsewhere. The third is _Sanaa_, taking its name from the city, the
capital of the Yemen. On account of continued wars and struggles, its
boundaries have for ever been shifting. Within the province are situated
the cities of Dhamar, Yerim, Rodaa, Ibb, Jiblah, Kátaba, Taiz, and Hais.

_Lahej_ is described more fully elsewhere, so there is little further
need to make mention of it here, except to roughly indicate its limits;
for under this title are contained not only the tribe-lands of the Abdali
Sultan, but also the Subaiha, Akrabi, Foudtheli, and Houshabi tribes.
The country inhabited by these Arabs of the Plains may be said to extend
from the Straits of Bab el-Mandeb to about eighty miles east of Aden. The
country is poor, and boasts but one or two towns, but many large villages.

The next province is _Kaukeban_, which, with _Beled el-Kabail_, _Abou
Arish_, and _Beni Hallel_, may be taken altogether. The latter tribe
inhabit a strip of plain country along the borders of the Red Sea,
while the three former include that portion of the country lying to the
north-east and east of Beni Hallel, and extending as far east as a line
drawn from Sanaa due north.

North again of Abou Arish, and between that country and the Hejaz, is the
Asir, part of which is mountainous and part plains—the former inhabited
by dwellers in fixed abodes, and the latter by wild Bedouins.

North of Sanaa, and upon the road connecting that city with Mecca,
the continuation of the pilgrim-road of Huseyn ibn Salaamah mentioned
elsewhere, is the province of _Khaulán_, east of which again is _Sahán_,
included in the province and former principality of Sadah. This forms
one of the richest portions of the Yemen, being famous for fruits,
honey, and cattle. It consists of large valleys well watered, and at
such an elevation as to render them not only suitable for the growing of
fruit-trees, but also exceedingly healthy. Niebuhr mentions these tribes
as hospitable but inclined to robbery, and as speaking as pure Arabic as
is anywhere in use.

The next province is still more mountainous, and, on account of its
inaccessibility, has remained almost unconquered. It is known as
_Nejrán_, and consists of wide fertile valleys reaching nearly to the
desert of Akhaf. Like Khaulán, it is renowned for its cattle and fruit,
the breed of horses, too, being celebrated. They are said to be of the
famous Nejed strain.

The province of _Kahtan_, situated eleven days’ journey north of the
valley of Nejrán, is another example of the difficulties of fixing any
reliable frontier to the Yemen. Evidently it is inhabited by Yemeni
people, as it takes its name from the founder of that stock, Kahtan, who
is said to be no other than Joktan of the Jewish Scriptures.

_Eastern Khaulán_ lies to the north-east of the capital Sanaa. It
possessed formerly a celebrated city of the Jews, which is now said to be
almost entirely deserted. Although generally known by the name of Eastern
Khaulán, it in reality consists of a number of small principalities.

_Beled el-Jehaf_ may be said to form the extreme eastern division of
the northern portion of the Yemen, but whether it should be considered
as part of that country is open to doubt. It extends from a few days’
journey east of Sanaa as far as the desert that divides Oman from
Western Arabia. It is in this district that is situated the city of
Mareb, otherwise known as Saba or Sheba, whence the celebrated queen
visited Solomon. The natives have traditions of a Queen Balkis, whom
they affirm to have been the lady in question. However, this has been
proved impossible, as the dates do not correspond. It was at Saba that
the celebrated dam was built, the destruction of which, about one hundred
years A.D., wrought such widespread destruction. A few words about this
prodigious building will be found in reference to the tanks at Aden in
the chapter upon that possession.

The last of the list of provinces is _Yaffa_, which lies between the
Hadramaut on the east and south, and the districts of Lahej and Sanaa on
the north and west. It became independent some two centuries ago, up to
that time having been under the rule of the Imams of Sanaa.[9] It is a
rich fertile country, producing gums, cereals, and coffee. It possesses
three towns—Yaffa, Medinet el-Asfal, and Gharrah. Living in close
conjunction with the Yaffai tribe are the Oulaki, divided into the upper
and lower, their capitals being respectively Nisáb inland, and Howr on
the coast.[10]

These, then, are the principal provinces into which the Yemen is
considered by the natives to be divided, though to define exactly their
boundaries, as in the case of the frontiers of the whole country, would
be an impossible task.

With regard to the geography of the Yemen but few more words are needed,
in order to render clear the following pages of the narrative of the
author’s journey. Although an account is given elsewhere of the Turkish
dominion of the Yemen, it may be as well to delineate the present
frontier since the Osmanli occupation of the country, although again it
is almost an arbitrary one.

To commence from the south. The division between the Arab tribes of the
southern Teháma and Turkish Yemen commences some ten miles east of the
Straits of Bab el-Mandeb, and so includes the promontory of Sidi Sheikh,
which projects toward Perim Island, from which it is divided by a narrow
strait a mile and a half in width. From thence the frontier runs in a
north-easterly direction, passing a little to the east of Taiz, from
which it again turns more directly east, passing to the south of Mavia,
and, skirting the territory of the Amir of Dhala, includes the town of
Kátaba. From this spot it turns almost due north, keeping well to the
east of Yerim and Dhamar, although these towns, as a matter of fact, form
practically the eastern boundary of the Turkish Yemen. From Dhamar to
Sanaa the frontier runs almost due north and south, and may be said to
exist about forty to fifty miles east of a straight line drawn between
these two cities.

From Sanaa to the north the Turks claim authority as within their limits
over all the country lying to the west of a line drawn from Sanaa to the
south-eastern corner of the province of the Hejaz, although over the Asir
and other inaccessible mountain tribes their authority is purely nominal,
and has never been acknowledged to any extent.

It must not be thought that all the country lying within the frontier
thus described is securely under Turkish rule, for there are whole tribes
which do not, nor ever have done so, acknowledge anything more than a
nominal subjection to the Sublime Porte.

That these notes upon the geography of the Yemen will prove of but little
value to _savants_ the writer knows only too well; but if his journey was
unproductive of any scientific or historical discoveries, it must be
borne in mind the period at which it was undertaken: that not only was
a rebellion still taking place, that a month or two before had shaken
the whole country to its very foundations, but also that the author was
by the Turks treated as a spy, and was more than once in great personal
danger from the Arabs. Under these circumstances he feels that he cannot
be blamed if his journey was devoid of any great results. All that he can
boast to have brought back with him is a story of travel and adventure,
and numerous photographs and notes, that will tend to throw light upon
the present condition of the Yemen, especially on what has been taking
place in that country since the Turkish occupation of the highlands in
1872. His narrative of travel tells a story of long night marches, and
of days spent in hiding; of a sojourn in a Turkish prison; and this
story, he trusts, will prove sufficient evidence that he had little or no
opportunity for research. It was owing to a mere chance that his notes
and photographs were saved from destruction by the Turkish authorities at
Sanaa.

If these pages tend to throw some light upon this most interesting corner
of Arabia, and help to show what the country and its inhabitants are
like, the author will be well satisfied with the result.

CHAPTER II.

THE YEMEN BEFORE THE HEJIRA.

Having in the last chapter briefly sketched the principal geographical
features of the Yemen, it remains now to make mention of its history.
The same remarks as were made as to the geography are applicable here,
that with the exception of certain periods which have been made the study
of archæologists and orientalists, there is but very little known of
the history of the Yemen, and there are long periods existing between
the times of which something has been written or translated that are
almost blanks. Nor is it on this account alone that the task of compiling
in two chapters so many centuries of historical matter is a difficult
one, for many of the times and dynasties of which there exists some
trustworthy account are all but unimportant in treating of the country
in general, what knowledge we possess in very many cases being simply
the genealogies of local princes and rulers. However, it is only by a
study of these shreds of history that we are able to gain any facts
concerning the condition of the country during the early centuries after
the introduction of Islam, for instance; and if they in themselves appeal
almost solely to the student of things oriental, they yet tend to throw
more light upon the inner life of the people than it would be possible to
gather elsewhere.

But the history of the Yemen is by no means confined to such a brief
period as that which has passed between the birth of Islam and to-day.
There exists a far more ancient and more wonderful history, of which,
unhappily, we know as yet but little, but which, should it even be
possible to make thorough examination of its monuments and records, may
prove that many of the existing civilisations sprang from the Yemen
and Hadramaut, and that the ancient Egyptians themselves, owed the
foundations of their arts and learning to the inhabitants of Southern
Arabia. Some light has been thrown lately upon the old civilisation of
Southern Arabia by the successful excavations carried on by Mr Theodore
Bent in Mashonaland, which have proved most clearly that the Arabs of
Southern Arabia were in touch with that distant quarter of Africa, and
not only in touch, but even so firmly rooted there as to erect forts and
temples, to build and to decorate, and to work the mines of that country.

At present scientific exploration of the Yemen and the other divisions of
Southern Arabia has been, for many reasons, so seldom undertaken that
there remains to be discovered there more than is probably to be found in
any part of the world. How rich the country is in archæological remains
may be judged from the quantity of inscriptions, &c., brought back by the
enterprising and scholarly Austrian Dr Glaser, to whom we owe nearly all
that is known of the earlier periods of Yemenite history. It was through
the extensive researches of this _savant_ that any conclusive data have
been given not only to individual sovereigns but to whole dynasties, with
the result that although far from perfect knowledge, very considerable
light has been thrown upon the early days of the Yemen.

Before, however, entering into any precise account of the historical
records of the Yemen, it may be as well to briefly mention a few
well-founded traditions generally accepted amongst the natives and
believed by themselves to be undisputable. In this they are, no doubt,
mainly right in the origin; but in attempting to trace their descent,
through periods later than those of the earliest times, they have to some
extent become confused. This is most apparent in the cases of the two
great divisions, or nations, which inhabited the Yemen, the weaker of
which, at times, finding similarity between names, claimed descent from a
common ancestor with the stronger, until by force of time no clear line
of division was possible in many cases.

Although there can be little doubt of a prehistoric and almost
pretraditional race inhabiting Southern Arabia, the only record worthy of
acceptance from native sources of their existence is their mention in the
Koran. No traditions exist as to them amongst the people to-day, or even
amongst those Arab historians of the middle ages who made special studies
of the subject.

The inhabitants of Southern Arabia may be divided into two great stems,
to which the names of Yemenite and Ishmaelite tribes have been very
properly given.

The Yemenite nation are the direct descendants of Kahtan, generally
identified with Joktan of the Jewish Scriptures, of the line of Shem, the
son of Noah, another of whose descendants, Hazarmaveth, gave his name to
what is to-day known as Hadramaut.

The second great division into which the inhabitants of the Yemen may be
divided are the descendants of Adnan, who was of the family of Ishmael,
son of Abraham: although unfortunately the connecting links are absent,
yet in spite of this there can be no doubt as to the fact. This Adnan
is said to have been the contemporary of Bukht Nasser, in other words
Nebuchadnezzar;[11] and it was the fierce wars waged by this monarch,
tradition relates, that drove the Ishmaelite tribes to seek refuge
amongst the Yemenite peoples. If this be the case, it is a marvellous
fact that two nations inhabiting the same country for such an enormous
period of time, and for the last twelve or thirteen hundred years united
in religious ideas, are able to-day to speak with any certainty as to
which branch they belong. Yet such is the case, with the exception of
certain Arab tribes who claim descent from Kahtan, the mistake arising
through certain similarities of names to be found amongst his descendants
and those of Adnan.

Each of these two divisions of the population are again split up into
sections, though in the case of the Yemenites such is not to be found
until the days of Himyar, son of Abd esh-shems and great-grandson of
Kahtan. It is unnecessary here to enumerate the tribes still existing
which claim to have sprung from the family of Himyar, more than to
mention the three principal ancestors on which their claims are based.
These are respectively Himyar himself, and Malik and Arib, sons of Zayd,
son of Kahtan, son of Abd esh-shems.

The family of Ishmael are likewise split up into many tribes, claiming
descent from three separate members of the posterity of Abraham—namely,
El-Yas, Kays Aylan, and Rabiah.

There yet remains another section which cannot be passed over without
notice, as commentators differ as to from which stem they originated.
These are the descendants of Kudaah. While some protest that their
ancestor was Himyar, son of Abd esh-shems, others claim that they are of
Ishmaelite descent, and ought to be enrolled under the heading of Arab
tribes. It is more than possible that in their case an early amalgamation
took place between the two stocks, and individuals adopted as their
ancestor whichever of the founders of the parties it best suited their
interests to put forward.

Such, then, was the origin of the two nations which to-day, still to be
distinguished from one another by their traditions of ancestry, form the
population of the Yemen.

Although there is no reason to doubt the genuineness of these traditions,
and in fact everything points to their being authentic, the next period
with which we come in contact is no longer a traditional one, but has
been handed down to us in monuments and inscriptions still existing. The
knowledge we have upon this period of the history of the Yemen is due to
the aforementioned Dr Edouard Glaser, who has successfully translated
over a thousand inscriptions, with the result of practically proving
the existence of two separate great dynasties that in succession held
sway over the country. In so doing, what was commonly believed to have
been the fact until his discoveries were made has been disproved, and an
entirely new epoch in the history of the world brought to light. I refer
to the dominion of the Minæan and Sabæan kings. It is, too, from these
records that there has been found to have existed, contemporarily with
early Egyptian times, a remarkable state of civilisation and commerce
in the Yemen, and what was wrongly believed to have been in early
pre-Islamic days a country of savagery, has been proved to have contained
a cultured population, skilled in art and excelling in commerce.
This fact doubtless to no small degree influenced the history of the
civilisation of the ancient world.

The earlier of the two great dynasties which at different epochs held
sway over the Yemen, if not also over the surrounding coasts of Africa,
was that of the Minæans, who are known in tradition as the Maïn.
Thirty-two names of kings of this dynasty have already been discovered;
and as a proof of the immense power they must have held, tablets
commemorative of their wars have been found as far removed from the
seat of their government as Teima, on the road from Damascus to Sinai;
while an inscription from Southern Arabia renders thanks to Astarte for
their escape from the ruler of Egypt and their safe return to their
own city of Quarnu. This votive tablet was erected by the governors of
Tsar and Ashur, which again speaks for the immense tract of country
owing allegiance to the Minæan king; for of these places one has been
identified as being situated near where the Suez Canal now passes. This
extension of frontier was doubtless owing to the great importance of the
trade-routes from East to West, the possession of which in later times
brought the otherwise unimportant Jewish kingdom so much to the fore.
But more important, perhaps, than the discovery that these peoples were
living in a state of considerable civilisation, and carrying on most
profitable commerce, is the fact of their knowledge of writing; for many
of the recently discovered inscriptions in the Yemen date from a period
contemporary with Egyptian hieroglyphics and Chaldæan cuneiform, and
earlier than any known inscription in the Phœnician characters.

Following upon the Minæan dynasty, of which, as before stated, thirty-two
kings are known by name, is that of the Sabæans: yet the nature of
the inscriptions shows that a very considerable period of time must
have elapsed between the two; for whereas, in the earlier specimens of
writing, full grammatical forms are found, the latter is not nearly
so complete. Yet the Sabæan dynasty can be traced back with certainty
to the time of Solomon, one thousand years B.C., and there is every
reason to believe that they had been in power at that time for a very
considerable period. How very remote, then, must be the antiquity of the
preceding dynasty, which we know to have been separated from the latter
by a sufficient lapse of years to have allowed of radical changes in the
formation and grammar of their written language! Besides which, although
comparatively few inscriptions have been discovered of this period, we
have a list of no less than thirty-two Minæan sovereigns. Professor
Sayce, in an able article upon this subject, states that he believes
that it is quite possible that inscriptions may be discovered which will
prove Southern Arabia to have been in a state of civilisation in the
days of Sargon I., or even of Menes, who is supposed to have lived some
five thousand years B.C.: nay more, he expresses his opinion, which many
traditions tend to prove, that all civilisation may have sprung from the
Yemen and its adjacent provinces.[12]

Apart from the great interest attending this alone, another point must at
once attract our attention—namely, the existence of an alphabet earlier
than that of the oldest discovered Phœnician inscriptions. Until these
researches into the writings of the Yemen, it was believed that the
Phœnician formation of letters was an abridgment of the hieroglyphics of
Egypt; but there seems now to be reason to suppose that this still more
ancient writing of Southern Arabia may prove to be not only the source
from which the Phœnicians derived their alphabet, but also the origin of
those of all modern nations, including Greece and Rome. What may be said
almost to prove this theory, says Professor Sayce, is the fact that while
the Phœnician letters, described by name as animals and things, have but
little resemblance to the object from which the name is taken, this still
older form of Semitic writing bears a decided resemblance to the objects
described in the names of the Phœnician letters.

Probable as all this is, it must remain for the time at least only a
theory, until further discoveries are forthcoming; but apart from all
suppositious matters, it may safely be stated that, be the Aryan origin
what it may, it is to Southern Arabia that we must look for the home of
the Semitic peoples. Referring back to the earlier paragraphs of this
chapter, in which mention is made of the two great divisions of the
inhabitants of the Yemen, it will be seen that the tradition existed
in the time of Mahammed, and is mentioned in the Koran, of an older
population, whom it may be inferred were the original Semitic stock,—for
it must be remembered that the present geographical position of the
Semitic races is almost entirely owing to the spread of Islam, and it is
to Arabia, and Arabia alone, that we must look for their origin,—at a
time preceding the first Minæan kings, and probably at a period when the
stone age was passing into that of metal, and fishers and hunters were
becoming traders and agriculturists.[13] But of all the incidents of the
ancient history of the Yemen, there is one that will especially appeal
to all. I refer to the visit of the Queen of Sheba to Solomon about the
year one thousand B.C. Sheba has always been identified with Saba, the
capital of the Sabæan empire, a city lying some seven days’ journey to
the north-east of Sanaa, the present capital of Turkish Yemen. The story
is too well known to need any comment here; it need only be noticed that
the point it is written from is that of a Jewish historian, who would
naturally tend to magnify the glories of Solomon and the admiration of
the queen at his wonderful city, palace, and temple. Yet, as a matter of
fact, it is not at all improbable that Saba possessed buildings as fine
as any of those of Solomon; and certainly, whereas no ruins remain of
the latter, the great dam, built some seventeen hundred years B.C. at
Saba, still stands, though of course in ruins, to tell the tale of the
vast building powers of the Sabæan architects. Nor do we in the gorgeous
description of Solomon’s works find reference to anything that could
possibly have compared in size and structure with this extraordinary
_barrage_, of which it is sufficient to say that it measured three
hundred cubits thick, one hundred and twenty feet high, and two _miles_
in length.[14] The presents which the Queen of Sheba brought to Solomon
tend as much as anything to prove that she was a native of Southern
Arabia, for her offerings will be found either to be produce of that
country, or such articles as could, owing to the enormous commerce of
Saba, find an outlet in that direction from farther south and east.

Although the already discovered inscriptions point to Saba having been
the capital of a great and civilised empire eight hundred years B.C.,
the existence of the great dam, which may be attributed to Lokman, who
lived 1750 years B.C., and the visit of the Queen of Sheba to Solomon,
speak of greater antiquity.

The religion of the Sabæans is too large a question to attempt here,
more especially as there are evidences that during the long periods of
the Minæan and Sabæan dynasties it underwent many changes, merging from
a primitive idolatry into worship of the planets and stars, and even,
in cases, to the recognition of a supreme deity. They believed in the
immortality of the soul, a future state of reward or punishment, and
many also in transmigration. The gradual change of doctrine appreciable
in the religion, besides being due to the natural outcome of increased
civilisation and culture, was no doubt largely influenced by the
astronomers and astrologers of Chaldæa. Doubtless, too, there existed in
their religious traditions a sort of hero-worship, for we read in various
authorities of certain names as being those of deities and of men. Thus
we find the city of Saba was called after a god of that name, while again
the founder is mentioned as being Saba the son of Abd esh-shems, the
father of the so-called Himyaric dynasty.

[Illustration: ANCIENT TANK AT MENURA, NEAR DHAMAR.]

Any attempt, with the space at disposal here, to draw conclusions from
the traditions existing as to the earliest inhabitants of the Yemen, is
out of the question; and rather than do so, it will better suit our
purpose to keep to what have been proved to be facts—the existence of
the Minæan and later the Sabæan dynasties; the high state of culture and
commerce in Southern Arabia at a very remote period; and the existence
of a written language that was possibly, if not probably, the origin of
Phœnician, and so of all European forms of writing; and the still greater
idea that Southern Arabia may be proved to be the land of “Punt,” and the
birthplace of the Egyptian race, and their arts and culture.

Shortly before the commencement of the Christian era Egypt became a Roman
province, and a few years later an expedition under Ælius Gallus was
sent to explore Arabia and Ethiopia. How difficult would be the task was
evidently realised, for when the expedition started from Cleopatris, near
the modern Suez, it consisted of no less than eighty vessels of war and a
hundred and thirty transports, with ten thousand Roman troops and fifteen
thousand mercenaries.[15] But the expedition was destined to disaster,
for although it penetrated as far as Southern Arabia—probably Nejrán—the
troops were decimated by famine and disease, and only a small handful
ever returned.

In looking through these early pages of the history of the Yemen, one
cannot but be struck with the important part that women played in
politics; and even after the introduction of Islam, and the women had
been assigned a lower position, the old custom crops up again and again,
and we find women seizing the reins of government.

The first example that we find of the power exercised by women is without
doubt the Queen of Sheba; while a second example follows within a few
years after the failure of the expedition of Ælius Gallus, in the person
of Queen Balkis, whose real name was Belkama or Yalkama, and who was
sufficiently strong-minded to amalgamate two kingdoms by marrying her
rival, whom she immediately removed by poison.

About A.D. 120 the great dam of Saba or Mareb burst, spreading wholesale
destruction throughout the wide fertile valley below it. About this
period, too, an expedition was carried by the then King Tubba el-Akran as
far as Samarcand, and thence into China; and in A.D. 206, Abou Kariba,
one of the most illustrious of all the Himyaric kings, invaded Chaldæa
and defeated the Tartars of Adirbijan. He started on a second expedition
to conquer Syria, but returned after taking the Hejaz to the Yemen, where
he is said to have renounced idolatry and embraced Judaism.

A legend, quoted by Sir Lambert Playfair in his ‘History of the Yemen,’
tells of the introduction of the Jewish faith into the Yemen during the
reign of this Sultan. It savours of the priests of Baal; for, wishing to
put to the test the merits of Judaism and idolatry, the priests of either
creed proceeded to a certain spot whence fire emerged from the ground.
Pushed on by the crowd, the test was tried, and while the Jewish priests
passed through the flame unscathed, the idolaters perished. But the
feeling between the two was by no means destined from this fact to become
a cordial one, and constant fights occurred between the two parties.
Although Christianity seems to have appeared in the Yemen previous to
the year 297 A.D., it was not until that date that it became a religion
of importance in the country. It was during the reign of the king Tubba
ibn Hassan, who held the throne at this period, that Christianity was
introduced into Abyssinia; and about the middle half of the fourth
century the Emperor Constantius sent a certain bishop, Theophilus Indus,
to convert the Yemenis, of whom the king was so far tolerant, even if he
did not himself embrace Christianity, to allow the building of churches.
One was erected at Zafar, near Yerim; another at Aden; and a third at a
port in the Arabian Sea, supposed generally to be Hormuzd.

So king succeeded king with the usual rapidity of oriental countries,
until in 478 A.D. a certain Lakhnia (or Lakhtiaa) Tanú usurped the
throne, whose cruelties to the surviving members of the royal family
are recorded by more than one historian. However, it remained for one
of these, a youth by name Asaad abou Karib, or Dhu Nowas, to revenge
his relations by stabbing the usurper with a dagger, he himself being
unanimously elected to the throne. He embraced Judaism, and adopted the
name of Yusef (Joseph). However, like many converts, he became a fanatic,
and his cruelties toward the Christians are perhaps unparalleled in
history. Dhu Nowas attacked them in Nejrán, and having foully broken his
promise that no harm should befall them, gave them the choice between
death or Judaism. Twenty thousand, it is said, were burned alive in huge
pits filled with blazing wood. The Koran commends these people who died
for their religion, and calls a curse upon their persecutor.[16]

But the cruelty of Dhu Nowas was to reap its reward. A few Christians
who escaped fled to the Court of the Christian emperor of the East,
who presented them with letters to the Christian king of Abyssinia,
requesting him to punish the perpetrator of these cruel outrages.

In A.D. 525, accordingly, the Abyssinians invaded the Yemen, and Dhu
Nowas was defeated, being drowned, purposely, it is said, after the first
battle. From that moment the Abyssinian general Aryat met with but futile
resistance, and pushed into the heart of the country, destroying and
razing the cities as he went along.

Thus was overthrown, never to rise again, the Himyaric dynasty, which had
held the throne of the Yemen for over two thousand years. Many of the
kings had been celebrated both for war and culture, but their ancestors
were now, on account of their fanatical persecution of the Christians,
in return to suffer from cruelties and oppression as severe as any they
themselves had ever practised.

It is but one of the many examples of the terrible bloodshed consequent
upon diversity of opinion on religious subjects,—for with bloodshed did
Christianity force itself into the Yemen, and with bloodshed was it
destined a few years later to disappear. Aryat, having conquered the
Yemen, was appointed Viceroy of the King of Abyssinia in that country,
and reigned until nearly the middle half of the sixth century, being
succeeded by Abrahá, in fighting with whom Aryat was slain.

Meanwhile, by every means of cruelty and oppression Christianity had been
pushed forward; but at length a bishop was appointed at Zafar, whose
name is to-day included in the calendar of saints as St Gregentius,
who persuaded Abrahá to adopt more lenient measures than those of his
predecessor; and even the Arab authors acknowledge him to have been
a just and compassionate prince. That he was, however, a fanatic is
certain; for the church at Sanaa having been defiled by an Arab from
Mecca, where for centuries the Kaabah had been a place of pilgrimage, he
vowed to destroy that place, and at the head of a great army marched into
the Hejaz. Approaching Mecca, the inhabitants fled; but Abrahá, mounted
upon his famous white elephant Mahmoud, failed,—for it is said not
only did the huge pachyderm refuse to turn toward the city, but that a
miraculous flight of birds dropped pebbles upon the heads of the invading
army, killing both men and elephants. This miracle is generally explained
as an epidemic of smallpox: however, be it what it may, it ended in the
total rout and flight of the Abyssinian troops, who in a miserable plight
resought the Yemen, where shortly afterwards Abrahá died.

This “battle of the elephant,” as the Arab historians called it, is
doubly famous, as it happened in the year of the birth of Mahammed.

But the Abyssinian rule was soon to end. Acts of tyranny and cruelty
hurried on its termination, and Jaskum, the last sovereign, died in 575
A.D., when the ancestors of the Himyaric dynasty, certain of being unable
to regain the throne for themselves, and having failed to persuade the
Romans to take up their cause, implored the aid of the Persian monarch
Kesra, who after many delays fitted out an expedition, formed for the
most part of convicts from the prisons, which reached Aden, under the
personal conduct of a descendant of Himyar, Maadi Karib, and a Persian
general of the name of Wahraz. A battle ensued with the Abyssinians, in
which their monarch—for the Viceroys had by this time taken imperial
rights—was killed. Sanaa was reached, and the gates broken down to allow
the Persian conqueror to enter with uplifted banners, and Maadi Karib
was proclaimed viceroy, paying tribute and owning allegiance to the
Persian sovereign.

The event of the return of a descendant of Himyar to power is celebrated
by many an Arab historian and poet.

Amongst many other ambassadors and men of repute who flocked to the
court at Sanaa, after the overthrow of Christianity, was the grandfather
of Mahammed, Abd el-Mutalib, who was received with special honours, as
belonging to the powerful tribe of the Koreish, lords of Mecca. But
Maadi Karib was destined to fall a victim to Abyssinian treachery, being
murdered by his body-guard, which consisted of javelin-throwers of
Habesh. A state of anarchy ensued, in which the natives struggled with
the Abyssinians for the supreme power; and finally the Persian monarch
Kesra Paruiz was forced to send an expedition, which proved entirely
successful. But bloodshed was the result, and the Abyssinians were put
to the sword with great cruelty, even the half-breed children being
slaughtered.

Great as was the number of the slain, both the Abyssinian and Persian
occupation has left its mark in the Yemen, and a particular and despised
race exists there to-day known as the Akhdam.[17] Authorities differ
as to whether they are the descendants of the Abyssinians or Persians;
but so closely did one occupation follow upon the other that it may be
reasonably supposed that, owing to the youth of the children at the time,
and the rapidity with which both nationalities died out of the country,
but little distinction would exist, in spite of diversity of colour,
between the two.

Meanwhile the Persian rule was for a time fairly established, though
many tribes were almost entirely governed by their own local chiefs.
All religions were tolerated, and Christianity maintained its ground,
principally in Nejrán, and we find mention amongst early authorities of
a Christian bishop of that province, Kos by name. It was probably in his
time that a Christian Church was erected in Nejrán.

At this period a great change was to take place in the religion and
government of Arabia, for there had arisen at Mecca a prophet, Mahammed
by name, of the tribe of the Koreish, who was destined to influence not
only all Arabia but the whole history of the world.

CHAPTER III.

THE YEMEN SINCE THE HEJIRA.

Mahammed was destined to overthrow the whole social and religious status
of Arabia. But the Yemen was by no means anxious at the first to accept
the new doctrine, and for a time remained steadfast to the Persian cause
and religion, under the viceroyalty of Budhan, who, though eventually he
accepted the faith of Islam, hesitated until pressure was brought to bear
upon him, and until he had obtained, to him, satisfactory evidence of the
Prophet’s miracles.

The dissensions at this period existing amongst the Christians of
the Yemen added not a little to the success of the spread of the new
religion. Yet in these first days of conversion every leniency was shown
to the Christians, and a treaty was made between the princes of Nejrán,
which, it may be remembered, was the stronghold of Christianity in the
Yemen, and Mahammed himself, very advantageous to the former, one of the
clauses stipulating that tolerance was to be allowed, and no Christians
forcibly converted to Islam.

But the Prophet had fixed his heart on the conversion of Arabia Felix,
and for this purpose, in the tenth year of the Hejira, Ali ibn Abou
Taleb, his son-in-law and nephew, was despatched thither. Failing by
moderate means to bring over the people, the sword was resorted to; but
in spite of this fact, authorities state that Islam was grafted in the
country with the loss of only some twenty lives.

But its course was to be by no means a smooth one, for amongst several
other pretenders two arose at the same period, 632 A.D., who laid claim
to the prophetic office. Both had been converts to Islam, and one at
least had actually seen Mahammed, and it was no doubt the report of his
enormous success that stirred these men to rival his claims.

The first, Mosailma by name, was a chief of the tribe of Hanífa. Being of
a diplomatic turn of mind, he thought to make an alliance with Mahammed,
and a correspondence took place between the two, worthy of repetition
here. The letters ran as follows:—

“From Mosailma, the Prophet of God, to Mahammed, the Prophet of God! Let
the earth be half mine and half thine.”

Mahammed’s answer was short but to the point:—

“From Mahammed, the Prophet of God, to Mosailma, the Liar. The earth
belongs to God. He giveth it as an inheritance to such of his servants as
pleaseth him, and the happy issue shall attend such as fear him.”

But Mosailma was not to be discouraged by this reply, and continued his
career until, shortly after the death of Mahammed, his successor the
Caliph Abou Bekr sent an expedition under a certain general Khalid to
attack him. In a battle near Akriba Mosailma was slain, and his followers
disbanded; who, seeing their leader die, once more reverted to Islam.

The second impostor was El-Aswad, chief of the tribe of Anis. He had
previously been an idolater, but had become a convert to the Mahammedan
faith. Meeting at first with every success, he installed himself at
Sanaa, and nearly the whole of the Yemen acknowledged his authority. But
at the instigation of Mahammed, who was at this time still alive, he was
treacherously slain by his wife and accomplices.

These two impostors, although their career did not to any extent
permanently affect the history of the Yemen, are celebrated throughout
Arab traditions, in which they are known as “The Liars.”

But the troubles in the Yemen were by no means at an end. Every preceding
dynasty had left dissension and rival blood in the country, and for a
long period, during the reign of the early Caliphs, the country was
constantly disturbed with war and bloodshed. Pretender to the throne
followed pretender, and it was not for a period of some years that any
tranquillity was restored to the Yemen.

In A.D. 655 Ali succeeded to the Caliphate on the death of Othman, and
having to quell many disturbances and dissensions at home, he did not
for some time turn his attention to the Yemen, where, after a lapse in
the war between Muavia, governor of Syria, and the Caliph, a large band
of the troops of the former, under the leadership of Bashir ibn Ardeb,
carried out the most horrible atrocities on the partisans of the cause
of Ali. But revenge was near, and a short time later—39 A.H.—troops
to the number of four thousand were despatched by Ali from Kufa, who
equalled perhaps the cruelties of Muavia’s adherents; but they succeeded
in stamping out the cause of Othman, the lately assassinated Caliph,
and Ali’s son was proclaimed governor of the Yemen. Islam had by this
period made such a firm footing in the country, that, in spite of the
dissensions between Christians, idolaters, and Jews, we find the troubles
confined almost entirely to the many sects of Islam itself. Some of the
most important of these will be found mentioned elsewhere, so that no
reference is necessary to them here, except as showing how firm a hold
the acceptance of the new religion had gained amongst the inhabitants of
the Yemen.

The country after the death of Ali became subject to the Omeyyad dynasty
of Caliphs, until in A.D. 749 the Abbasides exterminated them, with
unparalleled bloodshed and cruelty, the conquest of the Yemen being
carried out by Mahammed Abousi Mahammed. The typical cruelty of this
man is well exemplified by a paragraph in Sir R. L. Playfair’s ‘History
of the Yemen.’ Finding the inhabitants suffering from what is now known
as “Yemen boils,” an exceedingly common complaint in that country, he
ordered all those who showed any signs of the sickness to be buried alive
as unclean. Happily his own death prevented this cruel order from being
carried out. Sharing the ups and downs of the Abbaside dynasty, to whom
the Yemen acknowledged a varying system of vassalage, in 811 A.D. the
inhabitants declared for El-Mamun, son of Harun el-Rashid, the great
Caliph of the East, who was sharing with his brother Amin the government.
Under this Caliph the governor of the Yemen was Mahammed, son of Ziad.
He conquered the Teháma, or western plains, and became sovereign of the
whole country.

There remained at this period a tribe of the name of Beni Yafur,
descendants of the old Himyaric kings, who lived at Sanaa. Acknowledging
the Abbaside Caliphs, they were by force obliged to fall under the
jurisdiction of Ibn Ziad; but Asaad ibn Yafur, the last of the family,
took advantage of the Karmathian rising throughout the Yemen to usurp
the power, which he held until his death. He was the last prince of the
Himyaric people; and although his family held the throne for a few years
they never arrived at any great power, their position being materially
weakened by insurrections and family strifes.

Ibn Ziad having died, and been succeeded by several members of his
family, Abou’l-Jaysh his grandson came to the throne. On the death of
the Caliph El-Mutawakil and the abdication of El-Mustain, he disclaimed
all allegiance to the Caliphate, and took to himself regal honours,
though there seems to be some apparent discord as to dates, for the
assassination and abdication of the Caliphs occurred before Abou’l-Jaysh
came to the throne. Probably he was the first to assume regal power,
although his immediate predecessors had ceased paying tribute to the
Caliphs.[18]

Apparently Abou’l-Jaysh was a man of great power, and by the time of his
death he was master of the whole of the Yemen, while his revenues reached
an enormous sum. It was during his reign that the Zaidite dynasty sprung
up. The foundation of what afterwards was the principal line of the
Imams, or Sultans of the Yemen, is not without interest. Although to-day
ousted from power by the Turks, the leader of the late rebellion was no
less a personage than a descendant of the great family who in A.H. 288
(A.D. 901) founded at Sadah the Zaidite dynasty. As of the direct family
of the prophet Mahammed, it may be interesting to trace the line from
the founder of Islam to Yahya, who returned to the Yemen from India in
288 A.H. to announce the supremacy of the Zaidis. This is best done by a
short genealogical tree.

Although Yahya succeeded in wresting Sanaa from Asaad ibn Yafur, he was
unable to hold it, and eventually returned to Sadah, where descendants of
his family are to-day living.

From this period we find a constant rise and fall of dynasties. While
Imams alternately held and lost authority, there were springing up,
generally to disappear, princes in many parts of the country, so that at
times the Yemen was divided into a number of principalities. Celebrated
amongst these were the Sulayhites and the Zurayites, of whom the latter
for centuries held possession of the southern province of Aden. But,
meanwhile, in the north the Imams were succeeding one another with the
usual rapidity of oriental sovereigns, and with very varied authority. In
the fifth century A.H. we find the Abyssinian line again in possession of
Zebeed, at this time the principal city of the Teháma.

Meanwhile the Zaidi family of Rassites continued to govern at Sadah
without serious interruption.

In 1173 A.D. the then reigning Sultan of Sanaa surrendered his power to
Turan Shah, brother of Salah ed-din (Saladdin), the Ayyubite Caliph of
Egypt; and Ali, son of the Sultan El-Mansur Hatim, was nominated governor
of that city.

It would be out of place here to trace the long lines of governors and
rulers who dominated the Yemen during the next two centuries. A few
names, however, are remembered to-day, and mentioned by authorities as
being men of great power or culture. The first is El-Muzaffer, who united
for the time at least all the Yemen under his sway, and who died at the
end of the thirteenth century; and again, Abdul-Wahab, who reigned early
in the sixteenth century, and founded many colleges at Sanaa, Taiz, and
Zebeed, and built a number of cisterns and aqueducts at places where
water was scarce.

During the next period of the history of the Yemen, we come in contact
for the first time with European traders and the Turks, who were destined
in no small degree to influence the future of the country.

About the year 1445 A.D. the Christian king of Abyssinia sent a mission
to Florence, and a famous missive to the priests of Jerusalem. This
king is well known to history from these two acts alone, and to-day is
celebrated as Prester John. Whether his embassy stirred the religious
zeal or the cupidity of Europe it is difficult to say, but it resulted,
whatever its cause may have been, in a Portuguese expedition to the far
East, which eventually ended in the leader, De Covilham, marrying and
settling in Shoa.

I think there is but little need here to repeat the adventures of many
European expeditions that were sent at various periods to visit this
portion of the globe. Such as refer more immediately to Aden will be
found mentioned in the chapter on that possession, while I have elsewhere
referred to the “factories” at Mokha.

Early in the sixteenth century the Mamlook power in Egypt was overthrown
by the Sultan Selim I., upon which event the larger portion of the
Arabian states went over to the new cause. This Selim was desirous
of himself leading an expedition for the conquest of Arabia, but was
obliged to abandon the idea on account of ill health; nor did he ever
recover sufficiently to carry out his purpose. His son, Suleiman the
Magnificent, was equally intent upon the conquest of India, and for
this purpose fitted out a fleet in A.D. 1520. On the 27th June 1538 the
fleet left Suez, and Aden was reached a few months later, and the town
was taken. Proceeding to India, Suleiman Pasha was forced to retire on
being attacked by the Viceroy of Goa, and returned to Aden, where he
left sufficient troops to garrison the town, and proceeded to Mokha,
whence messengers were sent to Zebeed with the demand that the governor
of that city should at once proceed to the coast. The Arab’s refusal
to comply with this order cost him his life, for a few months later
Zebeed was taken, and a number of its inhabitants put to the sword. This
completed the conquests of Suleiman the Magnificent, and all the coast of
Arabia acknowledged the Turkish rule, Sanaa itself becoming the seat of
the Pasha of the Yemen. But although firmly rooted in the country, the
Turkish forces were unable to extract tribute from the numerous tribes,
many of which remained practically independent. A revolt occurred at Aden
in 1551, which was, however, put down by Peri Pasha, who wrested the
town from the Portuguese, to whom it had been handed over by its Arab
inhabitants.

Eight years later a still greater rebellion broke out throughout the
whole of the Yemen. However, the Turks, under Hasan Pasha, were able to
quell it, and continue their rule in the country.

At the beginning of the seventeenth century the English appear for the
first time in this part of the world, the first ship to trade in the Red
Sea being the East India Company’s vessel Ascension, Captain Sharpey,
who, however, failed in his desire to establish commercial relations
between the two countries. This voyage was followed by several others,
but of these mention will be found in the chapter relating to Aden.

In 1630 the Turks withdrew from the Yemen, and the government fell into
the hands of a descendant of Ali ibn Abou Taleb, who married Fatima,
the daughter of the Prophet Mahammed. This man was by name Kasim, whose
full titles were Mansur el-Kasim el-Kebir. His ancestor, El-Hadi Yahia,
had founded the Rassite dynasty in 284 A.H. The family of Kasim, which
now commenced to hold the government of the Yemen, continued until the
conquest of Sanaa by the Turks in 1872 to fill the posts of Imams.[19]
A few words are necessary in explanation of this title, by which the
rulers of the Yemen have been so long known. The word Imam literally
means the leader of prayer in the mosque. Thus it will be seen that the
office was not merely a temporal one, but was also imbued with religious
rights, enjoyed on account of their descent from the Prophet. Not daring
to assume the title of “Caliph,” they preferred the minor one “Imam,”
though practically by carrying out the old-established customs, such as
changing their names on succeeding to power, they took upon themselves
the position enjoyed by the direct successors of Mahammed himself. The
office was a hereditary one, and generally succeeded to by primogeniture,
provided the eldest son was of an age and character suitable to his being
able to carry out the necessary duties.

Niebuhr gives an interesting account of the principal officers in the
service of the Imams, a portion of which may be mentioned here.[20] The
various provinces were, he says, under the governorship of a “Dowla,”
or military governor, who was responsible for his district, collected
the taxes, commanded the troops, and regulated all local affairs. It was
customary for a man only to hold the office for a few years, in order
to prevent his acquiring great wealth or influence. Their position was
always an uncertain one, as they necessarily made many enemies, who
were ready to do them some ill turn at headquarters. The Bas-Katéb was
secretary, appointed by the Imam, under each, whose principal work was to
spy upon and report to their lord and ruler the actions of the “Dowla.”
As ordained by the tenets of Islam, all cases relating to laws laid down
in the Koran were tried by the Cadi, or chief judge. The ports were
under the rule of three officers,—an Amir el-Bahr, or captain of the
port; an Amir es-Sôk, whose duty lay in regulating the markets; and a
Sheikh el-Beled, who collected the taxes. El-Kasim was succeeded by his
son El-Muayyad Mahammed, who in turn was succeeded by his brother Ismail,
who lived a life of supreme simplicity, and died after a long reign,
mourned by the whole country.

So Imam succeeded Imam with all the changing fortunes of oriental rulers,
and without apparently performing any deeds which redound to their own
praise or raised the splendour of their country. In all probability their
lives were simply spent in Eastern uxoriousness, and in keeping in order
the turbulent tribes by which they were surrounded.

In 1709 the French appeared for the first time in the Red Sea, and
carried out a treaty with the governor of Mokha, on behalf of the then
Imam El-Mehdi. The principal clauses referred to religious toleration,
the duties on merchandise, and that redress should be given for any
insults offered to French subjects.[21] In spite of this treaty in 1738
Mokha was bombarded by the French, on account of debts owing to the
traders by the governor of that city. The town was taken, but handed back
to the Imam on the payment of the debt. This ended in the drawing up of a
second treaty, somewhat reducing the duty chargeable on the imports and
exports.

For the next twenty years affairs in the Yemen remained in a state
of tolerable peace. From time to time tribes raised the standard of
independence; but there seems to have been no organised attack upon the
Imams, although the family was continually engaged in intrigue as to
the succession. However, in 1758 a serious rebellion broke out, under a
certain Abd er-Rabi ibn Ahmed, who had been governor of a small province
in the service of the Imam. Abd er-Rabi had made enemies in the household
of the Imam, and at their instigation was recalled. He refused, however,
to obey, whereupon the Imam sent a force of some three thousand men to
bring him. Nevertheless, he was able to hold out within the walls of
Kátaba for no less a period than nearly a year, and eventually made his
escape by night to his followers in the tribe of Hajeriya. Finding it
impossible to capture Abd er-Rabi, the Imam made overtures to the Sultan
of Aden to assist him. Abd er-Rabi hearing of this, entered Lahej and
blockaded Aden. He was destined, however, to fall a victim to an act
of treachery. The Imam was at this period attacking the city of Taiz,
which he was unable to capture, and, hoping to kill two birds with one
stone, invited Abd er-Rabi to join him. This the latter did, and the city
was taken. The Imam, delighted with his success, under the most solemn
protestations of friendship invited him to Sanaa, where on his arrival
he was, after every ignominy had been showered upon him, decapitated.[22]

[Illustration: HOWTA, THE CAPITAL OF LAHEJ.]

In 1762 King Frederick V. of Denmark organised an expedition for the
exploration of Arabia under the leadership of Karsten Niebuhr. With
him were associated three other Danes, who all died either during the
expedition or immediately upon its termination. In spite of the fact that
more than a century has elapsed since this expedition took place, we
have never since been given a clearer or more interesting and valuable
account of the Yemen. The social state of the country is particularly
well described, and no one can overestimate the value of Niebuhr’s work.
He twice interviewed the Imam during his stay at Sanaa, and the second
time greatly interested his royal host by exhibiting and explaining
his scientific instruments. Niebuhr’s account of the Imam and his
surroundings is most interesting, but unfortunately space does not allow
of my giving any extracts here.

In 1770 an attack was made upon the British factory at Mokha. However,
two British men-of-war were sent to the spot, and an indemnity was
paid, which it was found out eventually had been extracted from Indian
merchants, who were, of course, British subjects! The Yemen at this time
had attracted a few European adventurers, who had become Moslems and
entered the service of the Imam. Amongst these was a certain Scotchman
of the name of Campbell, who was commanding the artillery of El-Mehdi
Abbas, the then Imam. A rebellion had burst out in the country, and the
rebels had seized upon a stronghold in the vicinity of Sanaa, in which
was water, and where they had collected a quantity of provisions. Such,
however, was the fear of the natives for the ingenuity of these European
renegades, that they surrendered on hearing that Campbell and his
companions were engaged upon the manufacture of shells—a task they had
neither the means nor the knowledge of carrying to a successful end. The
episode is merely interesting as showing the acknowledgment of the Arabs
of the superiority of the European over themselves in such things—an
allowance readily made to-day by nearly all classes of the Arab world.

In 1799 a British force was sent to cruise in the Red Sea, on account
of the French having taken possession of Egypt; and Perim, an island
situated in the straits of Bab el-Mandeb, was occupied, though, on
account of the scarcity of water, it was only held for a period of four
months.

The trade of the Red Sea with India had up to this period been a very
considerable one, but owing to the misgovernment of the Imams, and
their inability to offer security to traders, it had greatly diminished
in the last few years. On this account Sir Home Popham was sent on a
special mission to the Yemen in 1801, and was nominated Ambassador to
the Southern Arabian states. He arrived at Mokha on his return from
Calcutta in 1802, and set out for Sanaa. However, he reached only as far
as Taiz, and there, as had been the case along the entire route, he was
treated with every ignominy. The Imam protested that the treatment of
the Ambassador had been carried on without his knowledge and contrary to
his orders, and he promised to punish the offenders. In all probability
Ali Mansur, who then held the throne at Sanaa, was entirely unable to
cope with the turbulent tribes, and it is known for certain that from his
extravagances he was always in arrears with the subsidised chiefs of the
neighbouring districts.

I have briefly mentioned elsewhere the Wahabi sect, which, under the
leadership of Abd el-Wahab en-Nejdi, sprang up in the eighteenth century.
It had not, however, seriously made itself felt in the Yemen until this
period, its progress being no doubt largely influenced by the Wahabi
conquest of Mecca and Medina. During the years 1804 and 1805 the Yemen
suffered from continual raids of the Wahabi leaders, for the most part
chiefs of the Beni Asir, the tribes lying between the Hejaz and the Yemen
proper. But treachery was on foot, and certain Shereefs nominally owing
allegiance to the Wahabi doctrine were really working in the interests
of the Imam of Sanaa, and in this manner the marauders were held more or
less in check. Meanwhile the Imam Ali Mansur had been deposed by his son
Ahmed, who had seized the reins of government. But the city of Mokha
refused to acknowledge Ahmed while the old Imam was still alive, and on
that account Ahmed put an expedition into the field against the Dowla of
that town. Happily for the country Ali Mansur died, and the people of
Mokha were then able to acknowledge his son as Imam, and so a disastrous
war was staved off.

So great had become the power of the Wahabis that in 1813 Mahammed Ali
Pasha invaded the Hejaz in the name of Turkey, and restored Mecca and
Medina to the Osmanli Sultan. Thence an envoy was sent to the Imam at
Sanaa, requesting his co-operation in the stamping out of the Wahabis.
This was readily granted, for the Imam evidently saw that Mahammed Ali’s
eyes were turned in the direction of the Yemen; and although he protested
that he himself was devoid of means to carry on warfare, he gave the
envoy letters to the Dowla of Mokha to supply him with vessels and
material, knowing full well that he possessed neither.[23]

In 1814 Mahammed Ali’s troops took the town of Konfoda, north of Lohaya;
but the Asir tribes surprised it a few months later, drove the Turks out,
and seized an enormous quantity of booty and supplies. So worn out were
the Turkish troops with their long campaign that Mahammed Ali was obliged
to abandon his scheme for the taking of the Yemen, and retired to Cairo,
leaving Ibrahim Pasha to continue the campaign, which ended in the
downfall of the Wahabis. The viceroyalty of Ibrahim was marked with every
kind of cruelty and despicable corruption, and his departure from Jeddah
in 1819 was the signal for great rejoicings. Mahammed Ali then carried
out a treaty with the Imam, who, on the condition of paying one hundred
thousand dollars a-year, was to be restored several provinces which he
had lately lost, including Konfoda and Lohaya, which the Turks themselves
had taken.

On account of a brutal attack that was made upon Lieutenant Dommicetti,
at the time confined to his bed with fever, and upon the employees of
the British factory, a force was sent to that place in 1819 to demand
reparation, and a treaty from the Imam, in which certain privileges were
granted to British subjects. Difficulties arose, and in December 1820
Mokha was bombarded by Captain Bruce, and full reparation made by the
governor.

The Porte meanwhile had become uneasy at the great success attending
the campaigns of Mahammed Ali Pasha; and on a Mamlook, Mahammed Agha,
generally known as Turkchee Bilmas, rebelling against Mahammed Ali, the
Sultan of Turkey, hoping to profit through his agency, installed him
governor of the Hejaz. Marching south, Turkchee Bilmas took Hodaidah in
1832. Zebeed was the next city to fall, whence he marched upon Mokha,
which also surrendered; but the tide changed, and a year later Mokha
alone remained in Turkchee Bilmas’ hands, where he was attacked by a
large force by sea, under Ahmed Pasha, and by some 20,000 of the Asir
tribes by land. In the attack upon the city Turkchee Bilmas escaped to
the East India Company’s vessel Tigris, and was conveyed in her to Bombay.

In 1837 the Imam’s uncle, Seyed Kasim, treacherously sold Taiz to the
Egyptians; but their power there was of short duration, for in 1840 the
Egyptians evacuated the Yemen, which thereupon became distracted with
strife. Although Ibrahim Pasha had previously agreed to hand over the
Teháma to Mahammed ibn Oun, Shereef of Mecca, he was not successful, for
a Shereef of the Abou Arish disputed its possession. The Shereef of Mecca
therefore despatched troops to the coast, who occupied Hodaidah the very
day the Pasha left it, but only to hold it for a very short time, for a
month later the Asir tribe entered the town. Shereef Huseyn, brother of
Mahammed el-Meccawi, assumed the governorship of Mokha, and commenced to
ill-treat the British subjects there, at the same time demanding, in an
insulting letter, the surrender of Aden.[24]

The Imam was not at first able to attend to these matters, as a religious
rebellion had broken out under the leadership of a fanatic, El-Faki Saïd,
who called himself “Medhi el-Mantether.” But as soon as this impostor
had been attacked and killed, the Imam turned his attention to the
Teháma. Failing in obtaining the aid of the British, it appears that both
he and her Majesty’s Government referred the matter to Constantinople,
with the result that a commissioner was sent by the Porte to confer
with the Shereef. However, he appears, says Playfair in his notes upon
the subject, to have been bribed by Shereef Huseyn, and returned to
Constantinople with but little accomplished. The result, however, of his
mission became apparent a year later, when the Sultan appointed him Pasha
of the Teháma, on the understanding that he paid a tribute of 70,000
dollars per annum to the Porte.

[Illustration: _A Native of the Teháma._]

The Imam, El-Hadi Mahammed, died in 1844, and was succeeded by Ali
Mansur, who had been formerly deposed, and whose great idea seemed to
be to retrieve the losses his predecessors had suffered. Fighting at
once commenced, but the Imam’s troops met with but little success, and
smallpox carried off a very considerable number. A rebellion broke out a
few months later, the Imam was deposed, and his cousin, Mahammed Yahya,
placed on the throne in his stead. Desirous of carrying out the scheme
of his predecessor for the recovery of the Teháma, he took the field and
finally routed the Shereef Huseyn at Bajil, near Hodaidah, the Shereef
himself being taken prisoner. Hodaidah, Zebeed, and Beit el-Fakih were
handed over to the Imam, and shortly afterwards he captured Mokha,
where he learned that another division of the Shereef Huseyn’s army had
retaken Zebeed. The Imam fled to Sanaa, and a few weeks later Mokha fell
once more into the hands of Huseyn. The Turks, seeing the opportunity
a suitable one to push their interests in Southern Arabia, sent an
expedition to Hodaidah, on the arrival of which the Shereef Huseyn handed
over the place to the new-comers. The Imam was compelled to visit the
Pasha at Hodaidah, and a treaty was signed, the principal clauses of
which were as follows:—

1. The country governed by the Imam was to continue under his
jurisdiction, but he was himself to be considered as a vassal to the
Porte.

2. The revenues of the country were to be equally divided between the
Porte and the Imam.

3. Sanaa was to be garrisoned with a thousand regular Turkish troops.

4. The Imam was to receive 37,000 dollars per month from the revenue
previous to its division.[25]

Both the Turks and the Imam suffered, however, from the results of this
treaty—the former by being almost annihilated on their arrival at Sanaa,
the latter by being deposed and murdered. The power of the Imams was
gone; the Turks, although driven out of the highlands of the Yemen,
retained their footing on the coast, and carried on desultory warfare in
many directions. The country, after years of war and bloodshed, remained
in a state of anarchy, and the descendants of the great Imams seemed to
lose all spirit and authority. They sank into private life at Sanaa,
giving themselves up to luxury and vice; and the greatness of the Yemen
was finished.

CHAPTER IV.

THE INFLUENCES OF ISLAM IN THE YEMEN.

Before entering upon any account of the various religious influences
that have since the time of Mahammed disturbed the Yemen, it may be
as well to put aside a few pages for some general remarks upon the
religion of Islam, the tenets of which are well known enough to those
who have made any study of the subject, but are to the general world
almost a closed book. It is this disregard of religions other than our
own which so weakens the constant cry of their inferiority. Rather it
should be the desire of such as wish to uphold Christianity to carefully
study and compare its doctrines with those of the beliefs they are so
ready to cry down. The world has arrived at a stage when people are not
satisfied with a mere assertion, but demand to hear both sides of the
question and to reason for themselves; and to those who have taken up or
made even a small study of Islam it is a pain, or perhaps at times an
amusement, to listen to the rabid cries as to its inferiority, issuing
from the throats of men who base their action upon a few what they call
“practical results.” It is not the author’s purpose here to enter into
a long discussion upon the subject, or to point out at any length the
many fallacies which are believed to be doctrines of Islam by a large
proportion of the British public.

But of all the arguments used to show the inferiority of the Mahammedan
religion, there is none so loved and so often brought into use as the
present condition of countries practising its belief. How little real
value this argument possesses it will not take long to prove; and it may
be generally stated that the backward condition of Mahammedan states
is not owing to their form of religion to nearly so great an extent
as it is owing to the nature of the people who profess it; in other
words, the low standpoint of most Islamic countries can be traced to
the origin of its inhabitants rather than to their beliefs. Strong as
is this statement, there is at least one very good example to prove its
truth—namely, that under similar circumstances of breed and climate we
find Christian nations sunk deeper in degradation and vice than their
Moslem neighbours. Take, for example, Abyssinia, into which Christianity
was introduced between the years 300 and 320 A.D. Why then, since from
that period they have been pursuing the Christian belief, do we not find
them to-day in a state infinitely superior to the surrounding Moslem
countries—in fact, living in a state of civilisation equalling that of
the European nations, or even of the Yemenite Arabs or the Turks? Why do
we find Abyssinia to-day a country given over to drink and debauchery,
when they are regular attendants at church? Why do we find them living
in the circular thatch-huts and wearing the same apparel that they did
probably when Christianity first made its appearance amongst them?
Because, I say, their nature is such that it is untouchable by any
religion, no matter how lofty be its aims and aspirations. “Can the
Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?” Certainly not, no
matter how much he may be painted over with gaudy colours. Again, why
in Egypt do we not find the Kopts in a far higher state of civilisation
and intellectual superiority than their neighbours? It may be argued
that their Christianity is not an example of true Christianity, just as
it may be argued that the Islam of to-day is not the true Islam. Yet it
strikes one that Islam is very much nearer its original ideal than we
are to ours, who have turned our religion round and round and inside
out to make it fit the requirements of modern progress and personal
comforts. Before, Christian reader, you turn to smite your neighbour the
Moslem, look round you. Before you begin to pull the mote out of his
eye, pay a little attention to the beam that is in your own. Look at
the great armies of Europe ready to tear one another to pieces! Look at
the streets of the great cities flocked with prostitutes! Look at the
swarming drunken population of our towns! Look at the financial robberies
and the uncharitableness of our own lands,—and when you have mended that,
then you may turn to show your brotherly love, which is so engrafted in
the Christian’s heart, and rend your neighbour.

Justice, I say! If it be one’s desire to take up the cudgels against what
millions hold most dear, then let it not be done until the cudgels can
be taken up and victory assured by making a careful study of what one
is going to fight against. Religious tolerance is one of the boasts of
Englishmen; let it be their care that the boast is not a vain one.

Again, it is often said that by its so carefully laying down the laws,
Islam has prevented any material change from taking place in the
condition of those that profess it. How about Judaism? The laws are as
equally, if not more specifically, laid down in their books than even
they are in the Koran, and yet we find to-day the Jews in all material
matters almost the leaders of the world.

There can be no doubt that Christianity is a far finer religion than
Islam. Christianity is beautiful in its simplicity—beautiful in that
it touches so little upon affairs of worldly importance; but it is
doubtless a religion founded for Western and Northern people. There is no
doubt that, coming from Palestine, it chose its natural course when it
proceeded to Europe. Why was it not embraced by the Arabs and peoples
of the south, who at that time, with the exception of such as were
Jews, were professing the foul rites of idolatry? The southerner, wild
turbulent son of the desert, is unsuited to Christianity; he must have
some belief that touches him deeper, that inspires his ardour by teaching
something he can understand,—some religion that regulates his course
of life, as well as offers him hereafter a future existence. Mentally
and bodily, he is different to us northern people. His mind runs in an
entirely different channel. He exists, he thinks, in a different sphere,
and it was this sphere that Islam touched.

He was tempted by earthly spoil, by the love of persecution, and promised
licentiousness hereafter, it is often said. Perhaps; but has not the same
over and over again tempted Christian Powers?—has not love of persecution
found sufficient examples in the history of Christianity to deter us
from looking for it abroad? Is not our heaven, painted by St John in the
Revelation, tended to increase our desire to share in it by picturing
its beauties? The Revelation, it may be answered, is an allegory; yet he
who argues thus would have been burned at the stake for his pernicious
views not many centuries ago. To those who are capable, though generally
unwilling, to understand Christianity, it is a religion at once perfect
and superlative. It is an ideal seldom if ever reached. It is a goal to
be striven after, with but little hopes of doing more than one’s feeble
best to reach; and more, far more than all, it is the truth. But so is
Islam to the Mahammedan. It is a goal which many reach, because its
ideals are tangible and comprehensible. It is a religion founded by a man
of vast intellect to enforce a belief in the existence of one God, which
the intricacies of Christianity had failed to prove to the Arab races. To
them, materialists to the very backbone, the Trinity is impossible. To us
it is incomprehensible, but acknowledged. Christ was the Son of God! This
alone is sufficient to drive to a distance the Arab, who acknowledges
the Messiah’s origin as divine and supernatural, but to whom the idea of
filial relationship with the Deity is revolting and incredible.

An example of the power that Islam asserted over the minds of the
inhabitants of the Yemen is near at hand. There were many Christians
in that country at the moment when they received the tidings of the
Prophet’s mission. Nejrán, a large province, was governed by a Christian
family, and boasted a bishop, by name Kos, who died during the earlier
half of the seventh century A.D., probably during the lifetime of
Mahammed; yet but a comparatively few years later we find all traces of
Christianity disappeared. Not so in Abyssinia, where it exists to-day
amongst a people given up to one vice at least, drunkenness, from which
were they Moslems they would be free. Were Europe a Mahammedan Power,
there is no reason to doubt that we should not be in the same state of
civilisation as we enjoy to-day. The Turks are an oriental race, and
cannot be taken as a fair example; yet they have so far followed upon the
lines of Christian Powers that we find them to-day squeezing their people
to obtain the means wherewithal to purchase the destructive implements
of war, and existing in a very tolerable state of civilisation and
drunkenness.

No! the Ethiopian cannot change his skin; and just as Christianity is
the religion best suited, apart from its inestimable truth, to Northern
people, so is Islam to the Arabs and the children of the south. Each has
sorted itself and taken root where best it will flourish. Any attempt
to influence one by the introduction of the other must, by the laws of
nature which have thus sorted them, be prejudicial to the world at large.

A few words as to the general tenets of the Mahammedan religion.

It must not be forgotten that it was in A.H. 12, a year after the
Prophet’s death, that the Koran was collected by Zaid, and that therefore
there can be little doubt that in its arrangement and sequence it is far
from the order in which the words were uttered. The fragments of which
it is composed were collected from every source, but although it may be
said in its present form to follow no particular chronological order, at
the same time there can be little doubt that, apart from this weakness,
it contains the words of the Prophet himself. However, in the building up
of a new religion, it was impossible to ordain for every class of society
likely to embrace it; and on this account the Moslems, especially the
Sunnis, hold that, after the sacred book, the “traditions” are next in
sanctity. These “traditions” are the teaching, verbal or in example, of
the Prophet himself, not absolutely inculcated in the Koran, but handed
down upon the authority of “his companions.” On these traditions many
schools of theology and law have been built up, referring to them in
cases in which the Koran does not sufficiently render clear, or perhaps
omits altogether some point. Needless to say these “traditions,” being
almost innumerable and often disputed, have caused more dissension
amongst the world of Islam than any passages in the Koran itself.

The central idea of Islam is the unity of God, and the association of any
other with the Deity is the one mortal sin.[26] There is no priesthood;
the religion is a religion of the people, explained to them by doctors,
such as the Sheikh el-Islam, the Moulas, and the Cadis, whose authority
is acknowledged, but solely as exponents of religion and law, which it
is in no one’s power to revise or alter. Idolatry is to be rooted out
and trampled under foot. “There is no God but God, and Mahammed is the
prophet of God.” Soundless, rhythmless, as are the words to us, their
very repetition stirs the Moslem heart; their very mention is sufficient
for an infidel to become a Moslem. They are the only bond that binds
Sunnis and Sheiyas together, the common birthright of all Islam.

[Illustration: _A Yemeni._]

The principal and best known of the Mahammedan tenets, as well as being
those on which the religion is most founded, are the immortality of the
soul; the resurrection of the body; the judgment of good and evil; heaven
and hell; predestination, about which, however, contradictory remarks are
found in the Koran; the ministry of good angels, and the evil influence
of the bad. To none of these precepts can exception be found, for, after
all, they resemble to a great extent our own. But at this point the Koran
steps ahead of us by the prohibition of wine, games of chance, usurious
dealings, the flesh of swine, or of things strangled or which have died a
natural death, all of which are strictly forbidden. How beneficial this
has proved and is proving to the Mahammedan races is very clear; and it
may be said that it is only when Moslems have come into contact with Jews
or Christians that they have broken through these ordinances.

As to other restrictions laid by Mahammed upon his followers, and other
privileges allowed to them, a few words must be said. Polygamy is legal,
and it is this more than anything, perhaps, that raises indignation
amongst Christians. Every Moslem is allowed four wives and as many slaves
as he likes. Shocking! yet do we not decorate our church windows with
pictures of David and Solomon? do we not read their words in our places
of worship? and I doubt if either would have been satisfied with this
small allowance. Were not the patriarchs, who after Christ we are taught
most to reverence, polygamists? They at least, like the Arabs, have an
excuse, which Solomon and David certainly had not—namely, the constant
wars in which they were engaged killed off so large a population of the
men that the women were greatly in excess. Yet to-day in many Moslem
countries it is unusual to find amongst the respectable classes more
than one wife. We are by law restricted to one, they are by law and by
religion allowed four. After all, they have just as much right to swear
that their custom is the best one as we have to put forward our own.

That divorce is lax amongst the Arab races is true; so are the morals of
both men and women. But let us look again at the Kopts in Egypt, or the
Christian race of Abyssinians,—are they any better? Certainly not. Again,
in Moslem countries, these laws of divorce are appealed to more by the
poorest classes than by the rich. In England the fact that a wretched
couple of paupers do not agree has no remedy, until one day the husband
jumps on his wife and kills her. In Moslem countries he divorces her, and
probably both are married again in the course of a month.

The fact of the case is simply this. To attempt to judge Islam from a
Christian standpoint is as ridiculous as to attempt to judge Christianity
from a Moslem one. We shudder at the civil codes and conditions of the
Mahammedans; they are horrified at our Trinity, at the decoration of our
churches, at lax laws as to purification, at our drunken habits, at the
Pope, at our paid clergy, and at a hundred other details. To criticise
Islam one must have seen it in its own lands, and that with unprejudiced
eyes.

There is but one more question that must be touched upon here—namely,
slavery. Never have there been more exaggerated reports as to slavery in
oriental countries than are from time to time cropping up to-day. It must
be understood what slavery really is in the East; it must be remembered
that it is not agricultural slavery—that it is entirely domestic slavery.
Stories are from time to time appearing of atrocious cruelties to slaves:
they are true, no doubt, but they are exceptional—just as, happily, the
cruel treatment of children is exceptional in England. It is not after
the slaves have passed through the market that they suffer, it is on the
long desert-marches in which they are brought from the interior. Another
point is scarcely understood in England—namely, that probably ninety-nine
hundredths of the slaves in servitude in oriental countries have been
born in servitude, and never were brought from the Soudan at all. In this
case they have been often reared in the houses of their masters, and as
often as not treated as his children.

That slavery is contrary to law and nature all will acknowledge; that it
ought and must be put down is equally true; but as to the means of doing
it? The slave-trade must be stopped from the interior of Africa, not by
the freeing of the slaves already arrived at their journey’s end. For
instance, the emancipation of slaves in Morocco would mean thousands of
men thrown out of doors to gain a livelihood by murder and robbery, or
starve; and thousands of women driven to be prostitutes. And this is
what we are attempting to do in the name of progress and religion!

[Illustration: _Jew of the Yemen._]

How vastly Islam was in advance of the pagan religions, which for the
most part it replaced in Arabia, need not be mentioned here. From
practising horrible rites of “fetich,” from the offering even of human
sacrifices, from dissensions and religious tribal wars, the mission of
Mahammed called the Arabs to something far higher—far above anything
they had known before. Christianity had failed, in spite of repeated
efforts, to attract them to anything more than the smallest extent;
Judaism was out of date, and unsuited to the epoch they had reached. They
were ready, were yearning, for a new religion, and Mahammed took the
opportunity to found one. In place of hideous pagan rites, in place of a
few converts to an unappreciated Christianity, in place of Judaic laws of
which the people were weary, he brought amongst them a new inspiriting
religion, lofty in its recognition of monotheism, higher than anything
they had as yet known in its moral code.

But from this simple form of monotheism numerous branches were destined
to sprout; and just as Christianity is split up into innumerable sects,
so is Islam divided into many differences and brotherhoods. It is with
comparatively few, however, of these that we have to deal in regard to
the Yemen,—for although in early times changes had begun to be apparent
in the course of the religion, it is only comparatively lately that the
enormous quantity of sectarian differences now existing sprang into
life; and these, with few exceptions, have but to a very slight extent
influenced the political aspect of the country.

The first important dissension in the course of Islam occurred about the
year 37 A.H., when the theocratic party, recognising that the existence
of the Caliphs was likely to become, and was even at that time becoming,
an excuse for power and a cause of strife, and that the religious
influence was lapsing into an autocratic supremacy, stood aside and
cried for an oath of allegiance to God alone, and an elected Council of
State to regulate affairs. Revolting first against Ali, the nephew and
son-in-law of the Prophet, we find them again and again all through the
history of Islam bursting forth, egged on by such wild fanaticism as
only men of those countries can know. High though, perhaps, the original
motives of the Kharejites were, they were too often in after-times fanned
by the aspirations of pretenders to power, and it needed all the force
of temporal and spiritual rulers to check these outbursts of fanaticism.
The Kharejites were again split up into many divisions, all more or less
founded upon the idea of treating sin as infidelity, which it would be
straying from the objects of this book to specially mention here, except
that of the Obadites, who from time to time recur in the history of the
Yemen.

Although the Kharejites formed the first absolute split in Islam, there
had been gradually growing up what have always formed, and to-day form,
the two great divisions of the Mahammedan belief—namely, the sects
of the Sunnis and the Sheiyas. To mention some of the standpoints of
both. The Sunni tenets are held by Turkey and the greater part of
Mahammedan-professing India, while Southern Arabia and Persia and
portions of North Africa profess Sheiyism. The differences of the two,
briefly stated, are as follows. While the Sunnis acknowledge the election
of the Caliphs from the general professors of Islam, the Sheiyas assert
that Ali, the fourth Caliph, was the natural successor of the Prophet,
ignoring Abou Bekr, Omar, and Othman. But here again the Sheiya sect
becomes split up; for one division, which continued under the name of
Sheiyas, contend that Ali held his right to succeed the Prophet in
office in virtue of his personality; while the other side, the Zaidis,
contend that Ali was the legitimate successor and heir of the Prophet,
not by reason of his personality, but through his merits. Consequently
they assert that the successors in the Caliphate, or Imams, as they
were called in the Yemen, must necessarily be of the Prophet’s family,
but were to be chosen to fill the holy office on account of merit and
character, in place of succession by birthright alone, but that in
the veins of those elected to the post must flow the Prophet’s blood.
Amongst those of the former persuasion was the sect of Imamites, and its
sub-sects, the Dodekites and Ismailites, the latter of which was founded
and flourished in the third century A.H. It was from this branch that the
Fatimide dynasty sprang, and their descendants are to be found in the
mountains of Lebanon under the name of Druses, who are still awaiting the
return of their prophet Hakim. The point on which the Zaidis separated
from the sects of the Dodekites and Ismailites is as to the lawful
holders of the Imamate or Caliphate after the death of the grandson of
Ali.

But the Zaidis were destined also to divide, and at a subsequent period
we find the Arab and Persian Zaidis submitting to the allegiance of two
separate Imams, one of whom reigned in Arabia and one in Persia.

Even to-day intense hatred exists between the followers of Sunni and
Sheiya doctrines. No better example of this is to be found than the
fact that when Russia was engaged in a war with Turkey that threatened
to be a death-blow to Islam in Europe, not one sword was raised by the
Sheiya-professing Mahammedans for her assistance; and Persia and other
parts who do not acknowledge the Sultan Abdul Hamid as the rightful
Caliph—for the Prophet’s blood does not flow in his veins—sat impassively
and watched, with but comparatively little interest, the struggle.

The Sunnis derive their name from the Arabic word _sunnat_, a precedent;
and their faith is built up, apart from the differences already
specified, upon the example established by the Prophet himself, as handed
down to them by history and tradition. Their belief can be justly called,
perhaps, the orthodox one, for Mahammed himself chose as his successor in
office Abou Bekr, who was not of his family. Therefore to them it is no
prejudice that the present holder of the Caliphate, or successor in the
religious supremacy of Islam, is the Sultan of Turkey, who, it will be
seen, fails to be acknowledged by any of the branches of the Sheiya faith
on account of his descent.

These few words may prove sufficient to throw as much light as is
necessary in the question of the Yemen upon the two great divisions of
Islam. It need only be added to how great an extent the Turks, though
co-religionists in as far as they profess Mahammedanism, would be
separated from the Yemeni people in religious ideas; and it is this fact,
more than even the extortion they practised, that gave rise to the Yemen
rebellion.

About 280 A.H. there appeared a new sect in the Yemen, that of the
Karmathians, who sprang from the Dodekites and Ismailites, though far
exceeding them in fanaticism and excesses. They arose in the Yemen under
the leadership of two powerful men, Ali ibn Fadl and Mansur ibn Hasan, of
whom the former appears to have been most implicated in promulgating the
extraordinary and often revolting tenets of the new belief. Beginning as
a hermit, he collected round him a little band of devoted followers, and
setting forth, he commenced a series of victories. At length, overpowered
with success, he acknowledged himself a prophet, and preached from the
pulpit of Janad the rightful use of wine and permission of incest.
Continuing his march, his cause grew, and both Dhamar and Sanaa fell
before him. At the latter place his excesses were beyond recording.[27]
Seventeen years after having gained his enormous power, Ibn Fadl died at
the hands of an assassin, who, taking advantage of the common Eastern
habit of the drawing of blood, secreted poison in his long hair, and
after having sucked the lancet to prove it was clean, dried it in his
poisoned locks. The historian, El-Janadi, states that there were great
rejoicings at his death. The remnants of this sect, inoffensive now and
law-abiding, still exist in Bombay.

The next great secession from the direct Islam was that of the Nizarites
or Assassins, a name derived from _Hashishiyin_—in other words, the
eaters of _hashish_, a narcotic much resorted to in the East. This
word was the origin of our present “assassin,” but in the East to-day
has no deeper meaning than that given above. The brotherhood arose
about 400 A.H., a few years after the death of Nizar, son of the
Khalifa el-Mustansir, whom they asserted had been wrongfully withheld
from succeeding his father. Thus they gained their first title, that
of “Nizarites.” They swore an oath to devote their energies to the
propagation of their faith, and many perils they undertook for this
purpose, often sacrificing their lives in the fulfilment of their vows.
The remains of this once dreaded sect are to-day to be found in Bombay,
in Zanzibar, and in the Lebanon.

The later sect of the Wahabis shows a tendency on the part of orthodox
Arabs to the ancient tenets of Kharejite theocracy. With the Sheiyas
the contrary is the case, and they incline rather toward transcendental
doctrines, bursting out into such mystical rites as those of the sects of
Mutazelites and Sufis, or, in the Yemen, in their devotion for a divine
Imamate.

How important have been these sects in forming the history, not only of
the Yemen but of all Arabia, cannot be exaggerated. Whole dynasties have
been built up or overthrown by their fanatical devotees. From the very
earliest years of Islam we are constantly coming across the turbulent
risings of one or the other; and while the Sunnis have more or less
strictly upheld until to-day their original orthodoxy, with any variation
of which they are intolerant, we see the other great division, the
Sheiyas, split up again and again into sects and sub-sects, struggling
for a theocracy that was impossible, or used by unscrupulous pretenders
as a road to power.

Looking at Islam to-day, we find the Sunnis in very much the same
religious position as they have always held, even from the very first.
Their key-note, so to speak, has been unswerving allegiance to the
_sunnat_, or precedent of the Prophet. On the other hand, we find the
Sheiyas split up into hundreds of sects and brotherhoods, each following
some particular instruction or belief of their several founders, who for
the most part have been descendants of the Prophet himself.

One of these sects, now making itself felt in the Yemen, as it is doing
all over the Moslem world, is a modern one. I refer to the followers of
El-Mehdi Senussi, about which, as one of the coming powers of Islam,
a few words may not be out of place. The idea of Sheikh Senussi was
to bring Islam back to its original purity—to revive its great social
laws, moral and religious, as instituted by the Prophet, and to defend
and propagate the same.[28] In this it will be seen that the tenets of
Senussism resemble both those of the Sheiyas and the Sunnis—the former
in the desire for a theocracy, the latter in the punctilious observance
of precedent. Its sole distinctive feature is in its transcendentalism
and in the repetition of certain prayers. Like the Wahabis, too, music,
dancing, singing, and coffee are forbidden. In fact, the Sheikh Senussi
seems to have introduced into his new revival of Islam the doctrines of
many of the former sects. The Sheikh himself is dead, being followed in
office by his son, who is still living near Siwah, in the desert between
Egypt and Tripoli. But what makes this sect so vastly important is its
political power, and it may safely be prophesied that the next great
revolt of Islam against the Christians in Africa, no matter what form
it may take, will owe its origin to this movement. The author, within a
few months, heard Senussism preached in Somali-land and in Morocco, in
both of which countries, not to speak of the more central Tunis, Tripoli,
and the state of Fezzan, it is deeply rooted. If, then, a new movement
in Islam is able in the lifetime of two men to gain converts, and many
converts, in countries so distantly removed from one another and from the
headquarters of its founder, it can clearly be understood the immense
power it must hold over the minds of the people; and one of the greatest
drawbacks to European venture in Africa is the undoubted fact that this
smouldering fanaticism will one day burst into flame.

CHAPTER V.

THE REBELLION IN THE YEMEN.

It is seldom that the Sublime Porte is free from trouble regarding one
at least of her possessions; and although the Turkish Government has
taken, in the case of the rebellion in the Yemen, every means to throw
dust in the eyes of Europe, yet sufficient has from time to time leaked
out to show how seriously the affair was regarded by the Sultan and his
Ministers. From such scraps of information it would be impossible to
piece together a history of what has taken place; but the writer, by
making a journey of over four hundred miles through the country at the
very time of the rebellion, was, as the only European in the interior,
with the exception of a few Greek shopkeepers, able to take advantage
of his unique opportunity of seeing for himself, and gathering a
considerable amount of information on the subject.

But before any account is given of the rebellion, it must be explained of
how great a value to the Sultan of Turkey are his possessions in Arabia.
It is on them, and on them alone, that he bases his claim to the title
of Caliph—a title on which his prestige in the eyes of the Moslem mainly
rests. Amongst Mahammedan potentates he is the greatest; for although
many sects of Islam do not hold that one in whose veins the blood of
the Prophet does not flow is able by divine right to succeed to the
Caliphate, the possession of the holy cities of Mecca and Medina cannot
but add to his fame. From all parts of the world the pilgrims flock
yearly to Mecca, there to come in contact with the Turks as a governing
power, to hear the name of Abdul Hamid blessed daily in the mosque;
and in their eyes, by force of circumstance, the Sultan is inseparably
connected with the Holy Places.

True it is that the Yemen is separated from the Hejaz, the province in
which Mecca and Medina are situated, by a large tract of country, known
as the Asir. But the tribes inhabiting this district are, and always have
been, largely influenced by the Yemenite faction, and like them are in
their belief of the Sheiya sect, holding that the claim of the Sultan
of Turkey to the Caliphate is irregular and illegal. This alliance, not
only by blood but by doctrine, which is perhaps the strongest tie of all
amongst the Moslems, caused the rebellion in the Yemen to be a likely
forerunner to a war in the Asir. The Turkish rule has never been more
than nominal amongst the mountains of the latter, so that the repudiation
by them of the Osmanli Government, which has taken place, is fraught
with no great danger to Turkey, provided the discontent and consequent
rebellion remains within bounds, and does not reach the Hejaz. Although
largely subsidised by the Turkish Government, there can be little doubt
that, did they clearly see their way to success, the members of the
Shereefian family of Mecca, direct descendants of the Prophet Mahammed,
would attempt to bring back the succession of the Caliphate into their
own line, and thus into the strain of the descendants of the Prophet; and
to a cause so nearly touching their doctrinal beliefs there is but little
doubt the Bedouins of the Hejaz, as well as many of the inhabitants of
the cities, would readily lend their aid and assistance.

Therefore it will be seen that to the Turks a successful rebellion in
the Yemen meant not only the loss of the southernmost of their Arabian
States, but also the probable ensuing loss of the Hejaz, and the fall
of the Sultan of Turkey in the eyes of the larger portion of the world
of Islam. How many thousands of Mahammedans daily in the mosques call
for blessings on the head of Abdul Hamid the Caliph, who would never
pray for Abdul Hamid the Sultan! The difference is enormous, though to
us somewhat incomprehensible; and it is said, and no doubt rightly so,
that his Majesty of Stamboul values far more than his temporal powers the
title of “Commander of the faithful.” In the one case, as Caliph, he is
in the eyes of all Sunnis[29] Sultan of the Moslem world, and as such
successor to the Prophet himself. In the other, as a Sultan, he is merely
a stranger, an Osmanli, not even of the great Arab race, whose ancestors
have by force of arms conquered and left him a kingdom.

From these remarks it will be inferred how vastly important it is to the
Sultan and the Porte to retain intact the Turkish possessions in Arabia.

Although it was not until the summer of 1891 that the rebellion in the
Yemen took any outward form, the Turks must have been aware, for a
long period previous to that time, that their relations with the Arabs
were becoming day by day more strained. Yet such is the character of
Turkish provincial officials, especially of those so far removed from
the seat of the Government as in the Yemen, that they still continued
their policy of oppression, trusting to fate that there would be no
open hostilities until the jobbery that had put them into power would
follow its inevitable course by removing them and reinstating others in
their places, on whom would fall the brunt of a rebellion, which they
saw might for a time be postponed but impossible to avert. “Make your
hay while the sun shines,” is the motto of the Turkish official; and
for him, as a rule, the sun shines but for a very short period. It is
this extraordinary want of forethought and co-operation, this shifting
of responsibilities upon successors in office, amongst those who help
to rule the destinies of the Turkish provinces, that is the chief root
and origin of all their troubles. “Let me enrich myself,” thinks the
official. “In a month or two I may no longer have the opportunities. I
must make enough in this short period of office to retire upon. What may
follow, what may be the result of my policy, I care not; it interests me
not at all.”

It was the perpetual practice of these theories that gradually drove the
Arabs into resistance. The rebellion was no sudden affair; as long ago as
several years back there had commenced on the part of the Arabs a series
of outrages against Turkish officials that would have rendered apparent
to any other nation but the Turks the danger that was threatening. Cruel
and bloodthirsty as many of these outrages were, they were the only means
in the power of the Arabs of protesting against the exorbitant taxation
and the oppression that were ruining them. Their appeals to Sanaa,
and even to Constantinople, had resulted in no amelioration of their
condition.

It is necessary, I think, to give but one example of these outrages. At
Dhamar, one of the largest cities of the Yemen, there lived a certain
general, by name Mahammed Rushti Pasha, between whom and a neighbouring
tribe there had arisen misunderstanding as to the amount of taxation to
be levied upon them. The pasha insisted on the full sum, and a quarrel
ensued between the Arab sheikh and himself, the former fleeing from the
city swearing revenge. Shortly afterwards Mahammed Rushti being called
away to another part of the country, the tribe in question took advantage
of his absence to blow up his house and family with gunpowder. His wives,
children, and servants died that night, in all some eleven persons.
Returning with all speed to Dhamar, the general, with such forces as were
at the time in the city, almost exterminated the little tribe who had
accomplished so horrible a vengeance. Over the grave of those that died
that night Mahammed Rushti raised a mosque and a domed tomb, the interior
of which he hung with rich silks. Thither he would repair and sit alone.
On the taking of Dhamar by the Arabs in November last, this tomb was
looted, and when visited by the writer at the end of January, the city
by that time having been reconquered by the Turks, he found the tomb and
mosque in ruins, robbed of all its treasures.

That the feeling was so strong as to find vent in such outrages as
these—and that mentioned is but one of many—would have made it apparent,
one would have thought, that the existing state of affairs could not
continue with impunity. But the lot of the Yemeni was to be squeezed
to fill the coffers at Constantinople, and to pay for the harems and
pleasures of unscrupulous officialdom. Such, then, apart from all
religious differences, was the existing state of feeling in the Yemen
when in the summer of the year before last the rebellion broke out.
Before the conquest of the Yemen by the Turks in 1872—for although they
possessed a firm footing on the coast previous to that period, their
power had not made itself felt in the interior—the Yemen was governed by
a ruler after their own hearts; for, being of the Sheiya sect—Zaidis they
call themselves—it was necessary to the tenets of their belief that their
Sultan should be of direct descent from the Prophet, through Ali ibn Abou
Taleb, his nephew and son-in-law. This condition their Imam fulfilled;
for although the Yemen had at different times fallen into foreign hands,
still the direct family had never disappeared.

Sanaa, now the capital of Turkish Yemen, was his residence. It is a
large city, situated roughly two hundred and forty miles north of Aden,
and a hundred and sixty east of Hodaidah. Here the Imam lived the usual
secluded and sensual life of an oriental despot, looked upon by the Arabs
as a spiritual Sultan, but powerless to hold in check the depredations
and robberies of the many tribes under his nominal sway, who, with true
oriental zeal, were continually doing their best to exterminate one
another. As long as money was forthcoming, the Imam was content to dwell
at Sanaa without troubling himself about more external affairs than the
management of his own household, and the receiving of gifts from the
Arabs who performed pilgrimages to his presence. Apparently wanting in
education, except such religious knowledge as is considered necessary
for the welfare of an Oriental of high degree, he possessed no ability
to govern, nor does he appear to have been even renowned as a soldier or
organiser of troops.

Such became at length the state of the country, that trade almost
ceased on account of the attacks upon the caravans; and the Sanaa
merchants—quiet respectable Arabs—saw nothing but ruin before them, and
considering solely the benefits that would accrue to themselves by such
a step, and ignoring what the result would be upon the agricultural
population, invited the Turks to take the place. This was accomplished
in 1872 by a force from Hodaidah. The Imam was deposed; but on account
of his spiritual influence over the Arab horde, was permitted to reside
in Sanaa, receiving a pension on the condition that he would exert his
powers in furthering the interests of the Osmanli Government. This until
his death he fulfilled; on which event the _baraka_, or holy birthright,
passed to his relative Ahmed ed-Din, who, like his predecessor, was by
no means dissatisfied to receive the adoration of the Arabs and the
regularly paid allowance of the Turks.

Such, briefly, was the history of the Turkish occupation of the Yemen
and the state of affairs until last year. The tribes, in the time of the
Imam, left undisturbed both in their labours in the fields and in their
welfare, boasting an independence of centuries, found themselves, on
the Turkish occupation, little better than slaves—oppressed, taxed, and
retaxed by a people whose extortions ruined them, whose personality they
hated, and with whom, although co-religionists, there was no unison in
religious views.

But the smouldering discontent was destined to burst into flame, even
though the flame might blaze forth but to flicker and die.

On an appeal from the governor of Lohaya, a body of four hundred Turkish
troops were despatched last summer to assist in collecting by force
the taxes due from the Beni Meruan, a branch of the Asir people, and
their southernmost tribe, who inhabit the country lying to the east of
Lohaya, a port on the Red Sea coast north of Hodaidah. In command of this
force was the very Mahammed Rushti Pasha whose house had been destroyed
at Dhamar. The expedition was destined to complete failure, and being
surprised by a large body of Arabs, was nearly annihilated before the
security of a fort was reached, amongst those who fell being the pasha
himself.

In countries like the Yemen news travels with extraordinary rapidity,
and the Arabs, hearing an exaggerated report of what had taken place,
believed that at last their deliverance had come, for it was rumoured
that the great district of the Asir, between the Yemen and the Hejaz, had
risen, intent upon exterminating the Turks. Where the news travelled the
people rose in arms. Tribal banners long hid away were unfurled, and the
cry of “God give victory to the Imam” echoed and re-echoed throughout the
mountains and valleys of the Yemen.

Meanwhile the hero of the rebellion, Ahmed ed-Din, was living quietly at
Sanaa on the subsidy of the Turkish Government, unconscious of what was
taking place, although, doubtless, there was ever present in his mind the
possibility of some day regaining for himself and his descendants the
throne. He clearly saw that affairs were not ripe for a great rebellion,
and almost against his will he was obliged to fly from the capital, and
become the head of the rebel movement. Premature as things were, he must
in the enthusiasm of his partisans have almost believed in their future
success.

It was a new _Jehad_, or holy war! The Turks were to be exterminated or
driven away; the beloved Ahmed ed-Din—beloved on account of his birth
and descent rather than from any knowledge of his personality—was to
be reinstated on the throne. One by one the tribes rose, except only
the Bedouin inhabitants of the Teháma and the southern deserts, who,
possessing nothing but a few flocks and herds, and always wandering,
were indifferent to Turkish or Arab rule, and awaited the result before
promising allegiance to either side. The same plan was followed by
many of the merchants and citizens, whose position and intimacy with
the Turkish officials placed them outside the bounds of oppression and
taxation, and who in many cases were only too ready to take advantage
of their fellow-countrymen’s unenviable position, by buying from the
Turks the right of collecting the taxes of certain districts; for the
privilege of levying dues is a commercial article, sold from time to
time by auction, a system that relieves the Government of much anxiety
and trouble, but encourages to an almost incredible extent cruelty and
oppression.

In what state were the Turks to repress a general rising of this sort?
The force in the country was estimated at some sixteen thousand men,
although in reality probably far short of that number; for during the
two previous years cholera had wrought great havoc amongst the troops.
These troops consisted of Turkish regulars, Bashi-bazouks, and a large
number of Arab auxiliaries, drawn principally from the Mshareg and
Hadramaut, the country to the east of the Yemen, who did not care whom
they fought against, or for what reason they were fighting, so long as
they were paid, and whose one stimulant to feats of bravery was promised
reward. The Turkish troops already in Yemen were in a miserable state.
Ill fed, ill clothed, thinned by disease, badly housed, and seldom, if
ever, paid, it is no wonder that their spirit was broken in a land where
during summer they were liable to a temperature that seldom falls below
a hundred in such shade as their badly built barracks afforded, and in
winter to frosts, and at times snow—to all the vagaries, in fact, of a
tropical climate on the tops of mountains of from seven thousand to
nine thousand feet in altitude. A more pitiful picture than the Turkish
soldiers presented when the writer was in Yemen he never saw, and yet
they fight like devils rather than men.

[Illustration: _Turkish troops on the march._]

A few days after the flight of the Imam, Sanaa, the capital, was besieged
by an enormous force of Arabs, as was Amran, another walled city; while
those which were not so protected fell, many without even a struggle,
into the hands of the Arabs. Menakha, on the road from Hodaidah to Sanaa,
offered a little resistance, but in vain. Those of the garrison who were
not killed or wounded in the first onslaught of the Arabs were spared
on surrender, and taken away prisoners, amongst their number being the
Kaimakam or military governor. The same happened at Dhamar and Yerim, on
the road from Sanaa to Aden; while in quick succession Ibb, Jiblah, and
Taiz, all three large towns situated farther south, proclaimed for Ahmed
ed-Din. All Turkish prisoners were spared. Many voluntarily went over to
the side of the Arabs; some retired into private life on surrendering
their arms. Those of importance were sent to the Imam, where report
said they were housed and fed at his expense, doubtless in the hope of
persuading them to throw in their lot with his own, and so obtain use of
their superior knowledge of warfare. In very exceptional cases do we hear
of the cruel treatment of Turks by the Arabs in their days of victory;
and even when the tide of affairs was changed, the writer met amongst
the Arabs, in districts where no Turkish troops could enter, deserters
from the Osmanli forces being fed and clothed by the kindly Arabs; and in
many cases money was supplied them by their _quondam_ enemies to assist
them in reaching Aden, or in escaping by other means from the hard life
of soldiering.

By this time telegrams were pouring into Constantinople from Hodaidah
beseeching assistance; and the Porte, having at length realised how
serious a turn affairs had taken, exerted all its activity in forwarding
troops to the scene of war. By the time the new forces had embarked for
Hodaidah, the whole country, with the exception of Sanaa and Amran and
a small city in the Asir, by name Dhofir, had fallen into the hands
of the rebels, the plains and seaboard towns holding aloof from any
participation in the affair, though probably it was only the presence of
better organised Turkish forces which kept in check the feeling which
no doubt existed almost as strongly there as anywhere. The Beni Meruan,
many of whose villages lie on the sea-coast, were pitilessly shelled by a
couple of Turkish gunboats.

Ahmed ed-Din remained at Sadah,[30] whither he had fled from Sanaa;
nor at any part of the revolt did he take active part in the fighting,
a fact that in no small degree accounts for the subsequent failure of
the rebellion. In all probability he never left Sadah, though in his
religious character his movements were always spoken about with much
mystery.

Sanaa at the end of October was still in a state of siege, the garrison
and townspeople suffering greatly from hunger and disease, though in
Amran the state of the inhabitants was still more pitiable.

Badly fed as they were at all times, worse now than ever, one cannot but
admire the immense pluck of the handful of Turkish troops who kept at bay
for several months an immense horde of Arabs. Not only was their courage
exhibited in the dogged resistance within the town, but in their constant
and often successful sorties against the enemy.

A short description of the city of Sanaa is necessary in order to explain
the positions of besiegers and besieged during the whole of last autumn.

The city, which contains some fifty thousand inhabitants, lies in a
wide level valley. It takes the form of a triangle, the eastern point
consisting of a large fortress, dominating the town, and built upon the
lowest spur of Jibel Negoum, a mountain which rises immediately outside
the city walls. The town is divided into three distinct quarters, each
walled, and the whole surrounded by one continuous wall. They are
respectively the city proper, in which are the Government buildings,
the huge bazaars, and the residence of the Arabs and Turks; the Jews’
quarter; and Bir el-Azab, where are gardens and villas belonging to the
richer Turks and Arabs. The city was once of great wealth and prosperity,
and to-day remains one of the most nourishing cities of Arabia. The
shops are well supplied with European goods, and a large manufacture of
silk, jewellery, and arms is carried on there. The quarter in which the
Government buildings are situated presents almost a European appearance,
with its large Turkish shops, its _cafés_, and its open places, on one of
which, in front of the Governor-General’s official residence, a military
band discourses anything but sweet music of an afternoon.

But the city, as the writer saw it after its recapture by the Turks,
presented a very different spectacle from what it must have done when,
surrounded on all sides by a horde of Arabs, a continual shower of
bullets was being poured into its streets from the Arab position on Jibel
Negoum, which completely dominated the place. Fortunately for those
besieged, the rebels possessed no artillery, otherwise their efforts
would no doubt have proved successful in gaining an entrance into the
town. However, the fire poured into the city was sufficiently harassing
to render it expedient to drive the Arabs from their position above the
town, and several unsuccessful sorties were made. At length, mustering
all the troops at his command, the pasha made a final sortie about the
middle of November. Maintaining a steady fire from the fort upon the
Arab position, the troops issued from the southern gate, and wheeling
to the left after a gallant attack—for the Arabs were in overwhelming
numbers—drove the rebels back. They retreated on Dar es-salaam, a small
village a few miles outside the walls of Sanaa, consisting of perhaps a
dozen or so stone houses surrounded by a wall. Bringing up some small
field-guns, the artillery opened fire upon the rebels, completely
destroying the place and rendering a precipitate retreat of the Arabs
necessary, which they are said to have accomplished in the wildest
disorder, leaving, as I was informed, several thousand dead upon the
field. But the victory was not altogether a blessing, for there being
no one to bury the Arab dead, the inhabitants of the city suffered from
violent disease, while the stench of the decaying bodies is said to have
been terrible. Retiring once more within the precincts of the city, the
Arabs again took up their old position; but their defeat seems to have
to a great degree crushed their spirits, and the remainder of the siege,
severe though the sufferings of the townspeople were, is said to have
been less acute than previously. At any rate, the alarm of a successful
attack on the part of the rebels seems to have abated.

But relief was at hand. The Turkish reinforcements had landed in Hodaidah
under the command of Ahmed Feizi Pasha, formerly Governor of Mecca, and
commander of the Seventh Army Corps.

Learning on his arrival at Hodaidah how serious was the state of
affairs, he at once took active measures, and without even waiting for
commissariat arrangements to be carried out, marched his troops _viâ_
Bajil to Hojaila, a village at the foot of the mountains on which the
town of Menakha is situated, and over which the road to Sanaa passes.
Here three days later they were overtaken by the commissariat camels
bringing flour and provisions for the soldiers. Having rested his men, he
commenced the ascent of the steep road, and here met with the first show
of resistance. But the Turkish soldiers were fresh and fought well, and
the superiority of arms did its work. With but a short delay to force the
road, Menakha was reached.

There is perhaps in the world no city situated in the way that
Menakha is. At an altitude of seven thousand six hundred feet above
the sea-level, it is perched on a narrow ridge joining two distinct
mountain-ranges. On either side of the city are precipices, each of
considerably over two thousand feet in depth. So narrow is the town
that there are places in it where one can stand and gaze down both
these precipices at the same time. To reach it from the west there is
only one path in the steep mountain-side; while from the east it can
only be approached by a narrow track cut in the face of a precipice and
winding up it for an ascent of two thousand five hundred feet. In the
hands of well-regulated forces it would be impregnable; but the Arab
defenders, learning how easily the new Governor-General and his troops
had forced the road at Hojaila, made no plucky resistance: and armed as
they were almost entirely with matchlock and fuse guns—and many only with
spears—they could have made no permanent stand against the field-guns of
the Turks, who are said in one day to have brought their light artillery
from Hojaila to Menakha, an ascent of nearly six thousand feet, by a
break-neck path. But few shots had been fired when the Arabs fled, and
the Turks once more took possession of the place. Leaving a sufficient
garrison to protect the town, and to keep open a line of communication
with the coast, Ahmed Feizi marched on towards Sanaa. About thirty miles
from Menakha, on the road to the capital, is a spot called Hajarat
el-Mehedi, where the track is so narrow and so bad that even without
resistance it would offer no slight obstacle to the passage of troops.
Here the rebel army under Seyed esh-Sheraï, a cousin to Ahmed ed-Din,
took up a position, and a twelve days’ delay and fighting took place
before the Turks could force their way through. But on the twelfth day
it was accomplished, and the rebels dispersed. Halting but now and again
to shell some village, the troops by hurried marches reached Sanaa, and
on their being sighted by the Arab besiegers on Jibel Negoum, the Imam’s
force retired into the mountains to the east, where no Turkish troops
could follow them.

[Illustration: MENAKHA.]

The capital relieved, Ahmed Feizi was not idle. He arrived in time to
save the garrison of Amran, where, as at Sanaa, the Arabs retired on
the approach of the Turkish forces. Returning to Sanaa, he set to work
to reorganise affairs, despatching Ismail Pasha with a considerable
number of troops to recapture Dhamar and Yerim. Proclaiming military law,
which in this case meant almost no law, throughout the country, the new
Governor-General offered a reward for the head of every rebel brought
to him, and turned loose upon the Arabs his Turkish troops to loot and
plunder their villages. Marching to the south, Ismail Pasha halted at
Maaber to shell the villages of Jibel Anis, retook Dhamar without any
opposition being offered, and, leaving a garrison there, proceeded to
Yerim, and thence by Seddah and Sobeh to Kátaba, where the writer found
him encamped with four hundred troops toward the middle of last January.
Ibb, Jiblah, and Taiz returned under Turkish rule without a struggle.

There is no nation in the world that can put down a rebellion as the
Turks can, but they have a great objection to any one seeing the process;
and the presence of the writer, turning up suddenly in Sanaa while Ahmed
Feizi Pasha was engaged upon this task, caused such a shock, that he
and his servants were securely confined in prison as spies in spite of
passports, until, from the unsanitary conditions of the place and the
bad water supplied, he was seized with a violent attack of fever; and
no doubt thinking that it would be better to get rid of him alive than
have an objectionable corpse on their hands, and probably a good many
questions to answer, a guard of soldiers was prepared, and the writer
was hurried away to Hodaidah with orders to quit. Yet, in spite of the
fact that his relations with Ahmed Feizi Pasha were a little strained, he
cannot but testify to his admirable activity and soldier-like bearing—an
admiration dimmed only by the cruelty, perhaps almost necessary, of some
of his commands. Thus it will be seen, from the day that Ahmed Feizi
Pasha took over the governor-generalship of the Yemen, the tide of events
had completely changed. A series of Arab victories had ended in a series
of Arab defeats. Had Sanaa been taken, the result would doubtless have
been different; but in their endeavours to take it they failed. Renowned
in history, sacred to them as the former seat of government of their
Imams, their want of success in capturing it, together with the action of
Ahmed ed-Din, who held aloof from any active part in the warfare, broke
their spirits. Had they succeeded in entering Sanaa, had they brought
their Imam there in state, there is some possibility that the Turks might
have lost the Yemen for ever. They themselves, and Ahmed Feizi Pasha the
first of them, told the writer this.

Thus by the end of January the Turks had reconquered all the cities of
Yemen with the exception of one, Dhofir, at that time still besieged
by the Arabs. Yet in spite of the fact that Turkish rule was again
reinstated in the country, in spite of the fact that what with the
reinforcements there were altogether some forty thousand troops in
the Yemen, the rebellion was by no means stamped out. This is easily
understood when the nature of the country is described. Central Yemen
consists of a great plateau, upon which are situated the three principal
cities, Sanaa, Dhamar, and Yerim. This plateau is surrounded by a
system of mountains broken and torn into valleys and cañons, peaks and
pinnacles, amongst which it would be impossible for any Turkish force
to operate. Many of these mountains reach an altitude of over twelve
thousand and thirteen thousand feet, the summits often connected with
the valleys beneath by precipices of thousands of feet in depth. The
only roads—mere tracks they are—are cut in the face of these walls
of rock, and often are not a yard in breadth. Amongst these enormous
mountain-ranges—and to the north of Sanaa one can travel for days and
weeks amongst them—the spirit of rebellion burns as fiercely to-day
as ever. Certainly the towns are now in the possession of the Turks,
yet the main roads that connect the towns are unsafe for Turks to pass
over, except in considerable numbers together. It was to a large extent
from these mountain districts that the revenues of the Government were
previously drawn; for the Arabs of the Yemen, unlike those of the Hejaz
and most other Arabian States, are tillers of the soil, living in
well-built and permanent villages, one and all roughly fortified, from
which they would be able to withstand any band of armed tax-collectors,
such as were wont formerly to be sent to levy the dues, as often on
behalf of those who had purchased the rights of collecting from the
district as on the part of the Government direct. In many of these
villages the writer sat, sharing with the Arabs their humble repast,
sipping their coffee and smoking their hubble-bubbles, and listening to
their strange songs and prayers for the return of the Imam, Ahmed ed-Din,
to power.

The rebellion has been outwardly crushed, but the prestige of Turkey in
the Yemen has received a severe blow. The exorbitant squeezing will have
to be abandoned, with the results that the revenue will probably fall
to a tenth of its former sum. Many tribes formerly taxed will maintain
an armed independence. The garrisons in the towns must be doubled, and
the Yemen as a means of filling the Turkish coffers will be finished.
Over the rebellion the Porte has expended a vast sum of money, while any
attempt to recoup itself from the scene of action will but bring on a
second and probably more disastrous rising.

Little more remains to be told except to consider briefly in what
manner a permanent Arab success would have influenced ourselves. It was
generally believed amongst the Turks in all quarters that it was British
intrigue that stirred up the rebellion in the Yemen, although even the
Turks themselves were at a loss to understand what advantages we should
reap through such an action. They called attention to the independent
States that lie between Aden and the Turkish frontier at Kátaba, the
states of Lahej, Dhala, and the lands of the Houshabi, Aloui, and other
tribes. Yet Ahmed Feizi Pasha himself informed the writer that, equally
with the English, the Turkish Government subsidise their Sultans, Amirs,
and Sheikhs; but the object of our subsidising them is misunderstood by
the officials of Sanaa and Constantinople. To them it is impossible to
consider in the same light as we do the vast importance of trade; and
it is merely that the roads which pass through these various States may
be kept open and safe for caravans trading with Aden, that we pay large
monthly sums to the native rulers. At the same time, it is doubtless an
advantage to possess a more or less independent strip of country between
our frontier at Aden and that of the Turkish Yemen.

What has been to England the result of the Turkish occupation of the
Yemen? It has been a result enormously beneficial. Formerly, in the time
of Arab rule, no caravans were able to pass and repass in safety from the
interior to Aden. The inability of the Imam to hold the tribes in check
rendered the looting of every caravan probable. But since the arrival
of the Turks things have altered. By keeping the roads open the Turks
have rendered a vast service to England, by, as far as their power went,
ensuring safe-conduct to the passage of caravans, while unconsciously
their greed in levying enormous export and import dues at Hodaidah and
their ports has driven the greater part of the Yemen trade to Aden—a free
port. Thus it will be seen how vastly beneficial to England has been the
conquest of the Yemen by the Turks; and had the Osmanli Government lost
possession of the country, the result could have brought about but one
effect—a return to the state of affairs previous to Turkish annexation,
and a consequent enormous diminution of the Aden trade both in coffee and
exports, and in the European goods and tobaccos from the Persian Gulf,
for which the returning caravans create a great demand. Yet the Turks
assured the writer that the British Government was supplying arms and
assistance to the rebels. In reality the rifles were being smuggled in by
private traders from the French port at Obock.

As to what will be the future policy of Turkey in the Yemen it is
difficult to surmise. No doubt Abdul Hamid will be guided much by the
report of his aide-de-camp Yakoub Bey, who was despatched to Sanaa for
the purpose of bringing a full report to the Sultan. Rather than risk a
second rebellion, there is little doubt that a conciliatory policy will
be attempted; but the Yemen is too far removed from Constantinople to
be governed from there, and as soon as affairs have quieted down, the
officials will take advantage of their positions to commence once more
the oppression of the people and the filling of their pockets. Could
they be persuaded that extortion is not the road by which to arrive at
a satisfactory system of government, they would find the country daily
growing richer, and their relations with the Arabs more peaceable and
less strained than at present. But the leopard cannot change his spots;
and it is only probable that as long as Osmanli supremacy exists in the
Yemen, officialdom will continue to enrich itself and impoverish the
country.

PART II.

A JOURNEY THROUGH THE YEMEN

CHAPTER I.

ADEN.

There is not a breath of wind to stir the placid surface of the
sea—not a breath to cause a draught upon the ship and cool us for a
second. It is one of those terrible still tropical days, motionless,
silent, oppressive. Nothing to hear but the hissing of the sea as the
vessel’s bows plough up the turquoise water, and the thud, thud of her
never-ceasing screw. Even the Lascars in their white clothes and bare
feet, children of the sun as they are, seem downcast.

We are passing Perim. It lies on the port side, a dirty blot upon a scene
of opalesque transparence, of shimmering water and palpitating sky.

A youth travelling round the world stretches himself, jots a few lines in
his diary, and commences to tell the old story of the taking of Perim.
But he is soon cried down, and silence reigns again.

On both sides we can see the land,—burning rock seen through a burning
atmosphere. A number of flying-fish buzz over the surface of the water,
and with a series of little splashes disappear once again.

* * * * *

A few hours later and Aden is in sight, with its broken and torn
peaks and jagged outline. A little movement is noticeable amongst the
passengers, but it is half-hearted at the best.

Then we enter the grand bay, surrounded by desolate rock and still more
desolate desert, and drop anchor a mile or so off Steamer Point, as the
shipping quarter of Aden is called.

The steamer is quickly surrounded. A few steam-launches, heavily
awninged, screech their whistles; while a crowd of small boats
manned by coal-black Somali boys, each striving to be the first upon
the scene, crowd upon us. They are boatmen, divers, and sellers of
curiosities—smart, bright little fellows, more than half nude, and as
black as coal, many with their hair left long like the cords of a Russian
poodle. Such a screaming and a yelling! Such a diving after small coins!
Such a display of leopard-skins, antelope-horns, especially those of the
lovely oryx, and ostrich-feathers, products of the opposite coast! A few
dull austere Indians and Cingalese display embroideries and table-cloths,
but the heat seems to depress them, just as it does the buyers.

[Illustration: TOMB AND MOSQUE OF SHEIKH OTHMAN, NEAR ADEN.]

It is a wonderful sight to watch the divers, balanced on the gunwales of
the boats, their hands above their heads, watching eagerly for the tiny
splash of a small coin, then breaking the water into a series of dancing
circles as their dusky bodies disappear into the transparent blue. One
can see them too under water, turning like fishes in search of the slowly
sinking money. When the excitement had worn off, and those passengers who
cared to brave the sun’s terrific rays by taking a short run ashore had
left, I hailed a boy, who, with the aid of Abdurrahman, my ever-faithful
Arab servant from Morocco, stowed my luggage into the boat. Then I said
good-bye to the P. and O. steamer, and was rowed ashore.

[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF ADEN AND ITS SURROUNDINGS

To Illustrate Mr. W. B. Harris’ “A Journey through the Yemen”

W. & A. K. Johnston. Edinburgh & London.]

At some steps leading to a galvanised-iron-roofed landing-place I stepped
ashore. What a scene of desolation and dreariness Aden presents to the
new-comer! and how soon one gets to like the place in spite of it all! A
background of dreary blackish rock, a sandy road, half-a-dozen rickety
_gharies_ under the shelter of a hideous iron-roofing, with sleepy
little ponies and still more sleepy Somali drivers; a whitewashed domed
saint’s tomb, with an apology for a garden on each side, in which a few
weary-looking plants were trying to appear green under a thick coating of
dust and a sweltering sun; a long crescent of badly built houses, with
the exception of the handsome Aden Bank buildings, faced by an expanse of
sand and black palings,—and that is Steamer Point, as one first sees it.
But as the sun sinks low a figure or two appear, and toward sunset the
place wears a gay and flourishing appearance.

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.

Hated, spoken of as typical of the infernal regions, ugly as it is, Aden
perhaps can claim an antiquity and an importance throughout all history
unparalleled, for its size and its situation, in the annals of the
world. When countries, now the centres of vast civilisations, consisted
of primeval forests, inhabited by almost primeval man, and filled with
wild beasts, Aden was an emporium of trade. With every possible natural
disadvantage, except its harbour and its situation, it was inhabited
by merchants, who collected and reshipped by vessel and by caravan the
wealth of many lands. Africa, India, the Persian Gulf, poured on to the
arid volcanic rock their gold and their purples, their spices and their
precious stones.

“Arabia, and all the princes of Kedar, they occupied with thee in lambs,
and rams, and goats: in these were they thy merchants. The merchants of
Sheba and Raamah, they were thy merchants: they occupied in thy fairs
with chief of all spices, and with all precious stones, and gold. Haran,
and Canneh, and _Eden_, the merchants of Sheba, Asshur, and Chilmad,
were thy merchants.”[31] There is no doubt in the minds of competent
authorities that the place here referred to as Eden is none other than
Aden, while many other of the names mentioned have been identified with
ruins and towns of modern Arabia; but of this more anon.

Ibn Khaldun, in his geographical notes on the Yemen, writing in the
eighth century A.H., mentions the extreme antiquity of Aden, speaking of
it as a place of importance in the time of the Tubbas, who were the kings
descended from Himyar, son of Abd esh-Shems, great-grandson of Kahtan,
said to be the Joktan of the Jewish Scriptures, the founder of the
oldest authentic tribes in the Yemen; for although they migrated to that
country, there are no remains to be traced of the inhabitants who were
there before them.

Returning to more historical times, we find that during the reigns of one
of the Cæsars, probably Claudius, Aden was destroyed by the Romans,[32]
probably in order to divert the trade of India to the ports which Ælius
Gallus had founded on the shores of the Red Sea, to which Aden proved,
no doubt, a formidable rival. Later we find it conquered by the army of
Constantine, and re-named Emporium Romanum.

Returning once more to oriental sources, we find the place split up by
the wars and factions which were so constant throughout the Yemen, and
Aden several times was besieged and conquered. Most important, perhaps,
of these early monarchs was the line of Hamdani princes, who, descended
from the Beni Zuray, held it from about 440 A.H. with many ups and downs
of fortune, until in A.H. 569 it was conquered by the troops of Turan
Shah of the Ayyubite dynasty of Egypt.

In 1487, some three hundred years after the accession of the Ayyubite
Sultans over Aden, a period of continued strife, we find the place
visited by a Portuguese by name John Pedro de Covilham. This expedition
was organised to explore that quarter of the globe after an ambassador
had been sent to Florence by the Christian King of Abyssinia whom we
have learned to know by the name of Prester John. Covilham eventually
ended his days at Shoa, at the Court of Iskander, or Alexander, the then
reigning prince.

From the next European, however, who visited Aden we have a more
succinct account, though unfortunately his work upon the subject of his
travels[33] is so taken up with personal narrative, and his names are so
unreliable, that it is with some difficulty that historical events are
recognised. I refer to Ludovico de Barthema, known also as Vertomanus,
who travelled in Arabia about the year 1504.

Albuquerque’s attack upon Aden forms one of the most interesting items
in its history, and short notice must be taken of it here. The sovereign
of Abyssinia at this epoch was a Christian, Queen Helena by name, who,
wishing to obtain assistance by which to keep off the Arab invasions into
her own country, sent an Armenian envoy to the Court of Lisbon. After
wandering about in a somewhat vague way for several years—he went _viâ_
India, where he was detained twenty-three months—he at length, in 1513,
arrived at Lisbon. He found on his arrival that an expedition was already
organised to carry out the proposals he was bringing from his queen,
and in command of which Alphonso de Albuquerque left India in February
of the same year with two thousand five hundred men, two-thirds of them
Portuguese, the rest Indians. On Easter eve they arrived at Aden, and
at once attacked the place. After a siege of four days further efforts
were found to be useless; and bombarding the town, and destroying the
native shipping, the Portuguese flotilla sailed for the Red Sea. A second
attempt on the part of Albuquerque to take Aden the following spring
again failed, owing to the fact that it had meanwhile been refortified.

A few years later, in 1516 A.D., Aden was again besieged, this time by
an expedition sent from Egypt under Raïs Suleiman; but the city was
again found to be impregnable, and the attacking force suffered very
considerable loss. However, so weakened had the fortifications been by
these repeated attacks, that when Soarez arrived shortly afterwards, the
governor surrendered the place into his hands; but on the Portuguese
attempting to follow and capture Suleiman’s fleet, the governor made
haste to repair the fortifications, and on Soarez’s return he found
himself baffled, and Aden more firmly in the hands of the Amir Morjaun
than ever.

Meanwhile Suleiman had organised an enormous fleet, with part of which he
visited Aden. The city was taken by treachery; for the governor, having
been enticed on board the ships, was hung, and soldiers landed on beds
under the pretence that they were sick men. In 1551 the inhabitants,
oppressed by the cruel representatives left by Suleiman, rebelled, and
ceded Aden to the Portuguese.

It is not for nearly fifty years later than this date that we find the
English in these seas. On the 8th April 1609 a ship belonging to the East
India Company, by name the Ascension, visited Aden. Received with every
possible courtesy, the captain was, when once safely in the hands of the
governor, entrapped and imprisoned, and only allowed to leave Aden after
paying heavy fines in goods and money. A year later the Darling and the
Peppercorn arrived, under the command of Admiral Sir Henry Middleton.
On the Darling proceeding to Mokha, the crew of the Peppercorn were
treacherously seized and detained in prison.

The Dutch were the next to appear upon the scene, Van den Broeck
arriving with a fleet in 1614, in order to found trading relations
between the natives and the Dutch East India Company. Their overtures
were exceedingly well received by the officials, but the jealousy of the
more influential native merchants prevented their being able to come to
any satisfactory arrangement. From this period until the beginning of
the present century Aden shared the ups and downs of fate that are so
frequent in all oriental places; but as any account of these would prove
tedious, they can very well be omitted. In 1802 we find Aden visited
by Sir Home Popham, who, having failed in concluding a treaty with the
Imam of Sanaa, was able to enter upon and carry through a commercial
and amicable treaty with the then Sultan of Aden. As late as 1833 we
find another example of the treachery of the natives of Aden. Turkchee
Bilmas, as Mahammed Agha was nicknamed, after his series of extraordinary
victories, having demanded and received the surrender of the governor of
Aden, sent thither a mission of forty persons. They were well received,
but during the night more than half their number were foully murdered,
the rest escaping in miserable plight.

In 1835 steamers of the Indian Government having harboured in Aden, made
use of it as a coaling-station; but it was, on account of the difficulty
of obtaining labour, changed for Makulla, a port to the east on the
Hadramaut coast. After, in 1837, being sacked by the Foudtheli tribe, the
attention of the Indian Government was called to Aden by the fact that a
ship flying British colours, the Deria Dowlat, being wrecked near that
port, the vessel was looted, and the passengers, some of whom were native
ladies of rank, insultingly treated. Captain Haines, in command of the
war-sloop Coote, arrived in December, and laid a claim before the Sultan
for twelve thousand dollars compensation. A plot being in the air to
obtain possession of the person and papers of Captain Haines, he sailed
for India, returning in October 1838 to enforce the carrying out of the
cession of Aden in return for an annual payment to the Sultan of nearly
nine thousand dollars a-year. Having been insultingly treated, Captain
Haines commenced to blockade the port, until, in January 1839, H.M.S.
Volage and H.M.S. Cruizer arrived upon the scene. A message to surrender
being left unanswered, the town was bombarded and taken, the Sultan and
his family escaping to Lahej, a city some thirty miles in the interior.
The capture of Aden is curious as being the first addition to the Empire
made during the reign of Queen Victoria.

It is wonderful to notice how soon it became apparent to the natives that
they had nothing to fear from the British occupation; but, in spite of
this feeling of satisfaction in the eyes of the lower-class natives and
the merchants, the chiefs of the Abdali tribe, in spite of solemn bonds
to the contrary, attempted to retake the place. In this they failed, and,
exasperated at their want of success, commenced a series of depredations
upon the caravans and local property of Arabs residing in Aden. After a
severe struggle in 1841, in which two Arab forts on the mainland were
destroyed by the British troops, affairs remained in a more peaceful
condition until, in 1846, Seyed Ismail, a fanatical Shereef, preached a
holy war and the retaking of Aden from the infidels. Augmented by many
local tribes, three separate attempts were made upon Aden, each of which
was successfully repulsed. Like all such failures in the East, the Seyed
was stamped as an impostor, and, his army having dissolved, he was killed
by a Bedouin in 1848. In 1850 the crew of a man-of-war’s boat landing
on the north side of the bay was attacked, and some of the number were
wounded, one man being killed. A still more melancholy affair happened
in February 1851, when a shooting-party was attacked at the village of
Wáhat, of whom Captain Milne was killed and several others badly wounded.
A series of like depredations and outrages continued to take place, until
in 1858 an attack was made upon the Arabs and the battle of Sheikh Othman
fought, which ended in the blowing up of the fort and the village, and
the opening of negotiations for a friendly understanding between the
British Government and the Abdali Sultan.

From this time on affairs became more quiet; but on the Turks conquering
the interior of the Yemen in 1872—they had held a firm footing on the
Red Sea coast before this period—it was found necessary to demand the
withdrawal of the Osmanli forces from the tribe lands surrounding
Aden. At this epoch, too, Little Aden, a sister peninsula which forms
the western shore of the Aden bay, was purchased, and in 1883 British
territory was extended across the isthmus, by which arrangement the
entire shores of the harbour fell under the jurisdiction of the British
Government. Included in this deed of purchase is the village of Sheikh
Othman, now a flourishing little township, with a police station and a
clock tower dominating its principal square. Bungalows have been built
there and gardens laid out, and Sheikh Othman to-day presents quite a
prosperous appearance, though the less said about its inhabitants, for
the most part Arab dancing-girls, the better.

Thus, then, the extent of territory in the possession of the British
Government in the vicinity of Aden may be described as follows: Aden on
the east, Little Aden on the west, and an intermediate strip along the
north shore of the bay; the total area forming some seventy square miles.
Of these, Aden alone is fortified.

The peninsula is situated one hundred and twenty miles from the Straits
of Bab el-Mandeb, in latitude 12° 47′ N., and longitude 45° E. It is
five miles in length and three in breadth, and consists of hills of
bare grey-black rock, the highest of which, Jibel Sham-sham, reaches
an altitude of nearly eighteen hundred feet above the sea-level. The
volcanic origin of the place is clearly demonstrated by the fact that
there exists a large crater, which, owing to the broken spurs of rock
by which it is surrounded, renders a greater portion of the peninsula
uninhabitable. However, in such parts as are suitable for building the
most has been made, and an extraordinary number of people find room
to exist upon the barren rock, which of itself produces none of the
necessities of life. Including the population of Sheikh Othman, the
census return in 1891 was over thirty-eight thousand, whereas at the time
of the British conquest in 1839 the population numbered only some six
thousand.

The greater portion of the population consists of Arabs and Somalis. The
Arabs are for the most part labourers, ship-coalers, and some shopkeepers
and traders. The Somalis prefer the lighter trade of cab-driving, the
rowing of small boats, and such work. They seem perfectly incapable of
stationary labour, and unable to conquer their nomad traits. Almost
every nationality is found in Aden: besides the Europeans there are
Hindus, Parsees, Turks, Egyptian Arabs, Persians, Chinese, Seedy boys,
Abyssinians, Jews, and many natives of India of different types and
classes. Principal amongst the British Indian subjects are the Parsees,
who act as agents and shopkeepers, in which professions they equal the
meanness—or shall I call it business talent—of the Jews. One sees them
everywhere with their long white flimsy garments and curious head-gear
resembling a coal-scuttle. They have brought to Aden a spark of the
ever-living fire of Bombay, and have established themselves there with
their temples and womenfolk, and are annexing a very considerable
proportion of the trade.

The peninsula of Aden boasts two towns and an important village. The
former are Aden proper, situated on the level bottom of the crater,
and Tawahi, at Steamer Point, which contains some seven hundred houses,
inhabited for the most part by those who gain a livelihood dependent
upon the shipping. The large town of Aden proper contains some eighteen
thousand inhabitants. The principal village is Maala, where the native
craft, strange dhows and _bugalas_, anchor; and here nearly all the
native trade is shipped or landed, as the case may be.

Before entering upon any description of Aden as it appears to the
traveller of to-day, it may be as well to finish such statistics as are
necessary here. First, as to the anchorage that Aden affords to shipping.
The bay, which attains its greatest length almost due east and west,
consists of two distinct portions, the inner and the outer harbour. The
former, almost landlocked, extends to a length of some five miles, while
the latter is the large portion lying between Little Aden and Aden. The
depth varies from three to five fathoms in the western bay and at the
entrance, while a couple of miles outside ten and twelve fathoms can
be found. A small island in the inner harbour, opposite Tawahi, serves
the purpose of a quarantine station. Very considerable improvements
have lately been carried out, and the depth of certain anchorage in the
inner bay successfully increased by aid of a large dredger—a veritable
eyesore amongst the strange and picturesque native craft with which at
certain times the bay is crowded. The larger steamers, such as the P.
and O. and the Messageries Maritimes, lie at some distance from the
shore, toward the mouth of the harbour; but the British India, Austrian
Lloyd’s, and several other important lines, bring their ships in close
under Steamer Point. This, however, is due to the fact that they usually
remain a longer time there, and that it affords them greater and cheaper
facilities for coaling.

It is, of course, as a coaling-station that Aden is most renowned. In
1891 some 165,000 tons were imported, which, together with the other
trade of the colony, brings the value of imports and exports up to a sum
of over five millions sterling per annum. What result the opening of the
coaling-station on the island of Perim may have on the coal trade of Aden
remains yet to be seen, but it seems improbable that, as was said at the
time, it will ever become a more important place than the other.

Apart from the commerce in coal, there is by no means an unimportant
trade carried on with the neighbouring coasts of Arabia, the Persian
Gulf, the Red Sea, and the African coast. This is principally in the
hands of native merchants, and a very considerable quantity of the
cargo is transported in native sailing craft. The chief articles are
hides, coffee, feathers, gums, dyes, spices and perfumes, silk, and
mother-of-pearl shells and ivory.

The coffee trade which now finds its outlet at Aden was formerly
almost entirely in the hands of the Mokha and Hodaidah merchants; but
the former town is now deserted, and the heavy dues of the Turkish
authorities at the latter have diverted a large part of the coffee to
Aden, a free port, although a considerable amount is still shipped from
Hodaidah to Aden by sea. The coffee which reaches Aden direct is brought
down by caravan from the highlands of the interior and sold to the Aden
merchants. A very considerable quantity is also brought across from the
African coast, shipped almost entirely from Zeilah, one of the Somali
ports, to which spot it is brought on camels from the highlands of Harrar
and the Galla country, all of which is practically suitable to the growth
of the coffee tree, which necessitates a high altitude above the level of
the sea. The ostrich-feathers are the produce of Somali and the Donakil
country. Mother-of-pearl shells are brought from the Persian Gulf and the
Red Sea fisheries, and ivory from Somali-land and Abyssinia. The food for
the garrison is imported from the African coast and from Arabia. Sheep
and goats are weekly shipped in large quantities from Berbera, Bulhar,
and Zeilah; while oxen, vegetables, fodder, and fuel are brought in by
camel-caravan from Lahej and the surrounding country.

What, however, astonishes one about Aden is the fact that it has no local
industries. All skilled labour has to be imported from China or India;
while even such simple trades as mat-making, boat-building, and suchlike
are almost neglected.

The climate of Aden is by no means so bad as it is generally described
to be, and I believe that statistical returns give a very fair average
of health there. The temperature for the whole year averages about 85°
Fahr. in the shade, the extremes being 72° and 102°. During my visit
the thermometer only once rose above 90°, and then only for a short
period, and once fell as low as 74°. The sky during the winter months is
unclouded, and the climate may be said to be delightful, though great
care must be taken not to get chilled at sundown. Early in June the
south-west monsoon breaks. Damp and unpleasant as this ocean wind may
seem, it is the sole cause that renders Aden inhabitable for Europeans
during the summer. The changes of the monsoon, May and September, are
the worst periods in the year, the thermometer often varying only
between 100° in the day and 90° at night! The rainfall of Aden is very
changeable, in some years rising to eight inches, in others being only
one-fourth of an inch; but it is sufficient to keep alive a few plants,
that do their little best to break the monotony of the dull rocks. After
a shower the valleys sometimes wear quite a green appearance, but as
a rule this does not last long, for the sun and dust soon dry them up
again. However, it is said that there are no less than one hundred and
thirty species, of over forty different orders, the most common being
_Euphorbiaceæ_, the _Acacia eburnea_, _Caparidiciæ_, and the lovely
_Adenum obesum_. A few wild dogs, jackals, and foxes can be found in
the rocky valleys; and birds are common—kites, hawks, flycatchers, and
wagtails being permanent residents, while many species pay the place an
occasional visit.[34]

Having thus briefly run through the statistics of Aden to such an extent
as I deem necessary for a work of this kind, I will continue with the
personal narrative of my journey, and, having exhausted my books of
reference, describe Aden as it appeared to me.

I have said elsewhere that the terrible feeling of oppression soon wears
off, and that, after only a few days’ residence in the place, one has
forgotten how truly desolate and dreary are the great brown peaks that
rear their heads so far above one on all sides. I never was in a place
that so shocks one at first, and yet which one so quickly comes to
like. It took only a day or two to shake off the feeling of the hideous
barrenness of the place; and having made a few friends, I soon began to
perceive how charming life can be made with all the disadvantages of such
surroundings and climate as Aden possesses.

The club, the very verandahs of which are laved by the sea-waves, is
one of the best of its kind in the East; and many a pleasant evening
I spent there, listening now and again to a military band which once
a-week discourses sweet music in its precincts. Pleasantest amongst many
pleasant recollections of Aden is the kindness I was shown by all with
whom I came in contact—kindness that extended not only to entertaining,
but in rendering me great service in arranging my journey into the
interior of the Yemen. I cannot here attempt to thank all those who took
pity on a stranger, but I must not pass on without saying how grateful I
am to General Jopp, H.M. Political Resident, and to Colonel Stace, C.B.,
Assistant-Resident, for their many kindnesses.

As soon as I had settled in at my hotel and rested a day to study my
whereabouts, I set to work to see the sights of the place. Fortunately
they are not very many, though some of them, such as the street scenes
in the bazaars, one can never tire of looking at. Our hotel, too, was a
“sight.” It was full of curiosities, from the exceedingly stout and none
too clean Greek who kept the place, to the dirtiest of dirty kitchens
I ever saw. The centre courtyard, surrounded by a rickety balcony, had
once been used as a _café-chantant_, and the stage and framework still
remained, festooned with cobwebs. Below, the Greek kept a curiosity-shop,
which seemed principally to contain moth-eaten skins of what once may
have been wild beasts, and rusty Somali spears. His “Turkish delight”
was good. I found he sold it to my servant at exactly half the price he
charged me, so I made Abdurrahman buy it in future, and between us and
Saïd, my Yemen man, we did a large business with him. However, on the
whole, the place was inhabitable, and in a climate like Aden one lives
mostly out of doors on the verandahs.

My first stroll to see the sights was confined to the little town of
Tawahi, in which the hotel was situated, and which is generally known
under the more general designation of Steamer Point. There is little to
see in this quarter, though a crowd of natives lying out on their long
wood-and-string beds in front of the tiny _cafés_, smoking the murmuring
hubble-bubble, is always a picturesque sight. But it is only in the back
streets that one finds this, the front of the town being faced with
what is called Prince of Wales Crescent—in other words, a semicircle of
ill-built stucco houses, with the exception of the handsome offices of
Messrs Luke, Thomas, & Co., to whose representative, Mr Vidal, I am under
many obligations for kindness. Facing these hideosities of houses is an
open sandy space, in which a few young palm-trees, caged and coddled,
were trying to grow. A row of black palings divides this sandy space from
the beach. A hideous cab-stand of galvanised iron roofing does not add to
the picturesqueness of the scene; nor, for the matter of that, does the
thin filmy coal-dust that so often floats upon the breeze, to dirty one’s
white clothes and render life gritty and unbearable. Yet in spite of this
depressing view—in spite of the bare rocks that rise above the town—all
my recollections of Tawahi are pleasant.

Having explored this little township, which can be done comfortably in
half an hour, I entered upon a longer undertaking,—I chartered a rickety
conveyance and drove to Aden proper. The town lies in the centre of the
crater of an extinct volcano, and one cannot help thinking how unpleasant
it would be for the inhabitants did the eruption that must once have
taken place recommence.

[Illustration: _Main Pass, Aden._]

Driving from Steamer Point to Aden, a distance of some four or five
miles, is by no means an exciting process, although one’s nerves are kept
in constant tension by the extraordinary evolutions of the cab, and the
thought that at any moment it may fall to pieces—ditto the pony, which a
Somali jehu on the box causes by aid of his whip to keep up to a gallop.
Through the pass of Hedfaf, along the flat that leads to the village
of Maala—its harbour crowded with native craft, while Arab sailors sit
mending the sails on the beach—away up the winding road to the Main Pass,
a zigzag cutting between high walls of rock, then down again, until,
issuing from the tunnel-like pass, one sees the town of Aden before one’s
eyes—a great white block, broken up by the streets that run at right
angles to one another, and disfigured by hideous barracks and Government
offices. The plain in which the town lies, being in reality the floor of
the crater, is almost a circle, from which torn and ragged spurs of rock
rise on all sides, except where through a gap one can catch a glimpse of
the sea and Seerah island, until they join in the peaks of Sham-sham and
its neighbours. There is but little to attract the eye about the desolate
prospect, except the relief afforded by the clean white town. Away on one
of the hill-tops stands a tower. Like the Towers of Silence at Bombay,
it serves as the scene of the strange funeral rites of the Parsees; and
here the birds of prey congregate to devour the corpse, too impure to
defile fire or earth or water.

But the sight of all Aden is the tanks. I remember long before I
visited Aden listening one evening during a long sea-voyage to an old
ship’s-carpenter discoursing on the Bible. “The Garden of Eden!” he said;
“why, of course it’s true! It’s Aden to-day, and there’s the tanks to
prove it. I seed ’em with my own eyes.” However, in spite of the dear
old man’s religious beliefs being strengthened by having seen the famous
Aden tanks, I fear they can claim no such antiquity as that with which
he connected them. In all probability these great reservoirs were built
at the time of the second Persian invasion, in the seventh century A.D.
In this case the tanks at Aden are much later in date than many of those
existing in Southern Arabia, of which the most important was, without
doubt, the great dam of Mareb, or Sheba as we know it. Although I was not
fortunate enough in my travels in the Yemen to be able to reach the ruins
of this extraordinary work, I think that a few words upon the subject may
not be out of place here.

The dam of Mareb was built probably some 1700 years B.C. by Lokman
the Adite, though some authorities attribute its construction to Abd
esh-shems, father of Himyar, founder of the Himyaric dynasty, and
great-grandson of Kahtan—Joktan of the Hebrew Scriptures. Monsieur
d’Arnaud, who visited Saba in 1843, describes the ruins of the dam.
He says that it consisted of an enormous wall, two miles long and one
hundred and seventy-five paces wide, connecting two hills. Dikes allowed
the water to escape for the irrigation of the plain below. These openings
are at different levels, so as to render practicable a supply of water
at whatever height the contents of the reservoir might stand. The
destruction of this great work took place probably about a hundred years
after the birth of Christ; but although the catastrophe is referred to
in the Koran, no certain date can be affixed to its occurrence. The fact
that it stood the enormous pressure of water which must have constantly
been present for some seventeen hundred years, testifies to the immensity
and solidity of its construction.

The tanks at Aden cannot, of course, compare with the dam of Mareb, yet
they are in their way colossal undertakings, and the labour and time
expended in their construction must have been enormous. They number about
fifty altogether, and if in working order, would be capable of holding
upwards of thirty million gallons. We know that at the time of the
invasion of Raïs Suleiman in 1538, the inhabitants of Aden were entirely
dependent upon these great cisterns for their water-supply. On Captain
Haines visiting Aden in 1835, he found several of the tanks in use, but
many were filled up with the _debris_ that the torrents had washed from
the mountains above.

In 1856 the restoration of the tanks was commenced, and now thirteen are
in working order, capable of holding nearly eight million gallons of
water. Their site is well chosen. They lie above the town, immediately
under the high rocks that form the foot of Jibel Sham-sham, and in such
a position that all the drainage of the rain-water is accumulated into
channels, and poured into the succession of cisterns that lie one above
another.

The tanks are formed in various ways: some are cut into the solid bed
of the rock, which is covered with a hard polished cement; others are
dams built across the ravine; while a third variety of shape is formed
by angles in the precipices being made use of, two of the walls of
the cistern perhaps being the natural stone, and the others formed of
masonry. The upper tanks are the first filled, the lower for the most
part being supplied from the overflow of those above. In spite of the
enormous space to contain the water and the slight rainfall of Aden,
a series of heavy showers will not only fill the tanks, but cause an
overflow stream of such bulk that very considerable damage has at times
been caused by it, as it poured along its channel through the town to the
sea.

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.

Immense improvements have lately been carried out in the fortifications
of Aden, and during the time of the writer’s visit several new forts
were being erected. There is no doubt that the strategic position of
the peninsula justifies a large expenditure upon its defences. The
immense value it would prove in time of war as a coaling-station cannot
be overrated. At the present period its garrison consists of the Aden
troop of cavalry, three batteries of the Royal Artillery, one regiment
of British infantry, one regiment of native infantry, and one company
of sappers; while in the bay lies a gunboat and a transport steamer
of the Indian marine. The troops are spread over the peninsula, the
cavalry having lines on the isthmus itself. Altogether, when the new
fortifications are completed, Aden may be said to be, both as regards
its defensive powers and in its commercial character, one of the most
successful spots in the world.

CHAPTER II.

ADEN TO LAHEJ.

With the kind aid of friends at Aden, my preparations were easily made
for my journey into the Yemen—far more easily, in fact, than I had been
led to suppose would have been the case. Everywhere in the bazaar were
rumours of the rebellion still raging in the interior—vague rumours,
the truth of which it was almost impossible to gather; while, more
dispiriting still, there was the fact that for several months no caravans
had arrived from any distance in the interior, while those which came
from Lahej and the surrounding country brought tidings, by no means
reassuring, of the impassable state of the roads in the interior, and the
constant depredations of the turbulent tribes, who were taking advantage
of the serious political troubles to enrich themselves by robbery and
plunder. Added to this, I was warned by several European merchants and
traders that even in times of peace it was an almost impossible task
to enter the Yemen from Aden. One and all advised my proceeding to
Hodaidah, and from there attempting the road to Sanaa. In spite of this,
I decided otherwise. My reasons were these. Hodaidah being the nearest
port to the capital, and the principal sea-port of the Yemen, it would
be only natural to find there great activity on the part of the Turkish
officials,—an activity that would not only prevent my being allowed to
pass along the well-watched road, but would also probably put the Turks
upon the look-out in other quarters. It may seem strange to the reader
that any great difficulties should be put in my way; but so serious had
been the rebellion, and to such an extent had false reports been spread
from Constantinople concerning it, that the officials were determined if
possible not to allow the truth of what really had been and was taking
place to leak out. There were at this time, with the exception of a
few traders at Hodaidah, absolutely no Europeans in the Yemen; for one
scarcely counts the Greek shopkeepers to be found in all the large towns
as any but natives, to so great an extent do they assimilate themselves
to the customs and manners of the country. I knew, then, that did I
attempt to reach Sanaa from Hodaidah, and should I fail, as most probably
would be the case, my chance of proceeding into the country from any
other quarter would be practically at an end. It was for this reason that
I decided to make Aden my starting-point; and should I be unfortunate
in my journey thence, to fall back as a last hope upon Hodaidah. This,
happily, I was not obliged to do; for my plans, as will be seen, were
successful.

But there were several other matters to be thought over besides this.
Granting that I could reach the capital of the Yemen from Aden, how could
I best do so with tolerable safety? Here my experiences in Morocco stood
me in good stead. My first idea had been to purchase my camels, but on
second thoughts I decided not to do so. Not only would my camels tempt
the tribes through whose lands I would have to pass to robbery, but even
the native Arabs I might hire as guides to go with me might not prove
indisposed to relieve me of two or three valuable beasts of burden. It
would be safer far, I argued, to hire my beasts, as in that case it
would be to the advantage of my men to see that not only I myself but
also my baggage-animals would arrive at their destination in safety.
How, then, to find the right men and animals without spreading the fact
all over the bazaars that a mad Englishman wanted to go to Sanaa, in
spite of dangers and the rebellion? I had recourse to Messrs Cowasjee,
Dinshaw, & Co., a great house of Parsee merchants, and through them was
put into communication with an Arab trader. This gentleman I called upon,
and found exceedingly pleasant; and more than that, I found that he
understood perfectly my North-African Arabic, and that his educated Yemen
dialect was comprehensible to myself. I unfolded to him, over coffee, my
plans, with which he seemed not a little amused. He told me in return to
leave everything to him, and to appear again at his house the following
afternoon. This I did, and after coffee and preliminary remarks he
introduced to me a strange character, an Arab of the mountains of Yemen,
a man of something under forty years of age, framed like an Apollo, lithe
and beautiful. I must give a few words of description of this strange
creature. Tall, lithe, and exquisitely built, his skin of dull copper
hue showed off the perfect moulding of his limbs. Over his shoulders on
either side hung loose black wavy curls, standing out like the wigs of
the old Egyptians. Except for a loin-cloth of native indigo workmanship,
and a small blue turban, almost lost in the spreading masses of raven
hair that burst from beneath its folds, he was naked. Here and there his
flesh had taken the dye from his blue raiment, giving it a strange blue
tint. Tucked into his girdle was a dagger—_jambiya_—of exquisite Yemen
silver-work; while round his left arm hung a long circular silver box
containing some charm. In features he was extraordinarily handsome. The
brow was high, the eyebrows arched, the eyes almond-shaped and brilliant,
his nose aquiline and thin. Added to this a fine firm mouth, the upper
lip closely shaven, while on the point of his chin he wore a small
pointed beard about an inch in length. A strange contrast he was to my
Arab host, an elderly highly respectable-looking merchant, with eyelids
darkened with antimony—_kohl_ the Arabs call it—and his grey beard dyed a
shade between saffron and salmon-pink. An enormous turban was balanced on
his closely shaven head, and he was habited in robes of yellow and green.

Coffee being brought for our half-nude guest, we began to talk matters
over, with the result that for an absurdly small sum my new-found friend
undertook to deliver me safely in Sanaa. At all my questions about the
road he laughed. Somehow he had such an air of sincerity about him that
I trusted him from the very first, nor was I wrong. “You have nothing
to do or say,” he said, smiling; “only bring your baggage here the day
you want to start, and I will see to the rest.” In half an hour it was
all arranged. Three camels were to take me and my servants, and, after
a certain distance, when, in fact, we entered the highlands, they would
be changed for mules. As to guides and men, I had nothing to do with
them. There would be always enough animals to carry my scanty baggage,
my servants Abdurrahman and Saïd, and myself. “When will you be ready?”
asked the Arab, rising to leave. “To-morrow,” I replied, expecting to be
met with excuses for so hurried a departure. But no; and half an hour
later I was rattling back to Steamer Point in the wheeziest old ghary
that ever existed, with a fat pony galloping ahead and an excited Somali
jehu on the box.

It did not take long to make my preparations, and these over, I turned
into bed in a fever of delight at the idea of getting away. At dawn I was
up. I knew it was hopeless to attempt an early start, so, having seen all
my baggage put in order—it consisted of only a sack of clothing and a
mattress and blanket, a couple of saucepans, a kettle, and a few stores
mixed up with the clothes—I turned in again.

About nine I dressed; and as there were no signs of anything or anybody,
I sat down impatiently to wait until something should happen. At length
Abdurrahman, my faithful Moor, who had come with me from Morocco
especially to make this journey, appeared. His only fault is that,
when he is particularly wanted, he is sure to have found some place as
difficult to discover as the North Pole in which to oversleep himself.
He was followed an hour or so later by Saïd, clad in new raiment, gay as
the sunshine, and not the least ashamed of himself for being so terribly
unpunctual. However, one could not be angry with this butterfly, who,
from his mass of wavy black hair to the soles of his leather sandals, was
a picture of dandyism. Often and often in the marches before me Saïd’s
bright cheery manner and ingenuous narration of his conquests amongst the
female sex kept us, tired and weary as we were, in shouts of laughter. He
was as good as mortal man could be when once we had torn him away from
the fascinations of Aden, his earthly paradise.

At length, collecting the men and the baggage into a couple of gharies,
we set out for Aden proper, the old fat Greek who kept the hotel waving
his hand to me, and wishing me all good-fortune as we drove away.

At the other end, of course, all the worry commenced again. However,
there was nothing to do but to bear it patiently. First, no signs of men
or camels. At length, after much searching, we captured the beautiful
Arab of the previous afternoon; and, never letting him out of our sight,
we at length ran our camels to earth in a back-yard. Leaving Abdurrahman
to watch the luggage and the camels, Saïd and I sauntered out to do our
last shopping. The heat was terrific, but even my impatience did not
ruffle Saïd’s equanimity. He seemed to have a smile and a few words to
say to every one he met, and, added to this, he insisted on bargaining
for a considerable period of time over every item of our purchasing; and
if at length he could not beat the shopman sufficiently low down, he
would saunter off to another shop, and commence the whole business over
again. It was exasperating!

At last everything was completed, said Saïd, and we turned back once more
in the direction of our camel-yard. Abdurrahman, wearied with waiting,
had gone off to a _café_ to have a cup of coffee with the camel-men!
I sent Saïd to find them. In about an hour Abdurrahman and the men
returned, not having seen Saïd, who presently came smiling in, gay as a
singing-bird, with the excuse that he had forgotten to say good-bye to
one of his lady-loves, whose beauty he began to sing in flowery praises
until I peremptorily silenced him.

Then they loaded the camels. I sat by and watched, wondering what we
could have forgotten. Saïd presently was struck with a bright idea, and
before I could seize him had fled to buy a jar of ghee, or rancid butter,
for our cooking on the road. Pursuit was hopeless, but at last I could
wait no longer. Fortune favoured me, and I found him. He had, so far,
forgotten all about the ghee, and was testing the smoking capabilities of
a quantity of hubble-bubble pipes, one of which I purchased, and which I
found to be a veritable passport on my journey. Then off he went to buy
the ghee, the pipe under his arm; but I accompanied him, and brought him
safely back again.

With a sigh of delight I watched the camels laden with my baggage saunter
off with slouching gait out of the yard and along the yellow dusty road,
followed by the men. Half an hour later we drove out through the Main
Pass gate of Aden, down the steep winding hill, and along the isthmus, to
join our baggage-animals at the village of Sheikh Othman, on the mainland.

It was almost sunset, and grand and beautiful the jagged outline of Aden
looked as we left it behind. The bay, placid as glass, reflected the
great rock, and the ships that lay so peacefully upon its motionless
waters. The sky, a mass of primrose yellow, still trembled with the heat
of the afternoon sun. Far away beyond the crowded masts of the native
craft, Little Aden, rival of its sister rock, rose a pale mauve against
the sky. Then the sun set, and our cab came to a standstill with a jerk
that threatened to break it to atoms; while our Somali driver, good
Moslem that he was, alighted to pray. The air was fresh and cool, and
we descended for a few seconds to stretch our limbs. One could not help
thinking of the strange mixture of the past and the present. This grand
lithe figure rising and falling in prayer, now upright with outstretched
hands, now prostrate with his forehead on the ground, seemed like some
memory of the long dead glories of Islam, whereas he was in reality only
a cab-driver.

On again, on over the level plain where many an army has met and fought
over the possession of the barren rock we were leaving behind us, until
in the fading of the after-glow we drew up in the quiet square of Sheikh
Othman.

I was intensely happy. A feeling of exhilaration at the journey before
me ran through my being—and we were really started! I could not let the
Somali driver go back, so I paid him for his stabling for the night,
and dragged him off to the little _café_ where my camels and men were
resting; and here we, Arabs and Moor, Somali and Englishman, calling
“Bismillah”[35] together, sat down to our humble repast of fowl and
coffee.

But I could not sit still. I longed for the rising of the moon to start
again, and under the guidance of my great Arab friend, set out to wander
through the half-deserted streets. From time to time one could catch a
glimpse into the _cafés_ of which Sheikh Othman principally consists,
filled with dusky Arabs and laughing women, many dancing in the circles
of their admirers, for the little town is given over to pleasure. And
as an echo to the music, one heard the soft gurgle of the hubble-bubble
pipes, the grey fumes of which filled the air of the houses with hazy
indistinctness. On we walked between the high walls of gardens, out on to
the desert, to where, in its little grove of palm-trees, stands the tomb
of the patron saint, Sheikh Othman, with its domes and its mosque and
strange tower of sun-dried bricks. This tomb it is that gives the name to
the little town.

The moon was rising, so we hurried back to the _café_, and after a final
smoke and a cup of the steaming coffee, we loaded our camels, and bidding
farewell to our Somali guest, prepared to start. Then I found that my
Yemen Apollo was not coming with us. I was sorry at this, but it could
not be helped: as long as the men who were to accompany me were _his_
men, I had nought to fear. So I bade him adieu, and mounting my camel,
was lifted into the air, and set out. Abdurrahman and Saïd followed my
example, and, accompanied by three strange dusky men, we wended our way
through the quiet squares and streets out into the desert beyond.

Twice had the village and fort of Sheikh Othman been destroyed by British
troops before, in order to extend our frontier in that direction. The
place, and a little of the surrounding country, including Bir Ahmed,
were purchased by the British Government from Sultan Ali of Lahej. So
diplomatically are affairs to-day managed in Aden, that not only does
Sheikh Othman enjoy immunity from plunder and robbery, but the whole
caravan-roads passing over the wide strip of country in the Abdali,
Aloui, and Dhala country are in a condition of complete tranquillity, and
almost absolutely safe for native caravans.

Out into the desert, with slow patient gait, passed our camels. What a
wonderful night it was! I had seen the desert before in other lands, but
never to compare to this. In Egypt the nights are cold; here a soft balmy
breeze bore on its wings the scent of the mimosa bushes, which dotted the
sandy surface. A heavy dew was falling, and seemed to awake every drop
of fragrance of the little yellow fluffy buds. Above us a sapphire sky,
brilliant with stars and moonlight. Around us miles upon miles of sandy
plain, shimmering silver. Beyond the humming of the insects there was
not a sound except the thud-thud of our camels’ soft feet upon the softer
sand. So still, so tranquil it all seemed, that one scarcely dared to
breathe. One felt that one was passing through some strange dreamland,
whose earth was silver sprinkled with sapphires, whose heavens were
sapphires dotted with diamonds.

Those who have not known the nights of the desert can never realise them.
It passes the pen of man to describe. It is like the periods in fever
when the fever leaves one, for it is these nights that nature has given
us in compensation for the burning, scorching days. It was but the first
of my night-marches—there were many more to come; yet I never tired
of them. The rhythmic gait of the camel, the gliding along under the
myriads of stars, never wearied me. One could not weary of anything so
surpassingly beautiful.

At a spot, irrecognisable in the desert, our men shouted to the camels to
lie down, and we dismounted. Saïd spread my carpet, while the Bedouins
collected the dry mimosa twigs, and by the light of the little fire they
lit I could see my camels regaling themselves with evident relish on
the dry bushes, the thorns of which were an inch or two in length. Then
commenced the drinking of coffee, and the gurgle of the hubble-bubble,
until, calling to the grunting animals again, we loaded our camels and
set out.

[Illustration: PALACE OF THE SULTAN OF LAHEJ.]

As early dawn began to tint the eastern sky we entered the oasis in
which Howta, the capital of the Sultan of Lahej, is situated. The aspect
of the country completely changed. In place of the pale yellow sand,
dotted with stunted bushes, there were wide fields of durra, or millet,
growing in all the luxury of a damp tropical soil. The fields are divided
from one another by hedges of rank vegetation, and little channels, here
above the level of the surrounding land, here running in and out amongst
the durra stalks, supplied unlimited water to the crops. From amidst the
tangled mass of dazzling green rise palm-trees, many of them hung with
trailing creepers.

Here and there grazed the pretty humped cattle of Southern Arabia, tended
by nude boys and girls, who shyly watched the Christian passing by on the
back of his camel. And then the town—the great mud-built city of Howta,
full of wild-looking Arabs, and dogs, and fever, the palace of the Sultan
dominating the whole, and having the appearance that at any moment it
might slide down, and crush the houses and huts and hovels around it.

Under the guidance of my Bedouins we put up at a small native _café_,
preferring to be at our ease rather than to have to enjoy the hospitality
of the Sultan, to whom, thanks to Colonel Stace, the Political Resident
at Aden, I bore letters of recommendation. We easily made an arrangement
to reserve the entire accommodation of the _café_ to our personal use,
and spreading the carpet and mattress, I settled in for an hour’s rest.
The place in which we had taken up our quarters consisted of a yard
enclosed in a high hedge of impenetrable thorns, forming a zareba. At one
end was a large mud-brick room, thatched with rough matting, as was also
a verandah in front of it. Besides this, the guest-chamber, there were
one or two poor huts of mats in which quite a number of families seemed
to exist. What with goats, and dogs, and fowls, and children, and fleas,
the place was lively. A funny group we must have made, my men and I; but
I had discarded my hat for a _tarboosh_, or fez cap, as less likely to
attract attention in travelling. It is curious the part the hat plays
between Moslems and Christians. Apparently to them it is the outward and
visible sign of the infidel, for as soon as one has changed it for their
own more simple head-gear their fanaticism diminishes to an incredible
extent. Of all European clothing, the hat forms the greatest barrier to
confidential intercourse between Arab and Christian, and one of the names
in common use in North Africa for Europeans is “the fathers of hats.”

We had not been very long ensconced in our new quarters when a gaudy
creature came to call. Apparently, from the number of weapons he bore, he
was a sort of armorial clothes-peg. In fact, his whole costume consisted
more of swords and daggers than it did of clothing, while a long spear
added to the general effect. His wavy hair hung on either side of his
face in flowing curls, and his arms were encircled above the elbow with
silver chains, bearing charms and boxes containing mystic writings. He
shook hands as though he had known me all his life, and sat down with a
crash of his weapons that reminded one of the fall of a coal-scuttle.
Coffee was soon prepared, and the hubble-bubble, murmuring away in a
corner in the possession of Saïd, who had already changed his clothes
and brushed out his curly locks, was handed from mouth to mouth. After a
while my guest announced that he had been sent by his lord and master,
the Sultan, to wish me welcome, and invited me to proceed at once to the
palace.

Before, however, I tell of my interview with Sultan Ali Mhasen, some
little account of Lahej and its rulers is necessary.

The tribe of Abdali, the inhabitants of Lahej, share with the Subaiha,
Foudtheli, and Houshabi, the possession of the south-west coast of
Arabia, from the Straits of Bab el-Mandeb, the gate of tears, to nearly
one hundred miles east of Aden, and reaching inland an average distance
of, roughly, some fifty miles. Of these, the Subaiha are the most
warlike, being of a more distinctly wandering nature than the others;
while, on the contrary, the Abdali tribe to whom Aden once belonged,
whose capital is to-day Howta, are the richest and most peaceful, their
habitations being fixed abodes, except in the case of such as are
shepherds, and are thus necessitated to change their pasturage. As I
have already said, the town of Howta lies in a great oasis, supplied
with water from rivers flowing from the highlands farther inland. This
oasis is richly cultivated, the principal products being durra—_jowaree_
the natives call it—cotton, and sesamum, and more especially vegetables
and fodder for the Aden market. Besides palms, there are several other
varieties, one a luxuriant shade-giving tree, called by the natives
_b’dam_, of which a fine specimen can be seen close to the precincts of
the Sultan’s palace. The soil produces no less than three crops in the
year, the climate being almost equable.

The town of Howta is situated some twenty-seven miles north-west of Aden,
and extends over a large area. There is no possibility of obtaining
any certain estimate of the number of its population, which probably
reaches as many as ten or fifteen thousand, what with Arabs, Jews, a few
natives of India, and a considerable number of Somalis. The extreme heat
and dampness of the climate render the place too feverish to allow of
Europeans residing there with any safety, and even a sojourn of a few
days is generally sufficient to bring on an attack of malaria. The water,
too, is very bad, and officers going to shoot there from Aden are warned
to carefully avoid it.

Although the present state of the territory of the Sultan of Lahej is one
of tolerable peace and security, throughout all the history of Southern
Arabia one finds it appearing and reappearing as the scene of battles and
plots and assassinations. After the terrible massacre of its inhabitants
by Ali ibn Mehdi in the twelfth century, it was several times taken and
retaken, and the atrocious acts of cruelty of one, at least, of its
conquerors, are recorded by historians. Omitting the many consequent
attacks and wars which took place within its territory, we find it for
five months of the year 1753 held by the rebel Abd er-Rabi, during which
period Aden existed in a state of blockade. However, it was before this
period that the present reigning family had obtained possession of the
throne, their founder and first Sultan, ruling over Aden as well as the
surrounding country, being Foudthel ibn Ali ibn Foudthel ibn Sáleh ibn
Salem el-Abdali, who in A.D. 1728 threw off his allegiance to the Imam of
Sanaa, and declared himself an independent ruler. Again, in 1771 Lahej
was besieged, this time by the Azaiba tribe, who succeeded, however, in
holding it only for the period of two days. Notwithstanding, in a history
otherwise consisting almost entirely of massacres, wars, and murders,
we have here and there a glimpse of a happier state of affairs, such as
the sumptuous entertaining by the then Sultan of Aden and Lahej of the
British troops after the evacuation of Perim in 1799. Mr Salt, in his
work entitled ‘A Voyage to Abyssinia,’ and published in London in 1814,
gives a most charming account of the then Sultan Ahmed, and Abou Bekr,
his representative in Aden. Wellsted also refers to this Sultan as a
remarkable instance of an Arab chief whose great desire seemed to be to
further trade and receive foreign Mahammedan merchants as residents into
his country. His friendship toward the British is attested in many works
and accounts of his estimable policy and sagacity. He died in 1827.

I have already described elsewhere the shipwreck of the Deria Dowlat in
1836, which ended in the taking of Aden in 1839 by the British troops.
In 1849 a treaty was engaged upon between the Sultan of Lahej and the
British Government (as to trade, &c.), and with several ratifications
and alterations the treaty still exists. The Sultan receives a monthly
stipend from the British, or rather the Indian, Government, for
protecting the trade-routes which pass through his country, and also
certain other payments in return for the ceding of Sheikh Othman and
other spots nearer Aden. In all, the Sultan draws a very considerable sum
from the Aden treasury _per mensem_.

Having said all that is necessary, perhaps, in a work which has as little
pretensions to being a history as this has, on the general history of
Lahej, I will resume the narrative of my story at the spot where, under
the guidance of the gorgeous and muchly-armed soldier, I was escorted to
the palace.

This building is a huge block of houses, built entirely of sun-dried
mud-bricks, but plastered and decorated to such an extent as to give
it the appearance of being of much greater solidity than a large hole
here and there in the wall points out to be really the case. The
principal building is covered with domes and cupolas, with the effect of
a conglomeration of a cheap Italian villa and a stucco Constantinople
mosque. However, from a distance the place has a very imposing look, and
so large is it that on clear days it is visible from Aden. It is not
until one approaches it closely that one discovers the incompetency with
which it is built; for pretentious as it is, there are places where quite
large portions of the mud-brick walls have come away, and at one spot one
obtained an excellent view of the interior of a room on the first floor
through one of these enormous gaps.

Passing through a large courtyard, we entered by a small door, and after
ascending a rough staircase, and wandering along intricate passages,
found ourselves in the presence of Ali Mhasen el-Abdali, Sultan of Lahej.
The room in which the Sultan was seated was a large square chamber.
A heavy beam of carved teak-wood ran down the centre of the ceiling,
supported on pillars of the same material. The floor was richly carpeted
in oriental rugs, and silk divans were arranged along the walls. Light
was admitted by large windows, over the lower portion of which was
trellis-work. At one corner of the room sat a group of men, some five
or six in all; while on a table close by were three handsome silver
hubble-bubble pipes from Hyderabad, tended and kept alight by a half-nude
Arab in a blue loin-cloth.

As I entered and kicked off my slippers—for having so far resorted
to oriental ways as to adopt the _tarboosh_, or fez, I held also to
their custom of not walking on their carpets in boots—one of the group
rose to meet me. He was a stout elderly man, with a kindly pleasing
expression, dark in colour; and although not strictly handsome, he
possessed a manner, common to most Orientals of position, that could not
fail to charm. Grasping me by the hand, he led me to the divan, where I
seated myself beside him, and, salutations over, proffered me the amber
mouthpiece of his pipe and a bunch of _kat_, a shrub to which the Yemenis
are much addicted. This plant is known to us as the _Catha edulis_. It
resembles rather a young arbutus in the form and shape of its leaves.
The leaves are eaten green, growing on the stalk, and are said to cause
a delightful state of wakefulness. The taste is bitter and by no means
pleasant, though one easily accustoms one’s self to eating it. An amusing
remark was made by my Moorish servant in the presence of the Sultan which
tickled the old gentleman exceedingly. He held out to Abdurrahman a bunch
of _kat_, which he politely refused. When asked by the Sultan why, he
naively replied, “That is what the goats eat in my country,” thinking
it to be the common arbutus of Morocco. In Yemen it is considered a
necessary luxury; and as it only grows in certain parts of the country,
where it is carefully cultivated, and has to be transported often a long
distance, it fetches a high price. That we ate with the Sultan of Lahej
had been brought some forty miles or more that very morning, for it must
be eaten fresh.

[Illustration: MY RECEPTION BY THE SULTAN OF LAHEJ.]

Sitting next to the Sultan was a Shereef, a descendant of the Prophet in
other words, a tall handsome young man, clean shaven, and richly dressed.
A gold dagger of great antiquity that he wore in his belt, and which he
kindly showed to me, was as perfect a thing of its kind as it has ever
been my lot to set eyes upon. The Sultan himself was robed in a long
loose outer garment of dull olive-green, displaying a _kuftan_ beneath of
yellow-and-white striped silk, fastened at the waist by a coloured sash.
On his head he wore a large yellow silk turban, surrounded by a twisted
cord of black camel’s hair and gold thread.

The hubble-bubble was a sore trial. I was gradually, under the guidance
of Saïd, learning to inhale it; but to have constantly to fill my lungs
with the strong smoke was by no means a pleasant task to a novice like
myself. The inhaling, even through water, of the tobacco used in these
pipes is by no means a thing one can easily accustom one’s self to, and
for a long time a whiff too many will bring on giddiness. However, so
attentive was the Sultan in handing me the amber mouthpiece that I stuck
bravely to the task, although by the time I left I felt a sensation of
incipient _mal de mer_ in a rocking-chair or the car of a balloon. As
much of the smoke seems to go to the brain as does into the lungs. What
with the pipe and the _kat_, and the declining of Arabic irregular verbs
in a dialect I scarcely knew, I was not sorry when, after an hour or so
of conversation and agony, I was allowed to leave. Nevertheless, I had
enjoyed my visit to the Sultan Ali, whom I found to be a pleasant-spoken
kindly old gentleman, extremely fond of showing off various treasures he
possesses, amongst which is a unique sword of Bagdad work, said to be
eight hundred years old. Through the blade is bored a hole, which the
Sultan explained to me was the mark that it had taken over a hundred
lives. From the condition of the steel it might have been made yesterday,
and would be quite capable of taking a hundred more. During my visit I
had been watched with great interest by two of the Sultan’s children, a
little boy and girl, who, contrary to Arab customs, were present all the
time. They were pretty dark-skinned little things—the boy nude except
for his loin-cloth of striped silk, the girl dressed in a mauve garment
embroidered in gold.

Leaving to go, the soldiers who had brought me into the Sultan’s
presence again escorted me to my _café_, on the way to which we visited
the palace stables. There were a great many horses in the ill-paved
yards which serve as the royal stabling. Mats and thatch, and in places
rough brick roofs, keep off the heat of the sun from the horses, some of
which were very fine. One white mare from Nejed was especially lovely,
though from the nature and heat of the country she looked terribly out of
condition. The pedigrees of the Nejed horses are most carefully kept by
their breeders, and all over Arabia they are estimated as the very finest
to be procured.

The Sultan of Lahej has his own coinage, a small copper piece of minute
value, bearing the inscription “Ali Mhasen el Abdali,” and on the reverse
“Struck in Howta,” which, by the way, is anything but true, as they are
made in Bombay, by contract.

Returning through the courtyards of the great mud palace, I left the
royal precincts, and, seeking once more the quiet shade of the _café_,
spent the heat of the day in sleep, waiting for the cool of the afternoon
before sauntering forth to see the sights of the town of Howta.

CHAPTER III.

LAHEJ TO KHOREIBA.

When I awoke the heat of the day was over, so, under the guidance of Saïd
and one of my camel-men, I sauntered out to see the town of Howta. The
place presents, on the whole, an appearance rather of dirt and squalor
than of what one expects the capital of an Arab Sultan to be like. The
streets are narrow, and built without any idea of regularity, turning
and twisting as they do in every direction; nor are the houses even
built in any attempt at being in line. Here one juts out into the narrow
byway, there another stands back off the street behind a thick hedge of
bristling thorns. Nearly all the houses are surrounded by these zarebas
or yards, into which the cattle are driven of a night. Strange mangy dogs
bark at one as one passes along, and their bark is echoed from within
by the yelps of puppies. There is, in fact, but little to see in Howta.
Perhaps the sights best worth noticing are in the market, where under
the shade of an enormous _b’dam_ tree sit women selling bread, while
the surrounding strip of sand is crowded by Arabs with long spears and
their camels. Here also are exposed for sale vegetables, camel and horse
fodder, and many other market products, which are sent on to Aden. Not
far from this market are the bazaars, narrow covered-in streets with
rough little mud-brick shops on either side, filled with cotton goods,
for the most part of European manufacture; a few gaudy muslins from
India, however, giving a brilliant hue to some of these dusky little
box-like shops. A whole bazaar is put aside for the workers in metals.
It forms a thatched square, divided up by low walls, some three feet in
height, like sheep-pens, in which the various metal-workers sit, each
with his forge. The scene is a most picturesque one. The sunlight falling
in through holes in the ill-thatched roofing strikes upon the burnished
metal until the daggers and spear-heads sparkle and glisten like
diamonds. The air is hazy with the fumes of the forges, and rings with
the never-ceasing fall of the hammer upon the metals. And what workers!
Great lithe men, grand in the exposure of their bare limbs; their
raven locks loosely falling upon their shoulders, and waving backwards
and forwards with the motion of the workmen’s bodies. The workmanship
of Howta is rough. In spear-heads they excel; but they fail in the
silver-work of their dagger-sheaths to attain the results reached by the
silversmiths of the larger towns inland.

Returning to the _café_ where I had put up, I found the camels ready to
start, so mounting once more, we set out. Leaving the town behind us,
the way took us for the first few miles through rich cultivated land,
watered by a careful system of irrigation, and gorgeous in its verdure.
Emerging from the fields, we struck into wilder country, torn up into
great ravines by the Wadi Lahej—a river that, in the dry season, is but a
tiny stream, but after rains a series of vast torrents, its many channels
becoming filled with the huge mass of water, often carrying away much of
the cultivated land, and doing no little damage. Sometimes the trunks
of big trees from the far interior are carried over the desert—where at
ordinary times the sand absorbs the water to such an extent that it never
reaches the sea—and cast into the bay at Aden. From this it can be judged
how severe are the rainfalls when such comparatively rare occurrences do
take place.

The river which I mention here under the name of the Wadi Lahej is also
known by the name of the Mobarat. It has two channels to the sea, but, as
already stated, is at most seasons exhausted by the desert sands of the
low-lying coast country. The principal channel is the Wadi el-Kebir, or
great river, which flows out near Hashma, a small village in the Bay of
Aden, the other being the Wadi es-Seghir, or small river, which empties
itself into the Ghubbat Seilan, a bay to the north-east of Aden, and
formed by the peninsula itself and by Ras Seilan, a point some thirty
miles along the coast.

Wild and depressing the scene was. Ahead of us, almost as far as the eye
could reach, stretched the desert, unbroken by even a single bush, and
gradually sloping up to broken rocky peaks, which glowed a dull leaden
crimson under the rays of the setting sun. We were leaving the oasis
behind now, and no longer the peasants returning from the fields stood
to gaze on us as we passed by; no longer their wild songs rang in our
ears—songs sung by the sons of the desert and echoed by its daughters,
as, hoe in hand, or leading the flocks and herds, they wandered back to
the town. Now it was only occasionally that a warrior with spear passed
us, on foot or on camel-back. Then night fell,—night such as we had
experienced on the previous march, and which I have so dismally failed to
describe,—night which fails all description. But we went on, the camels
patiently plodding their way. It was eleven o’clock before we halted and
spread our carpet under a clump of thorny trees, close to the river-bed,
which we had been following since our departure from Howta. Here we
rested for a few hours, our fire twinkling and flickering and bursting
into little flames as we threw the thorny twigs upon it, for the night
was chilly and a heavy dew falling.

There is no water, the Arabs say, more poisonous than this stream of
Lahej, and we had been carefully warned against drinking it; but in
spite of this my servants regaled themselves plenteously from its
feverish stream. There is no fallacy greater than to suppose the average
Arab can go long without water. In cases of hereditary necessity perhaps
they do, but in all my experience of foreign lands I have seen no
thirstier race than the Arabs. They are for ever drinking. All my journey
through the Yemen, my men were constantly alighting from their animals to
drink. In the mountains, where the water as a rule was good, this led to
no bad results; but their constant habit of drinking from slimy pools and
nasty streams brought on attacks of fever in the cases of both Saïd and
Abdurrahman. No more unpleasant position can be imagined than that of a
traveller with two fever-stricken servants, both shouting that they were
going to die, and refusing to take quinine because it tasted so nasty.
The drinking of this water of Lahej brought on fever in both these men. I
provided them with unlimited coffee, which, with boiling the water, does
away with a great part of the risk; but, rather than have the trouble of
making it, they preferred to drink the poisonous liquid. However, they
suffered for their perversity.

It was dawn when we started again, pale-grey dawn, which struck cold and
chilly. An hour or two of desert, unbroken in its monotony; but away
ahead of us we could see the outpost fort of the Sultan of the Houshabi
tribe, whose territory we were soon to enter, and a few miles nearer,
half hidden in thick thorn-trees, the frontier castle of the Sultan of
Lahej.

We had hoped to make a good march, but fate was against us, for after a
few hours on the road a gentle wind rose up. At first it was cool and
refreshing, but as the heat of the day increased it became laden with
fine grains of sand, and by no means so pleasant. At length it became
unbearable, the stinging sensation as the sand struck one’s hands and
face being most painful. Calling a halt, we crawled under some thick
bushes, the men hurriedly arranging a strip of canvas so as to obtain
the most protection from its scanty folds. We were only just in time,
for a few seconds after, having crawled under its shade, the wind
increased in strength and became a veritable gale. The sand, which up
till now had been but thin, commenced whirling up in clouds until the
air became darkened with it. Huddling together, we tied our turbans over
our mouths and waited for a cessation. It required three of us to hold
on to the slender covering of canvas—a mere strip that I used to put
between the carpet and the ground—to prevent its being carried away. The
desert wind was intense in its heat, and the burning, gritty grains of
sand found their way under one’s clothing and into one’s ears and eyes
until life became unendurable. I had seen a sandstorm or two before in
my life, but none like this. The poor grumbling camels lay down and
wagged their necks slowly from side to side, while the Arabs cursed. A
sandstorm is lovely in a picture, and is exciting to read about, but
personally to experience it is quite another thing, and for the three or
four hours that we lay panting for breath under those thorny mimosa-trees
we suffered exceedingly. So strong was the sand-laden wind that it was
impossible for the men to go even as far as the river to get water, and
our throats were parched with thirst. In spite of the suffering, however,
one could not help noticing the extraordinary atmospheric effect. The sky
took a brick-dust red hue, and seemed literally to glow, the fierce sun
burning scarlet and fiery through it all, though at times even the sun
was scarcely visible. Happily it was the only sandstorm we experienced on
the whole journey, and I hope I may never see a second such as it was.

Almost as suddenly as the gale had come on it died down again, and
during the afternoon we were able once more to push on upon our journey.
Reaching El-Amat, a fort of the Sultan of the Houshabi tribe, I delivered
the letter of recommendation I bore from the Political Resident at
Aden, and, refusing the Sheikh’s kind invitation to alight, pushed on.
This fort, like that of the Sultan of Lahej which we had passed shortly
before, is a large, square, mud building, two storeys in height. Useful
as it may be in times of war as a defence against Arabs armed only with
matchlock-guns and spears, it would not stand a couple of shot from any
field-gun, unless the structure is so soft that the ball would go right
through it, as is not improbable. Near this spot we came across a herd of
gazelle, but they were gone and out of sight long before we came within
range.

The tribe in whose country we now were is the Houshabi. They have always
been on the best of terms with the British, and on the murder of Captain
Milne in 1851, elsewhere referred to, they refused to harbour the
assassin, a fanatical Shereef. By their position they have an advantage
over the Abdali tribe, of which Lahej is the capital, as the river of
the latter is supplied with water from the ravines and mountains of the
interior of the Houshabi territory, and they have on several occasions
in times of war been known to divert its course. However, happily, the
relations of the two tribes are for the most part friendly, so that it is
not often that they have recourse to such extreme measures.

On again over the desert, which, as we approached the rocky hills, showed
more signs of vegetation and life. Here and there were Arabs tending
flocks and herds and cattle, though what there was for them to graze upon
beyond the thorny bushes it was difficult to say. At length we left the
sandy plain and entered a deep narrow gorge at the foot of Jibel Menif,
a high barren mountain. Here the scene entirely changed. Instead of over
the open expanse of desert, our way now led us between walls of rock,
the path often a mere track in the river-bed, in which at places water
was running, and at others had sunk for a time below the surface.

Afternoon was well on, and the change from the sunlight outside to
the cool depths of the gorge was a pleasant one, but the scene looked
sepulchral and gloomy. The rocks with which the river-bed was strewn and
the cliffs on either hand were of a curious black colour; nor did the
scanty vegetation, consisting principally of what the Arabs call _athl_,
a thorny mimosa, do much by their verdure to enliven the scene, for in
spite of their proximity to a stream which made some pretence at running
water, they looked parched and withered and dry.

The gloomy effect increased as the evening came on. Although the sky
above us was still streaked with the radiance of the setting sun, we in
the gorge caught only its barest reflection, and a deep purple gloom
seemed to settle over everything. At one spot by a deep pool in the rock
a caravan was settling in for the night. The wild cries and singing of
the Arabs, and the groaning of the camels as they were being unladen,
added much to the weird effect of their already lit camp-fires, by the
light of which we could catch glimpses of the wild fellows as they
hurried to and fro, spears in hand, preparing for the night. However, we
did not stop, but with an exchange of “Salaam âlikoum,”[36] passed on
into the night. The darkness was complete, but the uneven state of the
ground and the constant ups-and-downs in the path clearly demonstrated
that we had left the river-bed, and were crossing country at right angles
apparently to the streams and nullahs, judging by the constant ascents
and descents.

A few hours later we caught glimpses of fires in the jungle, and one of
the Bedouins creeping on ahead and exchanging a few remarks with the
camel-men who were spending the night there, he called to me to proceed,
and glad I was to cry to my camel to lie down, and a few minutes later
to stretch myself on my carpet before a fire, in the camp of an Arab
caravan, at a spot called Zaida. The villages in this part of the Yemen
are few and far between, and what there are belong almost entirely to
wandering tribes of Bedouins, who are here to-day and who knows where
to-morrow; so that the caravans passing up and down the rough track that
leads into the interior have to camp where best they can, regardless of
the whereabouts of humankind, being dependent upon their own resources
for food and fodder.

We spent the whole of the next day at this spot, for the reason, our men
said, of resting the camels; but I rather think they had fallen in with
fellow-tribesmen and friends amongst the caravan-men with whom we were
sharing camp. However, I was not sorry; for, anxious as I was to push
on into the interior, the rest was by no means unpleasant, and I found
plenty to amuse and interest in the people by whom I was surrounded.
Fortunately, too, there were Bedouin shepherds in the neighbourhood,
and fresh food was procurable, while a few thorn-trees gave a little
shade from the sun’s fierce rays. Amongst the caravan-men was a Turkish
soldier, fleeing from the starvation and cruelty and misery then existing
amongst the Osmanli troops engaged in crushing the rebellion in the
Yemen. His neck and wrists and ankles were deeply wounded by the fetters
he had been made to wear, for once before he had deserted but been
recaptured. A very considerable number of these deserters from time to
time reach Aden, whence, after they have made a little money—for they are
always ready to work—they embark once more for their native lands, often
some hill-tribe of Asia Minor. In no way was the hospitable character
of the Arabs better shown than by their kindness to these Turkish
runaways. As long as they were soldiers in the service of the Osmanli
Government they were looked upon as lawful game by the Arabs, and any
who bore a weapon was liable to be shot at any time; but as soon as they
threw down their arms and sought the protection of the Arabs and their
aid in assisting them to escape, they became their brother-men, their
co-religionists, and the poor half-starved fellows were fed by their
_quondam_ enemies, and often given money to help them on their road to
places where their recapture would be improbable. I saw many instances
of this during the time I was in the country, and quite a number of the
Turkish deserters spoke to me with tears of gratitude of the kindness
they had received from the Arabs. Happily there were less melancholy
sights to see and less doleful stories to listen to during the day we
lay under the shade of the thorn-trees. A number of young Arabs, youths
learning the art of becoming caravan-men, had brought with them their
pets, for the most part apes and monkeys, with which the valleys of the
Yemen abound, and great fun it was watching them playing and jumping on
the backs of the camels. They were very tame, and confined by no chains,
being quite loose to go and wander where they pleased, but never leaving
their friends the camels, which munched their fodder regardless of the
antics being carried on upon their backs. It was difficult to say which
were the most active, the monkeys or their masters.

But still more amusing were the strolling musicians, dancers, and players
on pipes and drums, who, finding a little piece of level sand, exhibited
their strange dances before me. There were three of these mummers amongst
the Arabs. Standing in line, they struck up their music, one beating a
rough drum, one playing on a double pipe, the other singing. As they
sang they stepped slowly backwards and forwards, at periods turning and
twisting round. Strange nude creatures they were, with long silky hair
and silver daggers, and the eye never tired of watching their graceful
movements.

Saïd and Abdurrahman took advantage of our delay to cook bread. However,
owing to the fact that we had no baking-powder nor anything to take its
place, and that it had to be cooked in Arab fashion by rolling the dough
round a heated stone, it was not altogether a great success. Hunger,
nevertheless, rendered it palatable. As for butter, we had not yet
broached the pot of ghee that Saïd had purchased before we left Aden.
It was rancid then, and the few days of hot sun on the back of a camel
had not added to its charm, though it had added very considerably to
its flavour. When we opened the clay with which the jar was sealed the
whole valley became full of its odours. One could have run a drag with
only a crust and three drops of it. Once having opened the jar, the
Arabs went for it wholesale. It served them for two purposes—for fodder,
and as pomade for their raven locks. The manner in which they applied
it did not make its consumption more appetising, for they dipped their
long fingers into the jar and then ran them through their hair until the
effect was gorgeously shiny—at a distance. At close quarters the odour
rather negatived the picturesqueness. Of course I could have brought
stores from Aden; but to have attempted to enter Yemen with anything like
a caravan would have been impossible, as the suspicions of the Turks on
the frontier would have been excited. I had decided to take as little as
possible, so as to be able to pass as a poor Greek trader; nor had I laid
my plans unsuccessfully, for the scarcity of stores was well compensated
by the facilities I gained on account of having so small a quantity of
baggage.

Later in the afternoon we made a start. The road was dreary and desolate,
continually ascending and descending, and strewn with black stones and
rocks that rendered our progress very slow. Almost the only level piece
we crossed was a great circle of rocky ground enclosed on all sides by
hills, the whole bearing the appearance of having been the crater of a
volcano; and as all the surrounding mountains show signs of volcanic
action, this hypothesis is not at all improbable. Late at night we
reached the village of El-Melh, where were a few miserable Bedouin huts;
but on the inhabitants assuring us that they possessed neither water nor
provisions to spare, and evidently looking upon us with some suspicion,
we proceeded on our way. The track was rough, and one had to clutch on to
the ropes that held our scanty baggage to the camel’s backs to prevent
being hurled bodily off down the steep sides of some nullah. At long
length, camp-fires ahead told of some caravan bivouacking there, a sure
sign of water, and our camels hurried forward, and without even a call to
make them lie down, wearily deposited us amongst a group of Arabs seated
round a few blazing fires. Their spears, stuck in the ground before them,
flashed and flashed again in the dancing firelight; but the appearance of
fierceness was belied by their kindly welcome, and an invitation to dip
my fingers with them in the steaming pots of food. Watering the camels
and giving them fodder, we returned once more to the fires, and spent the
night in songs and story-telling.

Before daylight we were on our road again, following for a little way
the course of the river Sailet el-Melh. The country here had become
more mountainous, one flat-topped peak being particularly noticeable.
The natives call it Dhu-biyat, but I can find no mention of this name
elsewhere. On the summit is a tomb, that of a certain Seyed Hasan, about
whom there seemed to be traditions of his having possessed remarkable
powers, but as to whose history apparent ignorance prevailed, nor can I
find any records of any powerful Imam having been buried on this spot. It
is probable that he was merely some local Seyed or Shereef, and that his
repute has not reached the centres of Arabian civilisation. The summit of
this mountain is said to be quite flat and rich in pasture, and Bedouins
of the Houshabi tribe have built a village there, and graze their flocks
and herds. Near this spot the valley opens out, and one enters the Beled
Alajioud, a level plain of green fields, with a river flowing through its
centre. Here one leaves the wandering Bedouin tribes and enters a land
of fixed abodes, for houses well built of rough stone stand about the
valley; and at one spot is a village perched on a slight eminence, and
crowned with a square tower. This turned out to be the border village
of the Aloui tribe, to the representative of whom—a village Sheikh—I
presented my credentials. There was the usual group of men and women and
children and dogs, the usual exchange of compliments and banter; and
although at first they had appeared a little high-handed, we parted the
best of friends.

The country hereabouts shows signs of cultivation, large fields being
green with the durra. As the sun was very hot, we halted in the middle
of the wide bed of the Khoreiba river, and settled ourselves down under
a clump of oleander-bushes. The scenery was prettier here than any we
had seen, as there were more trees to vary the dull monotony of the
reddish-black rock and the yellow land. We had been seated about an hour
when there came skimming along the river-bed, mounted on a beautiful
camel, a veritable Apollo of an Arab, a specimen of the finest type of
the Yemen race, whom perhaps it is scarcely justifiable to call Arabs at
all, so much has their blood become mixed since the days of Kahtan, the
founder of the Yemenite tribes, and Adnan, that of the Arab. However, the
term Arab can be generally used, as there are scarcely any discernible
differences, except in traditions, between the Arab and the Yemen blood.
Noticing us, the man alighted from his camel and crawled into the shade
in which we were sitting. After coffee, wishing to give the new-comer
an example of the powers of the Christian tribes—as he called them—I
unpacked an electric machine I had with me in my sack of bedding, and
administered a gentle shock to the beautiful Arab. He never lost his
presence of mind,—he merely smiled, rose and girded up his loins, mounted
his camel, and sped as fast as the slight little desert dromedary could
carry him down the river-bed.

The camels of the southern district of the Yemen are famous for their
breed and fleetness. They are slightly built, with fine legs, the very
opposite to the heavy slow-paced camels of North Africa. Many are
especially kept and trained for riding purposes, and their fleetness
is extraordinary. However, this breed seems not to exist any farther
in the interior than about eighty miles, as where the country becomes
mountainous we find a heavy, shaggy, black camel, the very opposite to
his brother of the Teháma, as the plains which divide the highlands of
the Yemen from the sea are called.

While we were still laughing over the flight of the Arab on coming in
contact with civilisation in the guise of a small electric machine,
two Englishmen appeared in view, riding horses, and guarded by a
considerable number of Indian troopers and a few of the Aden corps, and
followed by a large train of baggage-animals. I had been told before
leaving Aden that I might meet a surveying-party under Captains Domville
and Wahab, who had been told off by the Indian Government to organise a
survey of the tribe-lands lying between the Turkish frontier and Aden.
Although they had been successful up to this point, they began here to
meet with difficulties on the part of the natives, which at length, after
I had passed on into Turkish Yemen, became so demonstrative that guns
were once or twice resorted to by the natives, and the scheme had to be
abandoned before it was completely carried out. I spent the afternoon
with them, and very pleasant it was. I was able also to obtain from them
the correction of my aneroid barometer, for so far I had not resorted to
boiling-point tubes, keeping what few instruments I had with me as much
as possible in the dark, so as to excite as little suspicion as possible.

After dinner in the luxurious camp of Captains Wahab and Domville, I
sauntered back to find my men already preparing to load the camels, and
soon after midnight we made a start. It was a bright, clear, moonlight
night, but chill and cold, a sure sign that we were ascending to the
highlands, which an altitude of nearly two thousand feet on my barometer
showed to be the case. The Arabs shivered and chattered as we pushed
along through the valley. Presently the road ascended on the left side
of the stream, and we crossed a plateau at an elevation of a few hundred
feet above the river. The cold as dawn appeared became almost intense,
and I was glad to alight from my camel and run races with my men, getting
often a long way ahead of the caravan. Then we would sit down and light a
little fire of mimosa-twigs, over which we would huddle together to keep
warm until the camels caught us up again.

[Illustration: _A Valley in Yemen_.]

Dawn changed to sunset, and the world became alive again. The scenery
had altered. We had once more entered the valley of the Khoreiba river,
and still the great, bare, rocky mountains rose on either side; but
the valley itself was green and fresh, and the banks of the stream,
which appeared in places tumbling and dancing over the rocks, again to
disappear below the surface, were covered with thick jungle of dense
tropical vegetation, the trees hung with garlands of creepers. Birds
chirruped and hopped from bough to bough; great painted butterflies
sailed by, rivalling the sunrise sky in gorgeousness; and monkeys and
apes chattered and grunted on the steep mountain-sides. After the journey
of desert and rock, the change was a delightful one. Spying a few female
camels grazing in the jungle, we surmised that there must be a Bedouin
encampment near, so, alighting from my lofty perch, I set out with a
couple of the men to find them—no difficult task, as we came across them
within the first half-hour. They had pitched their little mat huts in a
natural clearing in the thick vegetation, where they sat idly about, the
women carrying firewood and milking the cows, the men, each armed with
his dagger and spear, smoking long wooden-stemmed pipes with clay bowls.

They received us kindly, and we had soon joined their little circle,
and were chatting away as if we had known each other for years. Great
laughter was caused by a very elderly female, with buttered hair—rancid
butter, if you please—and greasy saffron-dyed cheeks, kissing me. The
joke I could not for a time understand; but it finally turned out that
the fact that I was clean shaven and in breeches led her to suppose that
I was of the female gender, as in the Yemen the men wear loin-cloths and
allow their beards to grow on the points of the chin, while the women
decorate their lower limbs in tight-fitting trousers. The old hag, on
being pointed out her mistake, laughed as much as any; and while I was
engaged in scraping the saffron and butter off my blushing cheeks, went
off to fetch us a big bowl of fresh goat’s milk.

Shouts from our camel-men in the river warned us that we must not remain
any longer, so pushing our way through the thick brushwood, we resought
the river-bed and mounted once again.

[Illustration: _Castle of Amir of Dhala._]

At nine o’clock, the sun being very hot, we unloaded under the shade of
some big umbrageous trees, and settled in for the heat of the day. At our
feet ran the river, dancing and rippling over its pebbly bed, for all the
world like some Highland trout-stream, except for the fact that above
and around it twined masses of flowering creepers and strange aloes,
while a palm-tree here and there raised its feathery head above the dense
undergrowth. Away on the opposite side of the river, about half a mile
distant, and perched on the summit of a high rock, loomed the frontier
fort of the Amir of Dhala, a square tower surrounded by some lower
buildings. The place looked a regular acropolis, and seemed impregnable.
On a gorgeous Sheikh arriving, I presented the last of the letters
which I had brought from Aden, for the Dhala territory was the farthest
in touch with the British authorities, and beyond lay Turkish Yemen.
Evidently he considered the epistle satisfactory, although he was unable
to read it, and he spent the day with us there. A right good fellow he
was; but his reports of the turbulent state of the tribes beyond, and of
the murder and plunder with which the mountaineers were daily amusing
themselves, were anything but reassuring. He informed me that the name of
our halting-place was Mjisbeyeh, of which I found the altitude to be two
thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level.

Off again in the afternoon, passing the picturesque village of Thoba,
above which to the left we caught another glimpse of Jibel Dhu-biyat,
with its white-domed tomb. The fact that we had now entered the land
of fixed abodes became every hour more apparent. At places were signs
of skilful irrigation, while ever and anon villages of stone houses
piled on to the summits of rocks peeped from amongst the green fields
and the mimosa-trees. One of these, by name Aredoah, was particularly
picturesque, although the surrounding country was more barren than it
had been. The scenery, too, became very fine. The black volcanic rocky
hills had given place to mountains of limestone, which towered above the
surrounding country. Principal amongst these were Jibál Ahurram and
Ashari.

At one spot a charming scene met our eyes. Under the shade of a great
creeper-clad rock sat an old schoolmaster, book and rod in hand, while
at his feet squatted a number of small boys, into whose heads he was
apparently beating verses from the Koran. A regular stampede occurred at
our approach, and the young _tholba_[37] rushed alongside our animals
clamouring for alms. I got one or two to show me the books from which
they were studying, and found them to be excellently printed copies of
the Koran from Beyrout.

As evening came on we kept passing the flocks and herds, lowing as they
came in from pasture, driven by, or more often following, some child,
who, with wide-open eyes, would stand still and cease the music of its
cane pipe to watch our little cavalcade go by. Not a breath of wind was
stirring, and the smoke from the evening fires of the little stone houses
curled up and up, all mauve and purple, into the cloudless sky. In groups
the men sat about, under the shade of the trees, idly listening to the
hum of the insects and the song of many a tiny stream. The whole scene
was one of perfect peace.

The track then entered a narrow gorge between high precipices of rock,
from which echoed and re-echoed the cries of the apes and monkeys. We
were entering the country known as Beled Ashari, under the rule of the
Amir of Dhala,—quiet, peaceable folk, shepherds and tenders of flocks.

As we proceeded, the gorge narrowed until the scenery in the dusky
evening light became almost oppressive. Just before darkness set in we
arrived at our halting-place, at Khoreiba, below the village of the Amir
of Bishi, where, under the shelter of a great _b’dam_ tree, we settled
in for the night. The village is built of stone, and situated on the
left bank of the river, the collection of stone houses being overlooked
by a strange pile of natural rock crowned with a still stranger tower,
a position that completely commands the valley. The altitude of this
spot I made to be four thousand feet above the sea-level. The spot was a
charming one, with the green valley below us, and above the perpendicular
precipices, too steep almost for any scrub to hang to. Here and there
along the river-bed were shade-giving trees, which stood out black
against the fields of young corn, as yet only a few inches in height.

[Illustration: KHOREIBA.]

The success of my journey depended on the next day or two. We were fast
nearing the Turkish frontier. Should I be allowed to pass? To have to
turn back would mean the most bitter disappointment. Each day’s march was
interesting me more and more in the country I was passing through, and
very keen I was to carry my journey to a successful issue, and to reach
Sanaa, the capital; especially keen, perhaps, as, with but one exception,
every one at Aden had prophesied failure, and told me I was insane to
venture into the Yemen at the time of the rebellion, when even in days of
peace it was rash and unsafe.

CHAPTER IV.

ACROSS THE TURKISH FRONTIER.

We had left the Amir of Bishi’s village some way behind when the sun rose
the following morning. The track continues along the river-bed until
the valley terminates in a steep ascent. However, the old-world Arabs
have built a paved way up the slope, which renders its surmounting much
easier than it otherwise would be,—not that it is by any means a simple
process as it is. Scrambling up on foot, we reached the summit some time
before the camels, and were able to rest for a time and watch the poor
grunting brutes toiling in and out the intricate turns in the path; for
it is a mere track winding through great piles of overturned rock, and
along the edges of steep inclines. I found the ascent from the valley of
Khoreiba to the summit to be over six hundred and fifty feet, giving us
an altitude of nearly five thousand feet above the sea-level. The view
looking back was a very lovely one. Below us lay the valley of Khoreiba,
shut in with its precipitous walls of rock, under which, amongst green
fields and shady trees, flowed the river, a streak of silver thread. Away
beyond at the farther end of the valley one caught glimpses of the peaks
of other mountains, rearing their fantastic heads into the clear morning
sky.

When the camels caught us up we filled up our water-bottles at a spring
of clear water and set off again. These water-bottles—_zemzemiya_ they
call them in the Yemen, and in Morocco _guerba_ (plural _guerab_)—are a
regular institution of Arab travel, nor would it be possible to proceed
without them. They are made of leather, those in Arabia being cut into
shape, while those of Morocco are the whole skins.

Now and then we would catch a glimpse of a herd of apes scampering away
up the steep rocks with resounding grunts; but more often we could only
hear their cries, for their colour does much to conceal them from view
amongst the limestone rocks.

So cool and pleasant was the air at the elevation we had reached, that
instead of remounting our camels, who, poor beasts, were tired with
the rocky ascent, we strode out on foot. Leaving the village of Dar
en-Nekil on our right, we passed through a gorge of low walls of rock,
and then descended to the level of the plateau, which here extends for a
considerable distance, broken now and again by rocky peaks and hills.
This plateau, one with that on which Dhala is situated, may be said to
circle round Jibel Jahaf, a limestone mountain situated just above the
large village of Jelileh, where, although not within their frontier as
delimitated, there is a small Turkish fort. The plain is well cultivated,
and ploughing was in active progress at the time of my visit, besides
being dotted with trees; but from the fact that the young corn had not
yet commenced to push, the country looked somewhat barren and dreary.

Across the plateau all passage seems to be blocked by an immense range of
mountains, one continued precipice without any apparent break. The range
bears two names,—the eastern part Jibel Mrais, and the western Jibel
Haddha. A few miles over the plain brought us to a steep ascent leading
to the village of Jelileh. Although the absolute frontier of the Turks
is at Kátaba, a town a few hours’ distance to the north-west, they have
erected here a fort, and over a round tower perched on a hillock floated
the red flag with its star and crescent.

[Illustration: _A Girl of the Yemen._]

One of my camel-men was a native of this village, and it was to please
the good fellow that I decided to spend a night there, as otherwise
I should have been tempted to push on and try to cross the frontier
that day. Wishing to avoid as much attention as possible on the part
of the inhabitants, I did not spend any time in the village street,
but alighted from my camel at the door of the yard of my man’s house,
and at once entered his abode. As a typical Yemen house of the poorer
class, some description may not be out of place. Like all the dwellings
in the highlands of the Yemen, it was built of solid squared stone, and
consisted of two large towers, some thirty feet square at the base and
twenty at the summit. The lower floor contained an arched stable, the
roofing supported on pillars of stone. To the next storey an outside
stairway led one. This floor contained a passage and two decent-sized
rooms, the walls plastered on the inside and the ceiling made of wood.
The floors, like the walls, were coated in cement. The staircase
continuing led one on to the flat terraced roof, round which ran a stone
wall some three feet high. The whole showed a great amount of labour and
no little skill in its construction. The second tower was larger, but
being put aside for the women, I did not of course see the interior of
it. It contained, however, four storeys. Into one of these rooms in the
men’s tower I was shown by my host, who, no sooner was this accomplished,
was flying all over the place stirring up his womenfolk with entreaties
and curses to prepare a meal befitting such a guest. Meanwhile from my
window I could obtain a very good view of the surrounding country, ay,
and more, of my host’s wives and daughters. How ugly they were! What
little attraction nature might have given them was completely concealed
under their artificial adornments. Their hair, plastered with butter over
their foreheads in straight fringes, literally dripped with grease, while
their copper skins were thick with paint the colour of red-lead, arranged
in a triangle on either cheek, as well defined as is that of the clown in
our Christmas pantomimes. Their loose upper garment was more attractive,
being of dark-blue linen embroidered round the neck, sleeves, and edge
in coloured silks; but to do away with any grace which this simple and
classical garment might give them, they encased their legs in ill-fitting
indigo trousers, with embroidery round the ankles. However, my host was
evidently very proud of his ladies; for no sooner did he catch a glimpse
of them peeping over the parapet of their apartments, or straining their
heads out of the little windows, than he would shout vociferously to them
to retreat, which they would do, again to reappear and continue their
criticisms of the newly arrived stranger. Meanwhile the male relations
of my camel-man had appeared, to join me in the feast which was being
prepared,—men and youths and boys, nearly a score in all, who quite
filled up the two rooms and passage of our apartments, while nearly every
one brought his long straight pipe or his hubble-bubble, and there was
a murmur and gurgling of water as we inhaled the cool smoke. Besides
the guests who arrived to call we had other visitors, those tamest of
wild beasts—the fleas. It is strange that while many an author has told
of the friendly fellowship of the dog and the horse toward mankind, the
intense love of companionship of the flea toward the human being has
been neglected. There is no need to tame him artificially: the moment he
is old enough to swallow food he becomes the friend of man—nay, more,
he will never willingly part company with him, especially in Arabia.
His only equal is the mosquito, and for affection he almost beats the
flea. As I write these lines one has been settling on my hand, and on my
refusing to notice him he called attention to his presence by a gentle
nip—result, a large white lump; and when I tried playfully to catch him,
he flew away: they always do.

On my next day’s march depended the success of my journey. Once across
the Turkish frontier, I felt that unless any unforeseen event occurred I
should reach my goal. But I knew how strict the orders were to allow no
stranger to enter Turkish Yemen, lest news of the rebellion, which had
for some months been disturbing the country, should leak out. However, I
felt that I was attacking the least probable frontier of the country,
and one where they would scarcely be expecting a stranger to attempt to
enter.

A ride of only a few hours brought us the following day from Jelileh to
the _jimerouk_ or custom-house of Kátaba, situated on the south side of
the Wadi Esh-Shari, and about three miles distant from the town, which
lies to the north, off the caravan-road. The ride was a short but a hot
one, and except that all the plain was under plough, the country seemed
dry and desolate. Away to the right could be seen the large village
of Thoba, a collection of towers on a rocky hill, from which stand
up prominently the white domes of a mosque and tomb, forming quite a
landmark on a scene otherwise a monotone in yellow.

The buildings of the frontier custom-house consist of a low block,
forming a fort and a large enclosure for the camels and mules of the
caravan-owners, the whole covering a large extent of ground. The lower
rooms of the main building are used as stores for the goods in transit,
while the portion of the upper storey not inhabited by the officials is
divided up into small rooms for the use of people passing and repassing,
being let out on hire at so much per night. The whole place wore a
depressing and a depressed look. For three months no caravans had passed
over the roads, and trade was dull. The goods on their way up from Aden
to Sanaa lay strewn about the place, as there were no means for their
further transit. Three months before, the last caravan to go through had
been looted, and a ransom of three hundred and sixty dollars had to be
paid before the merchants had been released by the mountaineers.

It seemed strange to think that on that yellow building depended the
success of my journey, and it was with anxious thoughts that I passed
through its open gateway, by the side of which, in the depth of a
cave-like chamber, an old Arab was brewing coffee. Dismounting in the
yard, I sought a shady corner to sit down in while my men went and routed
out the authorities. A few minutes later they appeared, and such a group
they formed! First came an exceedingly dirty Turk in a filthy shirt and
a well-worn pair of military trousers; following him appeared a gorgeous
creature arrayed in purple and fine raiment, no less a person than the
Sheikh Besaisi, well known for his influence amongst the Arab tribes,
and by happy fortune a kinsman of the most disreputable and savage of
my camel-men. His clothes, too, need description. On his bullet-shaped
head he wore an immense yellow-and-crimson turban, wound round with a
camel-hair and gold cord; flowing robes of dark-blue silk were fastened
at the waist with a yellow sash, in which was stuck one of the most
beautiful daggers I have ever seen. This _jambiya_ was of exquisite
silver-work inlaid with gold Byzantine coins of the reign of Constantine.
A few rough turquoises in the sheath gave a tint of colour to one of the
most beautiful weapons I ever saw. I longed to make a bid for it; but I
knew that should I ever mention so large a sum as its value, my chance of
getting on would be so much the more diminished, for it was certain that
I should be gently squeezed before being allowed to proceed, and that
did I let out that I had any considerable sum of money with me, it would
make the squeezing a more serious process, and perhaps prevent my getting
on at all, and certainly announce to the world in general that I was
worth robbing. Following the Besaisi crept a wizened man of perhaps some
thirty-five years of age, dressed in the costume of the people of Mecca.
These three were the officials of the _jimerouk_, though they resembled
rather three characters of opera-bouffe.

Salutations over, I was asked to ascend, and a few minutes later found
myself seated with my hosts in a small, stuffy, and very dirty room. They
were too polite to ask straight out who I was, so I began to open the
attack myself. I had been to Turkey; the man who had not seen Stamboul
had never lived! Glorious Stamboul! All the world over it was a pleasure
to meet the Turk; he was always a gentleman, always kind and polite; and
how inexpressibly glad I was to meet the Turk before me he might imagine,
after I had been travelling all the way from Aden with only camel-men and
a couple of uneducated servants; and would he accept a box of cigarettes
and an amber cigarette-holder, which I had brought from my little
shop in Port Said with me,—where, by the by, my wife and children were
starving—(signs of tears)—owing to this accursed rebellion; three months
the coffee I had bought in Sanaa had been lying there, and for the dear
wife and little ones’ sakes—(tears)—I was imperilling my life in these
strange lands to get my coffee down: meanwhile my brother, a Greek like
myself, was looking after the shop; and how delightful the Turks always
were, &c., &c. So much for number one, my friend in the dirty shirt; now
for number two.

Was this, then, the Sheikh Besaisi? No; it could not be that my infidel
eyes were blessed with the sight of his honourable corpulency. His fame
was all over the world. Port Said rang with his name. His honour, his
boundless wealth—(exorbitant old tax-gatherer!)—his immense charities,
were famous throughout all countries: indeed this was a blessed day for
me. (Box of cigarettes and amber mouthpiece)—number two dead.

Whence came he, number three? No; it could not be that his family was
from Fez. Mulai Idris, their patron saint, might he protect me! Had I
known that I was destined to meet a Fez Moor here, I should have hurried
up from Aden. Fez, every street of it, I knew, from the tomb of Sidi Ali
bou Rhaleb to the Dar al Makhzen: and here was Abdurrahman, a Tangier
Moor. How good the Deity had been in joining us together in the bonds
of friendship!—cigarettes and amber mouthpiece; general embracings and
_tableau_! _Exeunt_ officials. Screams of laughter from Saïd, which I had
to choke by sitting on him on the top of my mattress, lest he should be
heard—and then coffee.

No Englishman crossed the frontier into Turkish Yemen in January of 1892.
No; the only stranger was a penurious Greek shopkeeper of Port Said, who
rode his baggage-camel. He was attempting to reach Sanaa to obtain some
loads of coffee he had bought; and so great was his love for his wife and
children that he was running the risk of being murdered and plundered in
order to obtain money to buy them food, and to save them from an untimely
death from starvation. I think they believed my story: if they didn’t at
first, a few dollars wisely expended proved to them that it was true, and
after two days of artificial tears and real dollars permission was given
me to proceed. But the squeezing was not quite at an end, and my rifle
was taken from me, on account of no arms being allowed to enter the Yemen
during the rebellion. For this I demanded and obtained a receipt, and
eventually, after eight months’ delay, the rifle.[38] However, I would
willingly have sacrificed anything I had at the time, so long as I was
allowed to proceed. It was an anxious two days, for until within an hour
or two before my leaving the _jimerouk_ I had not received any answer to
my petition to be allowed to proceed.

At length they told me I might go on. Meanwhile Saïd had been at work.
Our camels were tired, and he had arranged that only one should proceed,
a couple of mules being supplied in the place of the other two. This
my men agreed to, as they preferred to hire mules on, rather than have
their camels attempt the next few days’ journey, one of the greatest
difficulty, and which necessitated as silent and as quick marches as
possible, as the country was in a most disturbed condition. Happily the
contract which I had made at Aden stipulated that in country in which
camels travelled with difficulty mules were to be supplied, and I had no
trouble in having this carried out, although, unfortunately, only two
mules were forthcoming. The simplicity with which my animals were changed
for me seemed extraordinary; but the fact is that these caravan-roads
are worked by “companies,” relays of animals being kept at various spots
along the road for transporting goods from district to district or town
to town.

No doubt the manner in which the country is split up into tribal
districts makes this necessary, while again the natural features of the
Yemen are such as to render it almost impossible to take the same animals
for any great distance. For instance, the fleet camels of the Abdali of
Foudtheli districts would be useless in the precipices and ascents of
the country between Kátaba and Yerim; while the mountain-mules suffer
exceedingly in desert-travelling, their feet sinking deep into the soft
hot sand.

As soon as permission was granted me to proceed I was off. I did not wish
to give the people in charge of the frontier any chance of changing their
minds, so at mid-day, when they had all retired for their siesta, we
sallied forth from the gate and entered Turkish Yemen.

[Illustration: _Village of Aredoah._]

I had told more untruths in the last forty-eight hours than I liked to
think about; but, curious to say, my delight at having crept through was
far more keen than any remorse I felt for my wickedness. The road does
not enter the town of Kátaba, for which I was by no means sorry; for
under the walls of the little place we could see a large Turkish camp
pitched, that of the division of the army under Ismail Pasha, which had
come on here after the retaking of Dhamar and Yerim, two of the larger
cities of the central Yemen. Giving them a wide range, we soon were out
of sight of the camp, and after crossing the Wadi Esh-Shari, we entered
wild broken country, the foot-hills of the great range of mountains that
appeared to block our way ahead. A sad incident happened before leaving
the _jimerouk_. A poor Turk, whom I had noticed slouching about the
place in rags, came to me just as I was leaving. Kissing my hand, he
besought my protection in Turkish, which an Arab in the Osmanli service
translated to me. His story was a pitiable one. He had been enrolled
in the conscription from some village near Smyrna, and sent with his
brother to fight in the Yemen. At length, after much fighting and many
privations, he reached Kátaba, where the roll of the surviving troops
was called. His name was not on the list, and it was found to have been
a mistake that he ever left his native country. Ismail Pasha, then at
Kátaba, commanded him to be stripped of his uniform and turned loose, on
the ground that he was not a soldier of the Sultan’s at all. This was
done, and the poor fellow wandered away, a stranger in a strange land,
until the Sheikh Besaisi took pity on him, and fed him and clothed him
(!) at the custom-house. He spoke no Arabic, and the Arab interpreting
for him was the only one who spoke a word of his native tongue. He
prayed me to take him on with me. This unfortunately was impossible. The
presence of a Turk with me would render me very liable to danger from the
Arabs; but I advised him to try and reach Aden, where, being as strong
and good-looking a young fellow as ever lived, I felt sure he would get
work, and in time find his way back. Beyond giving him the wherewithal to
find his way to Aden, I was unable in any way to assist him.

Rough as the country we were passing through was, it presented here and
there little patches and valleys rich in cultivation. In many places the
scenery resembled a lovely garden. The lawns were barley, scarcely three
inches high, while trees stood here and there about the fields. Little
streams and pools of water added an effect of coolness, while the rocky
hills were clothed in plants and flowers, noticeable amongst them being a
scarlet-flowering aloe and a variety of the euphorbia. Great ant-heaps,
some six and eight feet in height, stood like sugar-loaves amongst the
rich vegetation. After a glorious sunset, night came quickly upon us, and
the scenery was lost in the darkness.

On we plodded in the dark, our little mules carefully picking their way
over the rough boulders and stones with which our path, now a river-bed,
was strewn. The people of the surrounding tribes had taken advantage of
the rebellion to throw off any form of government, and it was therefore
necessary to proceed at night. Once or twice we could catch glimpses of
their village-fires glowing far up on the steep mountain-sides, and now
and again even catch the yelping of their dogs, whose quick ears had
heard the footfall of our animals on the hard stones; but the villagers
took no notice more than to shout to one another, their voices sounding
far away and sepulchral in the thick darkness. The river-bed over which
we were travelling commenced shortly to ascend, and the path was by no
means an easy one to get along in safety.

“We must wait here for the men,” said an old Arab, an acquisition from
the Besaisi. What men he meant I did not know, but as he seemed to be the
recognised head of our caravan I refrained from asking. We dismounted
and lit a fire in a hole in the rock, round which we clustered to warm
ourselves at its welcome heat: not that it was allowed to blaze, for the
Arab, fearful lest its glare should attract notice, kept damping the wood
sufficiently to keep the blaze low without putting it out altogether.

For a time we waited, but there being no traces of “the men,” we left the
burning embers as a sign that we had passed on, and continued our journey.

It was a picturesque scene this little halt of ours, with the dark
figures of the half-nude Arabs, each one armed with a spear, bending
over the glowing fire, and one that will not easily be forgotten. It was
difficult to say which sparkled the most, their polished spear-heads or
their glossy locks. Every now and again a bright flame would leap into
the air in spite of our precautions, showing us that the cliff above was
hung in clusters of feathery creepers, while strange aloes and cacti
appeared in the crevices.

Rougher and steeper grew the road as we proceeded. At length in the
middle of a rocky ascent a shout from behind, answered by one of the
men, announced the arrival of the long-expected party, who had seen our
signal and were following us; and a few minutes later, in the starlight,
for the moon had not yet risen, we could discern dark shadows hurrying
along after us on the track. A wild crew they were too, six or seven of
them armed with matchlock-guns and spears. Of all the antiquated weapons
I have come across upon my travels, these guns of the Yemen are the most
curious. The stocks are straight, and end in a lump like a croquet-ball,
which forms the shoulder-piece; the barrels are long, and nearly always
rusty. A hole in the barrel communicates with a pan on the outside, into
which a little loose powder is dropped. The trigger possesses no spring
except a weak rebounding arrangement. The nipple is formed like a fork,
into which slides the fuse, made of aloe-fibre and slow burning. When the
trigger is pulled the “match” descends into the loose powder, and the gun
may go off or no. The chances are about equal, I should think.

For an hour more we crept along the dark road. Thorny mimosas tore our
clothes and baggage and the poor mules’ legs, and at places threatened
to bar our passage altogether. Then we left the path, and descending by
a steep rocky slope, we entered a deep nullah, half a mile or so along
which a halt was called, and my guides informed me that this was to be
our night’s resting-place. Fastening the strip of canvas sheeting, or
rather such as remained of it after the sandstorm, over the boughs of a
thorn-tree, as protection from the heavy dew, we lit a fire and set to
work to cook our supper of tough old goat and rancid butter.

This bivouac in the ravine below the large village of Azab was the last
night spent out in the open; for although we continued for the next
few days to take advantage of the darkness to push through the most
difficult country, we were able to rest in the _cafés_ of villages, and
after Yerim, in the regular caravanserais, some of which had pretensions
even to being clean and comfortable.

Next morning I was able to see more of my surroundings. We had spent the
night in the rocky course of a stream, in some of the pools of which
was water. Opposite us the hills rose almost precipitously, strewn with
boulders, and here and there tangled in clumps of mimosa-trees and other
thorny brushwood. Away up the nullah stood Azab, a village perched on the
very summit of a high hill, a confusion of walls and towers.

We spent the day quietly under the little shade the scanty trees gave.
A couple of the men went to the village to buy provisions, and returned
with a bowl of rancid butter, bread of a thin consistency that would have
served any purpose other than edible, from boot-soles to wrapping up
parcels in, and a goat whose age was unfathomable. However, one cannot be
too particular when travelling in such countries as the Yemen.

[Illustration: VIEW OF AZAB.]

At sunset our mules were packed, and we set off once more, creeping
out of the nullah so as not to be seen from the village above, the
inhabitants of which would be only too likely to take advantage of our
position to go shares in my belongings—probably forgetting to give me my
portion, unless they did so with one of their curved daggers. The last
glow of daylight still hovered in the sky; the last rays of the setting
sun still tinged with pink and purple and gold the huge jagged peaks
of the mountains before us. Very grand it is, this range of limestone,
torn into all manner of fantastic shapes, the peaks here resembling some
bewitched feudal castle, there the tapering spire of a cathedral.

The track was as rough as usual, and constant short ascents and descents
rendered our progress very slow. When darkness was complete, except for
the glimmer of the stars, our men called a halt, and ranging themselves
in line upon the soft white sand of a stream-bed, cried “Allah Akbar,”
and rose and fell with monotonous motion in prayer. Wild shadows they
appeared in their nudeness and shaggy locks,—wild shadows that some
fevered brain might imagine; but the odour of the rancid butter and oil
on their hair proved their reality. No decent ghost would smell as they
did.

Enjoining silence on every one, the men lit the fuses of their guns, and
a couple going ahead to keep a sharp look-out, we pushed on. Like the
glow of cigarette-ends, I could follow the spark of their guns as they
crept along.

The valley becomes more distinct as one proceeds, the mountains closing
in on either side, leaving but little level ground beyond the absolute
course of the stream, and that was uneven enough. Hanging over the
river-banks were trees and thick undergrowth, but the darkness prevented
one seeing anything but their outline. At length our path seemed
abruptly to end. Here a halt was called and we dismounted. From this
point commenced an ascent I shall never forget. A winding path, a mere
track in the face of the precipices, climbs the mountain-side until an
elevation of over eight thousand feet above the sea-level is reached.
The night was as yet moonless, and one could scarcely see a step in
front of one, and it was bitterly cold. Lightening the animals as much
as possible by dividing the baggage amongst the men, every one taking
his share, except Abdurrahman, who carried my shot-gun, we commenced the
ascent. Any moment man or beast might have made a false step and alighted
somewhere in the valley beneath. Not only was the ascent trying, but it
must be also remembered that we were now in rebel country, and that our
discovery would mean certain death, to myself if not to all of us. The
very tribe whose lands we were entering, the Kabyla el-Owd,[39] had only
a few months before thrown off the Turkish yoke, and celebrated their
day of independence by cutting up their Sheikh into small pieces and
distributing him over the country, as a warning to others. Our party,
including our new retinue supplied by El-Besaisi, numbered in all some
ten persons; but with the exception of my shot-gun and revolver we had
no weapons worth considering as such, unless it came to hand-to-hand
fighting, when ten-foot-spears may be useful. However, our numbers made
any attack from a small party improbable. Up and up we toiled, often on
all-fours. We had not ascended many hundreds of feet before we found
that our remaining camel was perfectly incapable of surmounting the
difficulties of the road, while his constant mumblings and gruntings
threatened every moment to bring the natives upon us, and already we
could hear their dogs barking in the villages below. Once or twice, too,
men called to one another, and lights could be seen moving about. Then we
would lie still and hold our animals so as to ensure silence. At length
it was decided to send the camel back, and two of the men undertook the
job, trusting to be out of danger’s way before daylight. This made extra
weights for the men and mules, but they cheerily lifted their burdens and
our scramble recommenced.

I began to think the ascent would never end. Steeper and steeper it
became, until, two hours after commencing, and having climbed over two
thousand feet in that time, we reached the summit, where on a ledge of
rock some humane person has built a well to rejoice the heart of man
and beast with its cool waters. Here we rested for ten minutes, but
more time we could not spare, tired as we were, for a long march had
yet to be covered before dawn. Passing through a gorge at the height
of eight thousand one hundred feet above the sea-level, we began once
more to descend; and scrambling down through thick undergrowth and over
loose rolling stones, we reached the level of a valley, along which our
road now lay, and through which flows the Wadi el-Banna, a large stream
which reaches the sea, when flooded, at Ras Seilan, some thirty miles
north-east of Aden. How the apes chattered and roared as we disturbed
their night’s rest; and every now and then we could hear the stones
rattling under their feet as they scampered away. Collecting our little
band together, and examining our weapons, we continued our march in
silence through the strongholds of the Kabyla el-Owd.

CHAPTER V.

SOBEH TO YERIM.

With this descent to the level of the valley commenced the most dangerous
and difficult part of the whole journey. The surrounding country was
thickly inhabited, and dotted with villages, capture by any one of which
meant the destruction of our caravan, if not of ourselves. A long march
yet lay before us until a place of tolerable safety could be reached,
and there remained only a few hours more of night. It would mean a fast
and difficult walk at any time, but now especially so in the midst of so
many dangers. The road had not been traversed even by Arab traders or
members of strange tribes for more than three months. For this period the
district had remained closed, and I could not help feeling, as once more
our head-man enjoined the strictest silence, that I was rather foolhardy
in attempting to be the first to open it again.

Leaving the track, we struck into the thick brushwood in order to avoid
as much as possible approaching the villages. One, however, we were
obliged, by nature of the country, to pass much nearer than was pleasant.
This was Sobeh, the principal stronghold of the Owd tribe. How silently
we crept on! But sure-footed as were our little mules, they could not
help now and again making a false step, and rattling the stones with
which our path was strewn. When this happened we would all stand still
for a second, holding our breath to listen. Once a dog barked, others
took it up, and presently it seemed as though a hundred yelping curs,
intent on our discovery, were doing their utmost to give warning of
our proximity. Happily they did not leave the village, but, after the
custom of Arab dogs, barked from the shelter of their masters’ homes.
Nevertheless, the noise was loud enough to wake a man, who shouted to
another, and a conversation took place. Seizing me by the wrist, my men
dragged me into a thick cluster of bamboos, whence we could see a light,
evidently a lantern, flickering in the village only a few hundred yards
away. It was an anxious moment; but at length the dogs ceased their
barking, and the light disappeared. Waiting to make sure that all was
quiet, we stole on again, thankful at our narrow escape.

Then the moon rose, but the cold was too intense, and I was too tired
to admire the lovely mist-swathed valley and the broken mountain-peaks.
Once or twice more we awoke the dogs, and once again, too, a man shouted
to know who was passing; but we did not hide this time, as dawn was
approaching, and my men whispered to me that even as it was it would be
a mere chance if the sun did not rise to find us still in the enemy’s
country.

At length it came, cold steely-grey dawn; then the sky flushed crimson
and pink, and we put on our final spurt, driving the mules before us with
sharp cuts from bits of rope, and hurrying as fast as our feet would
carry us. The sun was nearly up when one of the men pointed out to me,
a long way ahead, a solitary tower standing on the edge of a precipice
overlooking the river. “Once there,” he whispered, “we are safe; they
are friends of ours.” At length we almost ran. The sun would be up in a
quarter of an hour, and the cold grey mist which at present helped to
conceal us would rise.

A little before the great gold orb appeared over the mountains to the
east, we forded the icy-cold river and scrambled up to our looked-for
goal, Beit en-Nedish.

This village, standing on the very edge of high precipices, presents
a most picturesque appearance. In the centre rises a high tower, the
largest of these solidly built Arab _burj_ we had as yet come across, it
being six storeys in height, as far as one could judge from the windows.
The summit seemed to be unfinished, and only half roofed in. Around it
stood a few low stone houses with flat roofs, while a little farther
from the precipice was a mosque, and a larger part of the village. A
graveyard surrounded the whole on the mountain-side. Near the tower were
a few shady trees, adding not a little to the picturesqueness of this
strange spot.

[Illustration: _Beit en-Nedish._]

A yelping and barking of dogs welcomed us, but we paid no heed to them,
but straightway lit a fire by which to thaw our chilled limbs; and
setting some coffee in a rough earthen pot to brew, I rolled myself
up in my carpet, and was soon fast asleep. When I awoke a warm sun
was streaming down upon us. A crowd of laughing, chattering Arabs had
gathered round us, and were seated in a semicircle anxiously waiting
for me to awake. When I did so I was stiff and sore, and without more
ado, pulling out some clean clothes from my sack of baggage, ran down to
the river and bathed in the cool fresh stream, after which I joined the
circle, whose centre of interest was myself—a thing the like of which
they had never seen before. Meanwhile breakfast was ready, and inviting
a few of the throng to join us, we said “Bismillah”—“In the name of
God”—and dipped our fingers into the rough earthen pan.

What a glorious morning it was, and how fresh and lovely everything
looked! The dew still sparkled on the green trees and grass, the mist
still hovered in the valley beneath, and the hot sun was tempered with a
gentle breeze. It was like a spring day in England. How cheery we were,
too, after our night’s dangers and fatigues, all laughing and joking in
the exhilaration of high spirits! But our hopes for a day’s rest were
soon dashed to the ground, for my men received timely warning that it
would be safer for us to proceed, and a few hours later saw us on the
way again.

We had entered Arabia Felix! On all sides of us were tiny streams,
splashing and tumbling through fern-covered banks over pebbles and
stones. One does not realise what music there is in the sound of running
water until one has travelled, as the writer has once or twice in his
life, over deserts where the muddy pools are two and three days apart.
But the deserts and rocky valleys were all forgotten now—they seemed
merely the imaginings of the past. Everywhere were green fields in which
the young barley showed promise of rich crops, everywhere great shady
trees and jungle covered the slopes. The sun was hot, but at that great
altitude the freshness of the air compensated for it. My men went merrily
on, singing and laughing, and now and again running races and brandishing
their spears—and yet we had rested only two or three hours after our
march of nearly twelve hours, during which we had covered some thirty
miles of road, and what a road!

[Illustration: MAN AND WOMAN OF THE HIGHLANDS OF THE YEMEN.]

Here we came in contact for the first time with the mountaineers, a
much finer people than those of the plains. They are, as a rule, taller
and better built, their limbs being freer in action and their legs more
gracefully formed, no doubt owing much to the fact that they are great
walkers. Like the people of the plains, the men wear their hair long,
shaving their upper lip but allowing a small beard to grow on the
points of their chins. As well as the dark-blue loin-cloth, stuck full
of daggers, they wear a thick sheepskin coat, the wool on the inside,
the rough skin being coarsely embroidered in black thread. This forms a
very necessary precaution against the cold, to which these high altitudes
expose them. The women, like their sisters of the plains, wear dark-blue
skirts, embroidered round the neck and sleeves and on the breasts in
coloured silks, and now and again in gold or silver thread. Their heads
they cover with dark-blue hoods, often richly but coarsely embroidered.
While the men are often almost divinely handsome, the women are just
the contrary, being generally thickly built. No doubt the hideous tight
blue trousers and the oil and paint on their faces tends not a little to
disfigure them. In the cold early mornings the oil on their hair hangs
in little solid drops on the points of their fringes; but as the heat
of the day increases it trickles down their faces, washing away the
red-lead-coloured powder, with which they so thickly smear their faces,
in long streaks.

From Beit en-Nedish we proceeded on a three hours’ ride, and crossing the
river at a ford that might have been in the upper waters of the Tay, we
ascended the opposite bank to Beit Saïd, a large and prosperous-looking
village, situated on the west bank of the river amidst groves of shady
trees.

Before reaching this spot two large villages have to be passed, one on
each side of the river. They are respectively on the left bank Nadir,
above which the Turks had built a fort, and on the right bank Ghadan—both
large and flourishing villages, well and handsomely built of stone. The
fort was now in possession of the Arabs, as, in spite of its commanding
position, the Turks had found it untenable, and deserted it on the
breaking out of the rebellion. With the exception of Ismail Pasha’s camp
and the custom-house at Kátaba, this was the first sign we had as yet
seen of the occupation of the Yemen by the Turks.

The land, carefully terraced to allow of more cultivation, presented
from a distance an appearance of a great flight of steps, so evenly was
this immense work carried out. Although at this spot the terracing was
comparatively simple compared with many other places, owing to the slope
being gentler, it showed signs of an enormously laborious task. But,
compared to places that we afterwards saw in the Yemen it was _nil_. At
one spot I counted one hundred and thirty-seven of these terraces on the
side of a mountain, one above another, and each and every one, as far
as one could judge, higher than it was wide; that is to say, the stone
wall supporting the small strip of cultivated land was perhaps nine feet
in height, while the supported strip was only six! This is particularly
noticeable in the coffee-growing districts. However, as it was in this
valley of the Wadi el-Banna that we first came across this process of
cultivating the soil, although it was well known to me in the Atlas
Mountains, Madeira, and many parts of Europe, it struck one as showing
not only a propensity for hard work not usually found amongst Arab
peoples, but also no little amount of skill and engineering.

In other parts of the Mahammedan world the Arabs are exceedingly fond of
making and planting gardens, and even trying experiments in cultivation;
but whether failure or success awaits their efforts, they allow the whole
concern to fall into disrepair, and the fields and gardens to become
thick with weeds. It is not usually so much a want of experimenting as a
want of continuing that is the ruin of so many Arab peoples. I have known
Moors plant gardens which gave promise not only of beautiful surroundings
but of considerable profit; I have known them plant them with all manner
of fruit-trees, and build aqueducts to bring the water from some distant
spring, a work of by no means little expenditure, and a few months later
I have seen the place deserted, goats feeding on the young orange and
almond trees, and the place run to wreck and ruin. But not so in these
valleys of the Yemen. Here the supporting wall of every terrace was in
excellent repair, here every little artificial channel and aqueduct
brimmed over with water, and the whole surroundings wore not only the
appearance of great laborious skill, but of the idea being present that
the people were aware of the necessity of maintaining the results of
their labours in a state of repair.

It was a trait of character I had never before met with in the Arab
people, and I was immensely struck with it. In the Atlas Mountains, five
hundred miles in the interior of Morocco, I have seen on a small scale
the same industrious attention; but in that case the people are Berbers,
untainted with Arab blood. In the country of the Gallas surrounding the
city of Harrar one finds much the same; but again, however nearly the
Somalis may be related to the people of the Yemen, the Gallas are no
doubt a perfectly distinct race. It may be argued that the necessities
of life and the nature of the country would render existence impossible
were the people not obliged to terrace and cultivate their lands in this
manner; but I have passed in many parts of the world where the same
argument would apply, and found an entirely different state of things
existing. I rather believe this attention to cultivation, and especially
the growing of coffee, &c., to be due to the existence of true Yemeni
blood in the veins of the people, apart from their mixed Arab pedigrees.
There is little doubt that this system of fixed abodes and attention to
agriculture could not have been introduced in the Arab invasions of the
Yemen, but was existent there long before the time of the introduction
of Islam. All the historical records point to this effect, and it was
probably owing as much to this as to the natural wealth and beauty of the
country that the province obtained the name of Arabia Felix.

[Illustration: MOSQUE AT BEIT SAÏD.]

We found the village of Beit Saïd to be by far the most flourishing we
had as yet entered. A large open space divided a pretty little white
mosque, half covered by trees, from the rest of the village. The houses
were well built of stone, one especially fine, being of two storeys in
height, with arched doorways and heavy wooden doors. This we found to be
the caravanserai and house of a cousin of the Sheikh Besaisi of Kátaba,
to whom my men were well known, and who quickly made us welcome in an
upper chamber of the house, to which an outside stone stairway led. The
room was small but cool, and we quickly unpacked our baggage and stored
it away, settling in for a much-needed rest.

A crowd watched our operations,—a gathering of men, women, children,
and dogs, who, open-mouthed and open-eyed, watched the strange little
caravan arrive, whispering their criticisms to one another. However, they
were quite polite, the presence of El-Besaisi no doubt keeping them at a
distance; for, like his cousin at Kátaba, he was no small personage here.

We found the people of Beit Saïd extremely pleasant; in fact, the callers
almost crowded us out of our room, they were so many, a constant crowd
watching with the greatest interest the strange visitor. The rest was
a welcome one, and we hoped not only to spend the day here, but to
obtain, for the first time for many days, a night’s repose; but fate was
against us. Having turned in about eight P.M. in a portion of the big
store, where, except for the rats, I felt I should be quieter than in
the guest-room, I was soon asleep, weary with all the anxiety and travel
which we had accomplished.

I had been asleep only an hour or two when I felt myself quietly shaken.
I asked who was there. A voice whispered in my ear, “Hush! do not speak.”
I struck a light, and as a wild long-haired creature leant over me to
blow it out, I had just time to see that the man was a stranger. “Get
up,” said the voice again; “you are in danger. Not a word, mind. Give me
your bedding and carpet.” In the dark I hurried into my clothes, while
the unknown seized my carpet and such baggage as I possessed, and left. I
waited for a few moments, when he returned. “Your mules are already being
laden,” he continued; then seizing me by the hand, added, “Follow me.” I
followed him out into the quiet moonlit streets, and keeping under the
shadows of the houses, left the village. Here I was surprised to find my
mules already laden. No one was stirring, and in the bright moonlight we
passed silently away from the place without disturbing a soul. Our road
was a difficult and a steep one: at many places the track, under two
feet wide, was cut into the side of a precipice, far down which we could
see the white mists hovering over the damp valley.

The reason of our flight I was at a loss to understand, yet never for a
moment did I doubt that there was a reason. I somehow, without knowing
why, trusted the man who had warned me. He was a stranger, and as far as
I could remember, as I watched him leading our little caravan over the
awful road, I had never seen him before. Once in my life already I had
been saved by a stranger, who had risked his own to save mine—an Arab
too, but in a land far away from the Yemen. I need not tell the story
here: sufficient that I arrived at his house weary, by night, my bare
feet bleeding with the stones and thorns, pursued by men who had vowed to
take my life; and that he, good noble fellow, found me and took me in,
bathed my blood-stained ankles, and tore up his own clothes to bind them
in, and, after keeping me in hiding for two days, escorted me in safety
out of the country. He died a few months later, foully murdered in a
blood-feud. Perhaps it was the recollection of this that imbued me with
so much confidence and trust in my new-found friend. That I was not wrong
the sequel will show.

Sometimes a stone loosened by our animals’ hoofs would fall, and,
bounding from rock to rock, disappear into the darkness. At each of these
occurrences our guide would utter a guttural sound of disapproval. Once
or twice I ventured to ask him the reason of our sudden flight, but
was always met with a sharp “Silence!” in reply. On and on, until some
three hours after leaving Beit Saïd our path commenced to descend, and,
slipping and sliding down slopes of sand and stones, we entered the large
village of Seddah, now wrapt in sleep; then on through the village of
Mundah, and out into the open country again. The dogs barked a little,
and one or two men, armed with spears, accosted us, but, after a few
words whispered with our men, we passed on again. It is at Seddah that
the valley turns to the west, and here the Wadi Thuba flows into the Wadi
Banna. This latter river has a direction almost north and south, and
although the Banna is the main stream, the other continues the general
direction of the valley.

An hour later, leaving the valley and mounting a steep ascent, we crossed
an elevated plateau, finally arriving at the village of Sôk el-Thuluth.
I had been given no idea of whither we were going or where our new guide
considered it safe for us to rest; and when, on nearing the village,
he told me that I might stay there as long as I liked, it was a most
pleasant surprise. The streets of the little place were deserted except
by the dogs; but after knocking long and loudly at a door, we succeeded
in awakening a woman, who turned out to be the proprietress of the small
_café_ and caravanserai of the place. She was a good kindly soul,
and did not grumble at being turned up at one A.M. on a cold morning.
Admitting us into a cave-like room with a stone arched ceiling, reeking
with the pungent odours of strong tobacco and coffee—not to mention the
odours of its Arab occupants, who lay sleeping about the door rolled up
in their dirty sheepskin coats—she lit a fire, put water on to boil, and
then commenced by violently kicking the Arabs in order to awake them,
calling to them to turn out and make room for a more honoured guest.
I persuaded her to leave them in peace,—more out of regard, it must
be said, for my own slumbers than for theirs; and calling to Saïd and
Abdurrahman to make up my bed on the roof, was soon asleep.

When I awoke it was dawn. What a sight met my eyes! Never had I
before, and I think never since, seen such a view as lay before me.
Sôk el-Thuluth, or “Tuesday market,” as its name implies, is situated
above the junctions of the Wadi Banna and Wadi Thuba, on a spur of the
mountains of the main valley. Below me lay the great valley up the
straight course of which we had been travelling for the last two nights.
Over its green fields floated a transparent hazy mist, through which
I would watch the river sparkling and flashing like a silver serpent,
as it passed on its way to the desert and the sea. Along its banks the
dark-foliaged trees stood out clear and defined. On either side of this
silver streak lay terraced fields, rising step by step from the water’s
edge to where the mountain-slopes became too steep for cultivation.
Here they were covered with thick jungle undergrowth, while above rose
precipice upon precipice, crowned, thousands of feet in the pink morning
sky, by broken crags and pinnacles of rock, touched with snow. At my
very feet, for I was on the house-top, the villagers, rejoicing in the
glorious morning, were passing out to their labours, and the flocks and
herds bleated as they sought their pasturage. Women carrying beakers
wended their way to the spring; while the men, spears in hand, their
long glossy locks tumbling in unrestrained glory over the shoulders,
added a fierce element to a scene of the most perfect peace and beauty.
It was worth all the desert travel and all the dangers of our night
marches to see what I saw then. This was Arabia Felix! As I gazed the
mists rose, every detail in the valley became distinct: little villages
far below, crowning the rocky mounds on which the Arabs of the Yemen
so love to build, stood out from the green fields all grey and severe,
each a fortress in itself, with its battlements and towers. Around the
pink-and-gold crags hovered little fleecy clouds, attracted by the small
patches of snow—now hiding, now disclosing the grandeur of the mountain
pinnacles.

All our dangers were over; from here our road was safe. We were soon to
enter the great plateau of the central Yemen, now safely once more in
the hands of the Turks, though woe betide the Osmanli soldier who found
himself alone and without protection. As I looked upon that glorious
valley, more glorious than ever now that the sun had risen, I could not
realise how exciting a time we had experienced in passing through it, so
lovely, so quiet, so peaceful it seemed.

Calling to Saïd, I told him to send me the man who had led us to Sôk
el-Thuluth the night before.

He had gone!

Never a word of thanks, never a reward! He had left me sleeping, and gone
back to his own affairs and to his own life. Like the character in some
play that appears but once, so had this Arab come and gone. My men had
tried to stop him, had tried to keep him until I awoke, promising him
a reward, but he had laughed and shaken his raven curls, and, spear in
hand, girded up his loins and vanished. Strange good fellow! he saved my
life, and never even gave me the opportunity of thanking him!

We had left one of our men the night before behind us at Beit Saïd. He
had gone off in the evening to supper in the house of a friend, where he
had slept, unaware of our flight. In the early morning he had found us
gone, and followed us, not by the roundabout mountain-track we had come
by, but by the main road.

He solved the mystery of our flight, for but a few miles from Beit Saïd
he found the road held by some forty men, armed to the teeth, whose
object was my plunder. How little the poor fellows would have got! A few
dollars and a little shabby clothing, an old carpet and a mattress, and
that was about all. But they had imagined that I was a trader taking up
great sums of money, and had resolved my death—for life is cheap out
there—and the plundering of my goods. I asked our man what they had said
to him. He replied that they had asked after me, and that finding I
had been warned and escaped them, they went off laughing and swearing,
apparently rather amused at the whole episode.

Our rest had done us all good, and we set out with light hearts, knowing
that no probable dangers lay ahead.

The path leads one along the east side of the valley, at a great height
above the river, often, like that we had traversed the night before, only
a footway cut in the edge of the precipices. Here for the first time
we came across the coffee-plant, growing amidst tumbling waterfalls on
terraces built up against the steep mountain-side. Everywhere was water,
here in artificial channels, there in tiny streamlets. Wild flowers
abounded, and in places the walls of rock were green and white with
jasmine. A thousand feet below us were the villages, on to the roofs of
the houses of which we looked from above. It seemed but a step from us to
them. At one spot my men pointed out where a short time before a camel
and its load had fallen from an overhanging rock. It never touched the
precipice, they said, until it fell upon a ledge they pointed out to me
hundreds of feet below, and thence it bounded into the valley.

Rich in the extreme is this part of the country, owing to its everlasting
supply of water, and many are the tales the Arabs of the plains tell of
it. Beled el-Hawad they call it, of which Howra is the chief village,—a
place like a feudal castle built on a pile of rocks.

After a time the road turns to the right, and, following the course of
a small stream, ascends a valley. To the left of this valley, on the
very summit of a high mountain, is the village of Ofar, to reach which
necessitates a climb of a thousand feet or more from the road. At several
places one passes drinking-fountains, erected, like the great tanks we
were afterwards to meet with in the plateau, for the refreshment of man
and beast. They are simple affairs, but excellently built. In form they
are usually square, and domed, some six feet each way perhaps. A trough
on the outside supplies the water for the animals, while a hole in the
wall, large enough for one to insert one’s head through, is for human
beings. Within the water rises to the level of this hole, being carried
off by an overflow pipe into the trough below, so that the clear liquid
just reaches the level of one’s lips, while the roof above keeps it fresh
and cool. These fountains, common all over the Yemen, have been usually
erected by private philanthropists for the benefit of their fellow-men.
Unlike the custom in England, no flowery inscription tells the world the
name or the generosity of the builder—they are the memorials of anonymous
benefactors. Here, too, we came into contact for the first time with the
mountain camel—a very different beast from that of the Teháma and desert,
being a rough-haired, heavily-boned creature, usually black in colour
and the picture of ugliness. Those of Lahej and the surrounding country,
renowned throughout Arabia, are light in colour and remarkably finely
built, and often exceedingly pretty. To those who think that the camel is
essentially a creature of the desert, and incapable of traversing with
ease stony or rocky country, the fact that we were passing caravans of
camels nearly eight thousand feet above the sea-level, and on the worst
possible roads, must seem strange. It is well known, of course, that the
camel of Central Asia traverses mountainous country, but I doubt if many
are aware that it forms also the beast of burden in the extreme highlands
of the Yemen, travelling over roads which one would have thought
impassable almost for a mule. Yet so it is.

At length the end of the little valley was reached at an altitude of
only a little under nine thousand feet above the sea-level. A slippery
rocky path winds up the last few hundred yards of the ascent, which
is extremely difficult to surmount, both for man and beast, for the
constant traffic of centuries has polished the surface until it shines
like glass.

Here the beauty ends, for one has reached the plateau of central Yemen—a
vast plain lying at an average altitude of about eight thousand feet
above the sea, broken only by hideous ledges of black volcanic rock,
which crop up here and there from its level surface. It was too early yet
in the year for the young grain to show; and the scene that met our eyes,
as we rested ourselves and our mules after the steep climb, was a dreary
one—miles of yellow level plain, and black jagged rocks. A short but
steep descent brings one to the level of the plateau, over which, with
but little exception, the road passes from this spot as far as Sanaa, the
capital.

[Illustration: _Inscribed stone at Munkat, near Yerim._]

The natives have made use of the ledges of rock, which appear in every
direction, as sites for their villages, many of which are perched on the
extreme summits, while others lie on the slopes. At one of these—by name
Munkat—we stopped for a little while, to see the place and some curious
Himyaric remains still existing therein.

This is, I think, the first mention I have made of the strange people,
descendants of Himyar, who formerly inhabited the Yemen; but rather than
enter into any account of them and of other historical matters at this
point, I have reserved these questions for separate chapters, as I have
also done in the case of the geography, trade, and general description
of the Yemen. It has been my wish, as far as possible, to separate the
account of my journey from other and more important matter, so that each
may be taken separately. In all matters historical and geographical, I
have consulted, as far as has been in my power, the best authorities
upon the subject; but in the account of my own travels I have thought it
expedient, instead of breaking the narrative with incursions into more
serious subjects, to omit, except in cases in which it may illustrate and
explain more fully than would otherwise be the case, nearly all reference
to historical or political affairs.

Munkat is a walled village containing a considerable number of houses,
one of which, a kind of fort, is curiously perched on an enormous
boulder, and a pretty white mosque, surrounded by tanks of good water.
Built into the wall of the mosque are stones inscribed in Himyaric
characters, and some also in Kufic. Copies of the former were, I believe,
taken some years ago by Dr Glaser. In another part of the village is
a white marble column, some eight or ten feet in height, of Himyaric
origin, which is said by the villagers to have appeared suddenly at
this spot. The ignorance of the natives in this part of the country
is astonishing; for out of many stones they showed me, some were in
Arabic and some in the Himyaric character, but the inhabitants were
uncertain as to which was which. They seemed, however, to reverence
these remains to some extent, as they had carefully built them into the
walls. At one spot, over a doorway and in a prominent position, they
had carefully placed a marble stone containing the first chapter of the
Koran—“Bismillah Alrahman Alrahim,” &c.—upside down. When I told them of
their mistake, it was quite sad to hear their excuses. “We are only poor
people,” they said, “and we are terribly taxed. We have to till the soil
to feed ourselves and the Osmanli Pashas, and there is no time to learn
to read or write.” In many parts of the country to such an extent do they
have “to feed the Osmanli Pashas,” that they scarcely get ought to eat
themselves. It is the old tale of cruelty and oppression, of extortion
and corruption.

The regard shown by the poor villagers of Munkat for these inscribed
stones is not by any means uncommon, a great reverence for writing being
innate in all Arab peoples. I once had an Arab servant, himself perfectly
illiterate, who treasured a torn manuscript copy of the ‘Arabian Nights.’
Its contents he did not know, nor had he ever taken the trouble to find
out: that it was a _book_ was sufficient for him, and he carried it about
as a sort of talisman. In spite of its good luck, it did not keep him out
of prison, when one day he helped himself to things that weren’t his.

One of the most beautiful sights to be seen upon the plateau of the Yemen
are the lizards—little creatures of gorgeous metallic blue, now pale
turquoise, now transparent sapphire, as the sunlight dances on their
backs. In no other part of the world have I come across such gorgeously
coloured reptiles, although I have seen the same lizard, but less
brilliant in hue, in the mountains of the Zarahoun, to the north of the
road between Fez and Mequinez, in Morocco.

An hour or two more of winding path and we were in sight of Yerim, one of
the principal towns of the Yemen, which but a short time before had been
taken by the Arabs in the rebellion, and retaken by the very Ismail Pasha
whose camp we had seen at Kátaba.

CHAPTER VI.

YERIM TO DHAMAR.

The immediate approach to Yerim is over a level plain a mile or two in
width, across which, immediately in front of one, lies the town—a poor
enough looking place, lying half on the level ground and half on the
steep slope of a mountain, Jibel Samára. This flat ground is dotted
in places with tanks, and here the townspeople congregate to do their
washing, and many a pretty group we passed of men, women, and children
engaged in that wholesome pursuit. Eastern washing processes are too
well known to need any description here: suffice it to say that it is
generally performed by men, whose one desire seems to be, by stamping on
the clothes and beating them with large stones, to see how many fragments
they can tear them into. They are generally successful in sending the
things back in shreds. It must be an invigorating profession; for the
fact that one places the clothes upon a rock, and then proceeds to dance
first on one leg and then on the other with all the energy and strength
one possesses, at the same time issuing a series of low cries, must tend
to strengthen not only the limbs but the lungs also!

We did not stay, however, to watch the washers, but hurried on into
the town; for although I had some days before successfully crossed the
frontier of Turkish Yemen at the _jimerouk_ near Kátaba, this was the
first time I was to find myself in a Turkish garrisoned town.

[Illustration: UPPER FLOOR OF A KHAN AT YERIM.]

As soon as we had approached the place Turkish soldiers became apparent,
and a miserable crew they were. A few were sauntering about near the
gate, laughing and talking to others who leaned over the parapet of the
old tower that forms one corner of the fortified entrance to the place.
Passing through the gateway without any particular notice being taken
of us, we proceeded by narrow streets to an open square, which serves
as a market, and entered the huge doorway of a large caravanserai or
khan. This place, typical of the country, calls for some description.
The building was evidently an old one, the material used being stone on
the lower storeys, and above sun-dried bricks. An archway led one into
a large covered space, some ten or fifteen yards in width, and perhaps
thirty in length. There was no light admitted except from the great
doorway and a curious barred window above it. This portion of the khan
was of great height, the roof of the building forming the only obstacle
between it and the sky. This roof was supported by large arches on
buttresses running out from the wall on either side. A series of brick
fire-places for charcoal ran along one side of the building, divided from
one another by low brick seats, where the Arabs could sit and brew their
own _keshour_, or drink of coffee-husks. Farther in the space served as
a stable, and there were quite a number of camels, mules, and donkeys
within its precincts. The opposite side to that on which the stoves were
was taken up by a staircase leading to a long gallery. Here the better
class of people, such as merchants and native sheikhs, congregated. The
buttresses supporting the roof divided the gallery into compartments,
and it seemed to be the custom for a party to engage one for themselves,
where they would spread their carpets and smoke their hubble-bubbles,
calling to the khan servants below for their coffee and food, and
charcoal for their pipes. One end of this gallery, on the left of the
staircase, formed a little room, which I was able to procure for my use.
The fact that it was built immediately above the kitchen, and that the
thickest of wood fumes crept up between the ill-laid boards, did not add
to my comfort. The ceiling and walls of the whole building were black
with the smoke of ages, but the scene was a most picturesque one, and I
sat at the doorway of my little chamber and sketched the place.

However, I was not to be left very long in peace, for an impudent young
Turk came and began to search my luggage, and to speak in such an
impertinent manner that he had to be ejected. I knew that, whatever
orders he might have had, he would have received none that would allow
of his conducting himself in this way—for the Turk, be he what he may,
seldom if ever fails to be polite. There is an innate manner in him that
is always charming, in spite of the many other drawbacks to his character.

I called on the Kaimakam a little later and told him what had happened,
saying that I was quite prepared to have my luggage searched, but asking
that I might be treated with a certain amount of decent respect. The Turk
of whom I complained was sent for, and such wrath did the Kaimakam show
with him that the young man, a junior clerk in one of the Government
offices, had to ask me to beg the Governor to forgive him, which I
readily did. I found my host as pleasant and gentlemanly as any Turk I
met in the country, and he insisted on my spending an hour with him and
his brother officers. I showed him my passport, for here there was no
longer any need to pretend that I was a Greek trader, and he seemed much
impressed with the number of seals and stamps with which it was covered.
Of what value the wording and decoration of this British passport was at
Sanaa will be told anon. But more astonished still was his Excellency
at the fact that I had pushed through the Owd tribe and arrived from
Kátaba—for, as he said, the road had been impassable for many months,
and he laughed heartily at an Englishman having been the first to open it
again. Yerim, he said, was the dullest of dull places, and he longed for
the society and gaieties of his native town—some out-of-the-way spot in
Asia Minor, the name of which I had never even heard.

Returning from his residence to the khan, he followed me half an hour
later and returned my call, accompanied by a couple of his officers.
However, the fact that one could scarcely see across the room for smoke
did not tend to detain him long, and I was soon left to my own devices.

As soon as it was cool enough, under the guidance of Saïd, who knew
the place well, I sauntered out and strolled through the bazaars; but
although I wore on my head a Turkish fez, all sorts of rumours had been
spread about concerning me, and I was the whole time the centre of a
large crowd, who, though they pressed me rather hard, were polite but
dirty, so that I found it advisable after a short time to beat a retreat.

Yerim apparently has no great pretensions to antiquity, although
there formerly stood on the same spot, or somewhere in the immediate
neighbourhood, a city of the name of Dhu-Ruayn. The ancient capital of
this district is Zafar, the ruins of which, lying some miles to the
south-east, are still visible on the summit of a circular hill.

There is but little to see in Yerim. The town is essentially a poor
one, and although built partly on the slope of a mountain where stone is
procurable, the houses are almost entirely composed of sun-dried bricks.
Dirt and squalor abound on every side, and the streets of narrow bazaars
show no signs of any great commerce or trade. What little importance the
place can lay claim to is owing to the fact that it lies on the main
road from Sanaa to Aden, and is a garrisoned city. Like Dhamar, it fell
into the hands of the Arabs during the rebellion at the end of 1891, but
was retaken by Ismail Pasha, whom we had seen a month or two after its
recapture, encamped at Kátaba. The Arabs, however, seem to have gone to
no excesses; and beyond taking prisoner the Kaimakam, who was still at
this time in the hands of the Imam at Sadah, and his officers, behaved
with great leniency toward the Turks, many of whom threw in their lot
with the Arab cause.

During the evening I received many callers, who came probably from
curiosity rather than from any other reason. Amongst them were several of
the “Ashraf,” of the family of Ahmed ed-Din, the leader of the rebellion,
who had seen all through that their cousins’ cause was a hopeless one,
and had remained neutral during the war. I found them exceedingly
pleasant, and they conversed for a long time about their country. One was
especially a fine man, young and exceedingly handsome. As is the custom
amongst the nobility, these guests all had closely-shaven heads. One
or two of them were richly dressed in silk robes, and wore daggers of
exquisite silver and gold work. It was late before I got rid of the last
of them, and was able to seek a few hours’ rest before starting again.

At dawn we were off, our caravan augmented by a couple of Arab soldiers
in the service of the Turks, who, by the by, would have proved of little
advantage in an attack, as they were armed solely with spears; but in all
probability they were sent to watch my movements. The Turks employ a very
considerable number of these soldiers in their service, many being of the
class of “Akhdam,” probably descendants of the Abyssinians who invaded
the Yemen in A.D. 525; while others come from Yaffa and Hadramaut, and
are ready to fight against any one so long as pay and booty are to be
obtained.

We left Yerim by a gate to the north of the city, near which is a
picturesque stone mosque, with a white dome, which I had failed to notice
the previous day.

Emerging through the gateway, the track proceeds for a time along a
straight level road, lying below the slopes of Jibel Samára, on which a
few Arabs, mounted on ponies, were galloping to and fro, with the evident
purpose of thrilling me with their equestrian powers. They were good
riders certainly, and very picturesque they looked with their long black
hair waving behind them, and the rising sun sparkling on their polished
spear-heads.

The level surface of the plateau over which we were passing made one
forget the great altitude we had reached; and such is the appearance of
the surrounding country, that one could scarcely realise that one was not
on some low level plain, but at an elevation of over eight thousand feet
above the sea-level.

At one spot, however, this is forcibly brought to one’s mind, for the
road passes close to the edge of a deep narrow gorge through which flows
the river Kha. This valley presents a most extraordinary appearance
as seen from above, for it is nothing more or less than a huge slice
cut out of the plateau. We passed it at its apex, and could see down
nearly its whole course. The distance from side to side at the upper
part is extraordinarily small, the sides of the valley being formed of
perpendicular precipices. Far, far down below us, some thousands of feet
at the nearest part, were the coffee-groves and villages, dotted here and
there along the broken rocks that fringed the edge of the river, which
we could follow with our eyes, a thread of silver, till it was lost in
the hazy mists that lay across the valley many miles away. Beyond this
again rose the torn fantastic peaks to which we were now becoming so
accustomed. It was a wonderful sight, and we reined in our mules and
stood, Arabs and European alike, gazing at it with wondering eyes. The
Wadi Kha, unlike so many of these Yemen rivers, eventually reaches the
sea. It flows into the Wadi Zebeed, and continuing its course through
the city of that name, and across the Teháma, reaches the Red Sea at Ras
Zebeed, opposite the island of Jibel Zukur. Just as suddenly as we had
come in sight of this strange gorge, just so suddenly did we lose it
again, and only a few minutes after having left its brink the surrounding
scenery assumed its former appearance, that of a dusty rocky plain.

Close to this spot is a mark in a rock which is supposed to be the
footprint of Ali, the son-in-law and one of the successors in the
Caliphate of the Prophet Mahammed, or of his horse, there seems to be no
certainty which. The imprint itself is vague enough to be anything, but
too large to be either of those mentioned.

Below the village of Digishúb we stopped to refresh ourselves and take
breakfast. A few rough stone huts have been erected by the roadside,
near which some kind philanthropist has built a series of small tanks,
supplied with delicious cold water by a spring. In one of these tanks
live an enormous quantity of fish. The water is very shallow, and the
pond small, and were it not that the passers-by feed them on crumbs,
there would be but little chance of their being able to exist in such a
small space. Unlike fish in the springs of Morocco, they are not held in
any way sacred, and the Jews often catch and cook them, though the Arabs
say that they themselves never touch them.

The funniest old specimen of age, rags, and dirt made our coffee for
us—as dishevelled an old witch as ever man set eyes upon. She is
reported, in spite of her filthy condition, to be of great wealth—for
the country, of course—and is apparently a well-known character upon the
road. Quite a number of caravan-men, who happened to be resting there,
kept up a continual volley of chaff, which reached its climax when, on
hearing of her reported riches, I offered to become a Moslem, and lead
her a blushing bride to the altar. She took it all in very good part, and
laughed as much as her begrimed parchment-like skin would allow, but I
feared now and again it would crack.

On the road between Digishúb and the city of Dhamar are three sets of old
Himyaric tanks, cut in the solid rock, as are, with the exception of a
few where the nature of the country allows of some small gully being made
use of, all the tanks of this period. Although resembling somewhat the
tanks of Aden, there are here none of the natural advantages to be found
at that place; for there the crater pours its water by aqueducts and
natural channels into the tanks, which are built tier above tier in the
wall of rock and between precipices. These between Digishúb and Dhamar,
however, lie in the level plain, and are excavated. They are dependent
entirely upon the rainfall for supply, and, as far as has been found
possible, the water has been drained toward them; but this, owing to the
dead level of the country, is to a very slight extent practicable. These
tanks are circular in form, and of considerable size and depth. At one
spot a flight of steps descends to the water’s edge, while a smaller
tank above the steps can be filled from buckets, &c., for the animals to
drink from. The entire tanks are lined with intensely hard cement, which
takes a peculiar polish, and on one were visible rough designs of men on
horseback, and gazelle, scratched into the plaster evidently at the time
it was originally applied. The extraordinarily perfect condition in which
these tanks are to-day, steps and all, speaks to the excellence of the
workmanship of those who excavated and built them; and the caravans are
still mainly dependent upon these extremely antique reservoirs for water
for the men and their beasts of burden.

Again, the plateau is broken by valleys to the west, but in no way to
compare with that through which the Wadi Kha flows. There a slight
descent takes one from the boulder-strewn undulating hills to the flat
ground again, broken here and there by rocky barren crags which stand out
against the dull yellow earth. On one of these is situated Dhamar el-Gar,
a village of some size; and on approaching this spot we caught sight
of, far ahead of us, all shimmering in the fierce sunlight, the city of
Dhamar itself. For the last hour and a half of the road we proceeded
over perfectly level ground, strewn with sandy dust, and, though showing
signs of cultivation, boasting scarcely a blade of anything green. As we
neared the city we obtained a better view of the place, so twisted and
turned had it at first been by the steaming vapour rising from the heated
ground.

Dhamar lies in the flat plain, the nearest hill of any size being Hait
Hirran, a mountain rising some hundreds of feet above the surrounding
country a couple of miles or so to the north of the city. Many high
mountains, however, are visible, especially the range of Jibel Issi to
the east, though it is a long way distant. This and its neighbouring
mountains must be of great height, for Dhamar itself is situated almost
exactly eight thousand feet above the sea-level. It is not a walled city,
but is more or less defended by a series of small, and, for the most
part, mud-built forts. Three minarets dominate the town, one of them
sadly out of the perpendicular, as it was struck by a cannon-shot during
one of the many wars it has been its lot to witness.

A narrow street, twisting and turning amongst open drains, ruined tombs,
and apparently objectless walls, leads one into the city. Here there are
signs of more wealth, many of the houses being well built of stone, while
a wide open square gives quite a handsome appearance to the place.

It is on to this square that the Government offices look, and before
we had half crossed it our mules were stopped by a number of Turkish
soldiers, under whose guidance we proceeded to visit the Kaimakam of the
town.

[Illustration: _Mosque and minaret at Dhamar._]

Alighting at a large gate leading into a yard and garden, we entered a
house, built in European style and with glass windows, and, ascending
a staircase, found ourselves in a large room. Divans surrounded the
walls, and a few shabby chairs and a table or two stood about the place.
Seated at one end of the room, drinking coffee and smoking, were four
or five Turkish officers in clean bright uniforms. As I entered one of
these rose, and, walking to meet me, shook hands with me, and led me
to the divan, at the same time calling to a servant for cigarettes and
coffee. My guard, who had come with me from Yerim, presented a letter
that had been intrusted to him by the Kaimakam of that place, which was
immediately opened and read. The officer then told me I was welcome,
and we conversed for about half an hour on general subjects. He could
not understand how I had ever attempted or succeeded in getting through
the country between Kátaba and Yerim, and laughed considerably when I
told him of my adventures. He was, in fact, as were those with him, most
polite and kind, and the one or two calls I paid to him, and he to me,
during my stay, will always be remembered by myself as most pleasant.

Before leaving the Kaimakam I obtained his permission to take up my
residence in the house of Saïd during my stay in that town; for the
latter had insisted on my not going to a khan, but spending the few
days we had determined to stay here in his father’s house. This favour
was readily granted me, and mounting my mules once more, Saïd, full of
impatience, leading the way, we crossed the big square, and winding
in and out amongst the narrow streets, finally drew up at a large
three-storeyed detached mud-brick house, which Saïd, almost dancing with
delight, pointed out to me as “_el-beit betaana_”—“our house.”

[Illustration: MY QUARTERS AT DHAMAR.]

Saïd received quite an ovation on his arrival, being kissed and hugged
in turns by all manner of strange people: an old grey-bearded father
followed his grey-haired mother; brothers, sisters, cousins, children,
aunts, swarmed out of that house like ants, until one believed that
every available inch of the place must be taken up by living people,
and I began to feel quite nervous as to where room would be found to
put myself away. At length the greetings were got through, and the male
portion of the relations turned their attention to my mules, which were
quickly unpacked and the baggage carried indoors. Then Saïd approached
me, and having run his hand through his wavy black curls, as was a habit
of his, bade me enter. As I stepped into the doorway with him he greeted
me in true Yemen fashion, and with all the demonstration an Arab loves so
much—and I believe in his case it was genuine.

Climbing to the top storey of the house, we entered a large airy room,
the proportions and decoration of which fairly astonished me, for
from the outside, although the house was large, it had a poor enough
appearance, being built entirely of sun-dried mud-bricks.

The guest-room, for such the chamber evidently was, measured some
thirty-five feet in length by fifteen wide. One end showed a bare floor
of cement, but the other was richly carpeted with rugs and striped
cloths, while divans, thick woollen mattresses, ran round the walls. The
room was evidently not in use, which was reassuring, as I feared vermin.
A number of handsome bronze brasiers, and strange bowls and coffee-pots,
were piled up in one corner, while another was occupied by a pile of
cushions, principally covered in European cottons, and happily tolerably
clean. Sunk into the walls were alcoves, in which scent-bottles and
sprinklers, cups and saucers, and many other things in which the heart
of the Oriental delights, were standing. But of all the pretty things
with which the room was filled, the windows were certainly the most
lovely. Except for two or three that closed with wooden shutters from the
inside, they did not open, the place of glass being taken by alabaster.
The effect of the light falling through the semi-opaque stone was soft
and luxurious, a rosy yellow in colour. The slabs used for these windows
vary in thickness, so that the light is regulated, and though in this
particular instance they were of uniform depth, in other places I saw
them richly carved in relief, so that the background was a monotone of
yellow; but where the carving, principally geometric designs, was, a
much deeper tone of colour was reflected, owing to the thickness of the
material being greater. Such, then, were the quarters we took up in the
house of Saïd el-Dhamari.

[Illustration: KARIAT EN-NEGIL.]

CHAPTER VII.

DHAMAR TO SANAA.

Although the city of Dhamar boasts of a considerable antiquity, it
displays none of the more remarkable points of the interest of age, and
except that a large portion of the place is in bad repair, it might have
been built but a few years ago. There are no walls to the city, and
necessarily no gates. The absence of this has led the inhabitants to
extend the town in many directions, with the result that it occupies a
much larger space than would be necessary for the population it contains.
This, however, has not prevented the streets from occupying the narrow
limits the Oriental loves to give to the passer-by, and in the bazaars
especially only two or three people could possibly walk abreast.

Ibn Khaldun, in his geography of the Yemen, makes no mention of Dhamar,
but this can scarcely be looked upon as meaning that the town did not
exist in his day—in fact, it is more probable that his failing to notice
the place was due to an omission, as the neighbouring fortress of Hirran
is also left without mention, though from the remains existing there it
is very probable that it was a site and fortress of no little importance
in far earlier times than that of the native geographer; and El-Janadi,
in his account of “The Karmathians,” speaks of the capture of Hirran
by Ibn Fadl about the year 293 A.H., and as the fall of the fortress
was only one item of the leaders successful march to Sanaa, it is very
probable that the event was considered one of no little importance.
Several of the other early Arab historians make direct mention of Dhamar
itself.

[Illustration: ROUTE MAP—DHAMAR TO SANAA

BY W. B. HARRIS

W. & A. K. Johnston. Edinburgh & London.]

A few hours after my arrival in the city I sauntered out with Saïd to the
bazaars, to purchase a few little luxuries in the way of food and fruit,
for so far we had lived during our journey upon the bare necessities of
life. Although at times a considerable crowd thronged us, we found the
people extremely polite, and what little inconvenience we were put to was
owing entirely to the curiosity of the inhabitants. The bazaars boast
but little beyond their natural picturesqueness, which in many places is
most noticeable. The shops are the usual little one-storeyed box-like
dens of the Eastern world, and the trades are divided up into separate
streets and quarters. Here, as elsewhere, the Jews have an entirely
separate town, situated to the east of the city, from which it is divided
by a large open space. Near this great square is the principal mosque
of the town, a walled enclosure, with three large gates facing the city,
and a handsome, though damaged, minaret. In one respect, however, it
is in better order than that of another of the mosques, for it still
maintains its upright position, whereas the other is sadly out of the
perpendicular, owing to its having been struck by a cannon-ball. A third
mosque of considerable size is within the bazaars, but none of them
possess much claim to architectural beauty, being built in the simple and
undecorative Arab style, native cement and mud-bricks being the principal
materials used in their construction. Prettier, certainly, are one or two
of the Shereefian tombs, with their white domes and arcades of arches.
One of these, lying on the extreme south of the city, near where we had
entered the town, is realty charming, with a small garden in front of it
and a huge shady tree for the pilgrims to the sanctuary to rest under.
Near here, but standing separate from the town, we saw the ruins of the
Turkish barracks, which had been destroyed by the Arabs on their capture
of Dhamar from the Turks a few months before.

At sunset we returned to Saïd’s house to spend the evening in a family
party, the members of which varied between the ages of seventy or eighty
and grimy babies of a few months old. However, it was an insight into
Arab life, and was rendered by no means unamusing by Saïd’s wonderful
lies about Aden, his earthly paradise. He fairly took the breath away
from his relations with the startling untruths he told, but I scarcely
believe that they gave him credence; and probably had he kept to
the strict truth, and only told about the forts and troops and good
government there, they would equally have taken it for exaggeration.
Perhaps after all he pursued the best course, and possibly by knocking
off some ninety-nine per cent for the native love of story-telling, they
arrived at about the right result.

We were up with the sunrise, and enjoyed the luxuries of a Turkish bath.
Fortunately the windows to admit the light were very small, otherwise
we should, I think, have seen much that was not tempting; but one
forgot any possible disadvantages in the luxury of soap and hot water.
From the “hummum” we proceeded to a _café_ in the principal square,
and perching ourselves cross-legged under an awning in front of the
coffee-shop, joined in the swim of conversation over “hubble-bubble”
pipes. A handful of troops were drilling before us in the square, poor
dishevelled creatures, many without even a boot on their feet. There
were perhaps a hundred and fifty in all, and I was told that of the four
hundred who had been sent to garrison the place after Ahmed Feizi Pasha’s
successful relief of Sanaa two or three months before, these were all
that remained, sickness having carried off the rest—starvation probably.
The officers seemed as disheartened as the men, and appeared to lack all
interest in the drill. Many of the soldiers were smoking cigarettes,
but no one seemed to take any notice of it; and after an hour or so the
soldiers wandered off in different directions, without apparently being
dismissed. It was sad to see their poor wan faces, thinned and paled with
sickness and hunger.

Although crowds now and again collected round me, it was surprising how
polite every class of native was to me, and I do not once remember,
during all the time I was in the Yemen, except on one or two occasions
from the guards of my prison at Sanaa, a word of abuse. The Yemenis are
the aristocracy of Islam. Wild in appearance, their manners are perfect,
and though their nature now and again leads them to violence, they are as
a rule gentle and hospitable, and as my travels proceeded, the more I saw
of them, especially the inhabitants of the mountains and the plateau, the
more I liked them. Nor did I find any difference with the townspeople,
and many a kind word of welcome was said to me now and again.

Much as I wanted to push on to Sanaa, I had promised Saïd to stay three
days at his house at Dhamar, and to tell the truth, I was by no means
sorry of a pretext to rest in such comfortable quarters. Many a visit I
received there. I think that there could not have been a single Turkish
official in the town who did not at some time or another come and see
me, and although they seemed always to be suspicious as to the objects
of my travels, they were charmingly polite. Nor were the Turks my only
visitors, for many an Arab merchant in long robes of silk came and spent
an hour or so over coffee and tobacco, and on one occasion I was honoured
by the visit of a local Shereef, first cousin to Ahmed ed-Din, leader of
the late rebellion, but who, wisely, had not taken part on either side,
preferring before entering into the affair to see who was going to win.
Saïd’s people thought a great deal of the visit of this Shereef, and
personally I found him charming. He was a man of perhaps some thirty
years of age, extremely handsome and beautifully dressed. He seemed well
educated, and had travelled a little, and the hour he spent with me I
shall always remember with pleasure.

But of all the insights that I obtained into Arab life during my time
in the Yemen, the most interesting was the dinner-party given by Saïd
in my honour. About seven o’clock our guests commenced to arrive—and
what guests! The first to come were half-a-dozen Arab tribesmen, with
long wavy black hair and a scarcity of clothing—in fact, their entire
costume consisted of a turban and a dark loin-cloth, from the latter
of which appeared the handles of their silver daggers. Strange lithe
beautiful creatures they were, with limbs that would have been worth a
mint of money to an artist to paint from. A couple of merchants followed
a few minutes later, their servants carrying their silver hookahs.
Natives of the same country, it is extraordinary what a difference is
apparent between the townspeople and the tribesmen; and our merchant
friends were fat and heavy, boasting little of the grace of their wilder
countrymen, and in place of the scanty clothing, wrapped in long silk
garments of gaudy hues, and wearing white turbans on their heads. More
of the tribesmen followed, each as he entered placing his long spear
against the walls in the corners of the room, till the place wore quite
the appearance of an armoury. Then came the musicians, natives of the
Hadramaut, wilder and longer-haired than the Yemenis present, and
bearing, in place of spears, strange richly painted instruments. More and
more guests, until our room, big as it was, was filled.

What a night it was! One of those nights in a lifetime which can never
be forgotten. The cool dim light of the swinging alabaster lamps, the
flashing spears heaped together in the corners, the wonderful dark crowd
of swarthy men, the steam of the brewing coffee issuing from strange
jars, the rich dark carpets and gaudy cushions, the murmur and the
blue curling smoke of the pipes—ay, a dinner-party in Dhamar is worth
seeing! And then the soft music and singing of the musicians, whose tall
beautiful figures moved slowly here and there as they played strange
melodies! It seemed like some dream:—no wild African feast, merely the
echo of the long-past glories of Arabia!

Then they brought us great dishes heaped with food, for the most part our
old friend the antiquated goat, and we dipped our fingers into copper
bowls of rose-water and ate together. Then coffee and pipes, and the
bitter herb _kat_, and music and dancing. And the cool night air blew in
through the windows and sent the filmy smoke circling here and there, and
now and again ruffled the raven locks of one or other of our guests, who
lay recumbent and silent, expressionless and beautiful, listening to the
tales of love that our musicians, with strange monotonous dancing, sang
to the strains of their painted guitars. We were back again in the days
of Haroun el-Rashid, and all the hurry and scurry of modern life seemed
lost and gone.

At length I brought out my electric machine, and, the guests joining
hands, felt, for the first time in their lives, a shock. They smiled,
and asked for more. Then one was brave enough to hold the handles by
himself. I turned it on full, and fairly whizzed the wheels round. With
a scream the man jumped into the air, and then apologised. Silently, one
by one, our guests arose, and shaking me by the hand with the compliments
the Arab knows so well how to bestow, bade me good-night. Then, taking
their spears in their hands, they walked slowly to the door, until
fairly outside, when they flew down the stairs at a pace that was
positively dangerous, and from the window I could see them tearing down
the street at a break-neck run. Such was the effect of a small electric
machine at a Dhamar dinner-party. The following morning we paid a visit
to the tombs of the family of a Turkish general, Ahmed Rushti Pasha, who
had himself fallen near Lohaya in the beginning of the rebellion. The
enclosed garden, with its mosque and tombs, tells of a sad story, for
the family of Ahmed Rushti were assassinated by their house being blown
up with gunpowder some few years since. However, as the story is to be
found in the chapter on the Yemen rebellion, I shall not refer to it
more particularly here. The tombs are situated without the city, on the
west side. An acre or two of land are enclosed with high walls, in which
stands a summer-house, where the bereaved Pasha was wont to come and sit;
but this, like the tombs themselves, was sacked by the Arabs during the
rebellion, and little but the outside walls and the graves remain to-day.
Passing back through the town we visited the Jews’ quarter, which, unlike
the Moslem city, is walled, the gates being locked every night from the
outside. Miserable squalor and dirt existed on all sides, although the
Jews themselves seemed well to do, and their houses airy and large. They
are built almost entirely of mud-bricks, plastered inside and out. This
material forms a hard surface, and seems to be very durable.

[Illustration: _Hirran._]

Our last day was spent in visiting the old fortress of Hirran, lying a
mile or two to the north of Dhamar; and well worth the trouble and heat I
found the expedition, for Hirran boasts many antiquities. Passing through
the north quarter of Dhamar, one emerges into the dusty plateau, across
which the road continues for a couple of miles or so. Hirran is clearly
visible from Dhamar itself, the dark rocky hill standing out black
against the light soil. One reaches the place near the south-west point
of the jagged rock, where are some old tanks sunk in the solid stone, and
of very considerable size. Keeping still to the west side of the hill,
we shortly reached the scene of an old cemetery, the flat rock being
honeycombed with graves. These were often sunk to the depth of twenty
feet and more, and generally measured some seven feet in length, and two
to three in breadth, but one or two were circular. They did not point in
any direction, but lay scattered about the little elevated rocky flat in
which they were sunk, some east and west, some north and south. Besides
the empty ones, there were a great many visible which had apparently
escaped the hands of man, nor could I find out why or when those that had
been dug out had been spoiled. An old goatherd, the sole inhabitant of
Hirran, told me that he had always remembered them thus, and during his
lifetime had never seen any one digging in the graves, though lately
some of the larger cave-tombs further up the rock had been searched for
treasure, but only a few coins and beads, he said, had been found with
the bones.

[Illustration: _Cave-Tombs, Hirran._]

The hill of Hirran is double-peaked, each point rising to some hundreds
of feet above the level of the surrounding plain. These peaks lie almost
due north and south, the rock taking a curving form between them, so that
the whole forms a sort of crescent, which was formerly defended by a huge
wall, still remaining, joining the lower slopes of the two extremities on
the eastern side.

Like the graveyard, the cave-tombs are situated on the west side of the
hill, at a spot where the steep precipice, which rises to the summit, is
joined by the lower boulder-strewn slopes. Although we entered all of the
caves that are to-day open, there were signs of numerous others which the
collection of falling material from the precipice had so blocked that
considerable digging would be necessary to procure an entrance.

The first cave-tomb which I visited consisted of a circular chamber with
a domed roof; the room measured some twelve feet in diameter, and the
highest point of the roof was five feet eight inches from the floor.
To the left of the entrance was an alcove three feet deep, three high,
and four in length. The door was three feet wide and over five feet in
height, but the walls were lower in the chamber.

[Illustration: _Ground plan of Tomb III._]

A little higher up the side of the precipice we were able to gain
entrance to a second cave, which I call Cave II. This excavation formed
two oval chambers, partly divided from one another by a buttress running
out from the solid rock. On both sides of this partition, and on the main
walls facing it, were ledges cut in the rock three feet above the ground;
in the dust of one of which I found a few bones and an engraved bead.

[Illustration: _Interior of Tomb III., Hait Hirran._]

Cave No. III. was perhaps the most important I visited, and showed signs
of more careful excavation than any of the others. A doorway led one
into a circular chamber, off which to right and left two small rooms
opened out. This circular entrance-hall led, opposite the door, into a
still larger chamber, into which in turn opened two alcoves and a room,
all of them four-sided. On the left and immediately in front the doors
were raised above the ground and nearly square, the floor of the alcoves
being level with the lower part of the openings. On the right, however,
was a chamber level with the floor, entered through an archway. The two
alcoves showed evident signs of having at one time been closed up, for in
the lintels of rock were visible holes which may either have held a door
or been used for joists to strengthen any masonry which may have been
arranged to fill up the opening.

[Illustration: _Entrance to Tomb IV., Hait Hirran._]

Cave IV., again, to the south of the others, presented quite a new
feature, the face of the precipice being cut to form a large square
chamber, in the back wall of which a doorway opened into the tomb. Below
this window, a foot or two above the ground, ran a series of five holes
drilled a short way into the rock, and which seems at some time to have
held the supports of a platform or seat. Apparently the whole outer
chamber was lined with plaster, and may have been once separated from the
face of the precipice by masonry. The window or aperture opening into the
tomb was situated three feet from the ground, and was two and a half feet
in height and two feet three inches in breadth. The interior consisted of
an alcove six feet in length, two feet wide, and three in height. Here,
as in Cave No. III., I found bones amongst the accumulation of dust, but
nothing else.

The fifth cave consisted of one large room, some sixteen feet by eight,
at each end of which were ledges in the rock eight feet long by eighteen
inches wide. The door leading into this cave-tomb was three feet six
inches wide, and the roof inside five feet in height. The rock here was
strewn with small chips of rock, and I found no signs of bones.

All these caves showed signs of having been opened, and my old guide the
goatherd said that such was the case. Asking him how Moslems reconciled
themselves to breaking open tombs, he replied that they were the tombs of
“unbelievers,” and that had they been Mahammedan graves no one would have
dared to have touched them. This he exemplified to me by pointing out
some tombs on the summit of the rock, in which Moslems are supposed to be
buried, and it was quite apparent they had been left untouched.

Following the hill to its southernmost extremity, I climbed by a
difficult ascent to a tank cut in the rock where water was formerly
collected. To reach this spot, so difficult and slippery was the path, I
had to go barefooted, a by no means pleasant task, as the stones were so
hot as to blister my feet. Descending again, we proceeded to the site of
the former “fortress,” formed by the two eastern points of the hill being
joined by a great wall. This, however, showed signs of early Arab work,
being built of the peculiar cement which is typical of Arab construction.
This wall is of enormous height and width, being some hundred and fifty
yards long and twenty feet high, and one could drive a carriage and pair
anywhere on its summit. The only one dating from Arab times that I have
seen to equal it in size is the great wall attributed to Mulai Ismail at
Mequinez in Morocco. Within the wall is a deep well, the upper portion
of which is built, the lower part sunk into the solid rock. Above the
northern end of the great wall are a series of three tanks, reached by a
roughly cut stairway. Still ascending, one arrives at the summit, where
are the five Moslem tombs I alluded to, enclosed in low stone walls, and
the remains of much old building, of which it is difficult to gather any
distinct idea, to such a state of ruin has it fallen. At all events,
the enormous amount of broken pottery, some of gorgeous colour and fine
design, speaks to the size of the place.

From the summit one gains a fine view of the surrounding country,—a great
flat plain broken by ridges of dark volcanic rock, like that on which we
were standing, until in the far east a tall range of mountains appeared
on the horizon. Below us to the south lay Dhamar, almost as yellow as
the plain itself, for there is but little green in its neighbourhood,
although it is said that in the rainy season the whole country entirely
changes its aspect. To the east of Hirran, and immediately below it,
lie the remains of an old city, the loose stone walls of the houses
still standing to the height of a few feet above the ground. Altogether
the place must have been one of great importance in early times, and
I regretted much that I was unable in my hasty visit to find any
inscriptions. However, I was able to take the notes given above before a
mounted Turkish soldier appeared on the scene, sent by the Kaimakam to
watch my movements, and who begged me politely to return. Fearing that
any suspicion on the part of the Governor toward myself might prevent my
continuing my journey to Sanaa, I stated my readiness to comply with his
request, and bidding adieu to the old goatherd, once more mounted my mule
and returned to the town.

I was able to learn but little about Hirran in Dhamar, or in fact
anywhere, except that it was once the centre of a great trade, a sort of
caravanserai for the goods of Sanaa and the north, the kingdom of Saba
or Sheba, and Aden. This is the only early tradition the natives seem to
have concerning its former wealth and its being a centre of trade in very
early times, and this tradition has led me to a conjecture—it is nothing
more—that Hirran may be the site of the Haran of the Old Testament.
The places mentioned in the same verse are, I believe, all in Southern
Arabia, and have all been recognised, Haran alone remaining undiscovered.
It is more than possible, judging from the similarity of names and the
report of its former importance in trade, that they may be one and the
same place.[40]

During the afternoon I paid a farewell visit to the Kaimakam, which was
returned an hour later, when he promised me a couple of soldiers to see
me safely to Sanaa.

The following morning we left Dhamar. There was, of course, a great
leave-taking of Saïd, and just as they had done on our arrival, a long
string of relations, illustrating all the seven ages of man, with many
of the intermediary gaps filled in, streamed out of the house to bid him
farewell. Good simple people they were, though the younger members of the
family, when away from their parents’ eyes, were importunate in their
demands for _bakshish_. The road led us to the west of Hirran, close to
the large tanks I mentioned as having seen on my ride to that place, and
then on over the dreary plain. Leaving the large-walled village of Jaffa
to our left for a time, we saw but little signs of life.

The early morning effect upon the flat plateau was one of great beauty,
in spite of its dry arid appearance. A dull warm haze hung over the
more distant desert, for such it really was at this period of the
year, through which the far-away mountains shimmered in the heat,
turquoise-blue in colour. As we proceeded the cultivated land became very
sparse, the soil for the most part consisting of sand and stones, until,
passing through a narrow gorge of rock, we entered a great circular plain
enclosed by low rocky hills on all sides, no doubt the crater of some
long-extinct volcano. From this point one catches a glimpse of Jibel
Doran, a range of mountains of great elevation, which terminate in a
strange sugar-loaf peak, unequalled in curious form by any I have seen
elsewhere in the world, with the exception perhaps of “The Needle of
Heaven” in the I-chang gorge of the Yangtze-Kiang, some eleven hundred
miles up that river.

[Illustration: JIBEL DORAN—EARLY MORNING.]

At a small _café_—half a cave, and half built of rough stones—we spent an
hour or two during the hottest part of the day. Quite a number of men and
camels had arrived before us, and in spite of the fact that scarcely a
blade of anything green was to be seen, the surroundings were by no means
unpicturesque. Joining in with the caravan-men, a cool corner was found
for me in the cave, and our mid-day rest passed quickly and pleasantly
enough. Far above us, perched on the summit of a hill, was the large
village of Athaik, its tall towers dominating the surrounding plain and
giving the place the appearance of some old feudal castle. A descent led
us to a slightly lower portion of the plain. The soil here was richer,
but I noticed that there was no cultivation, a fact that was explained
to me to be owing to the rebellion, which had deterred any investment in
crops that were bound to fall a prey either to the Turks or independent
robbers. To our left we could see the walled town of Resaaba, but wishing
to push on to Sanaa, and as it did not lie in our road, I did not visit
it. There is but little of interest, I was told, to be seen within its
walls. It is, in fact, rather a very large village than a town, and
bears all the characteristics of the villages of the Yemen plateau.
Again, another reason deterred me from penetrating there; that I felt it
advisable to give as wide a berth as possible to any places where I might
be likely to run up against Turks and Turkish authorities. To have so
nearly reached Sanaa, and then be turned back, would indeed have been a
disappointment.

Several times along the road we passed the deep rock-cut tanks that even
to-day form the water-supply of the passing caravans. One that we stopped
to drink at as evening was approaching bore rough designs of men on
horseback, and inscriptions in the Himyaric language cut in the plaster
that lined the rock walls. Like so many of these tanks, a flight of steps
led to the water’s edge, at the summit of which was a smaller pool, to be
filled by hand for the beasts of burden to drink from, and, like the main
reservoir, circular in form. The mountains we had seen all the afternoon
far ahead of us were now growing nearer, and as evening drew on we found
ourselves in a large open valley, semicircular in form, and closed at the
far end by steep broken crags. The soil here was well cultivated, though,
as we were still nearly nine thousand feet above the sea-level, the
young crops had not yet begun to show, and the place looked dreary and
burnt up. That the soil must repay cultivation is evident from the great
number of wells distributed over the country. At many of these, men,
women, and camels were engaged in drawing water. A couple of tree-trunks
form uprights to a beam laid across their tops, over which the rope
that supports the skins in which the water is raised passes. At the
other end of the rope, men, women, or some beast of burden is harnessed.
Owing to the great depth of these wells, and the size of the skins used
as buckets, the weight to be raised is very great, and the labour of
raising it proportionately so. But the natives have discovered a means by
which the work is lessened, while at the same time their irrigation is
rendered more practicable—namely, by building the wells upon the summits
of mounds. A long sloping path leads from the high mouth of the well to
the level of the surrounding fields, so that the drawer, harnessed to
the end of the rope, is assisted by the centre of gravity, instead of
being dependent upon his, her, or its personal strength. This raising of
the wells above the fields also renders easy the carrying of the water
in little dikes to whatever spot it is needed. The skin, on reaching the
well’s mouth, empties itself into a trough from which the water pours
into the irrigating channels. The fact that these channels consist of
only small ditches adds much to the toil and labour, as the thirsty soil
sucks up a large quantity of the fluid before it reaches its destination.
However, labour is cheap, and a man, so long as he possesses a donkey, a
camel, or a wife to work his well, can sit and smoke and look on himself.

At length we drew up at the village khan of Maaber, our resting-place,
and climbing a rough outside staircase, found ourselves in a clean
whitewashed room, cool and airy, where our carpets were quickly spread
and coffee on the boil. The people were very inquisitive, and at last I
was obliged to give peremptory orders that no one was to be allowed to
enter my room. But this did not seem to be of much avail, and eventually
I posted a guard outside the door, armed with a long stick. The village
is a poor enough place, built of mud-bricks, with a little stone masonry
showing here and there. The people seemed poor and dirty, and there
was little or nothing of interest to be seen. Very different are these
villages of the plateau to the well-built and fortified towers of the
country we had passed through to the south of Yerim, nor were the people
of this part half so clean or genial or handsome as the wild mountaineers.

Early the next morning we were on our way again, the road continuing over
the dusty plain. A mile or two from Maaber we witnessed some skirmishing
between the Turkish troops and the hillmen of Jibel Anis, one of the
last tribes to hold out, and one that probably will never surrender to
the Turkish Government. The country inhabited by this tribe consists of
wild inaccessible country, into which the Osmanli troops are powerless
to penetrate. The battle we witnessed was not apparently a very bloody
affair, for it consisted principally in a small field-battery of the
Turks firing into a few hill villages, from which a desultory and
ill-aimed fire was kept up by the Arabs. This was the first active sign
we had as yet seen of the rebellion; for although Turkish garrisons were
to be found in Dhamar and Yerim, their reconquest of these cities from
the Arabs had been accomplished almost without bloodshed. For a time we
stayed and watched the little battle, listening to the sharp cracking
of the rifles and the louder tones of the field-guns, until, as it was
apparent that the Turks had no idea of trying to climb to the villages
or the Arabs of descending to the level, we continued our journey. The
plain ends in an abrupt line of high rocky mountains, over which we
could see our path twisting and turning in serpentine coils. Entering
a narrow gorge, we passed close under the grandly situated village of
Kariat en-Negil, its every rock crowned by stone towers—a striking and
wild-looking place. Here it is that the old pilgrim-road from Aden and
the Hadramaut probably joins the track I had travelled on. We had left
the old road at Lahej, whence it continues _viâ_ Ibb, our route lying
more to the east. I have mentioned elsewhere this great pilgrim-track,
founded by Huseyn ibn Salaamah in the fifth century A.H., and there is no
further need of description here. Suffice it to say that at every night’s
_nzala_, or resting-place, was built a mosque, while tanks refreshed the
weary with water by the way.

[Illustration: KHADAR.]

A tremendous climb takes one to the summit of the pass, where there is
an old round tower, now used as a watch-house by the Turks. The path is
extremely steep, and, though roughly paved, so slippery that all riding
up was impossible, while the rarefied air made the climb by no means an
easy or a pleasant one. The summit I found by observation to lie nine
thousand one hundred feet above the sea-level, about eleven hundred feet
above the city of Dhamar.

A steep descent and an hour’s ride along a broken valley brought us to
the large village of Khadar, where we rested for an hour over pipes
and coffee. The place is a picturesque one, though greatly lacking in
vegetation. The upper portion of the village is situated on the summit of
a precipitous hill, and is walled, while every available peak holds the
usual tower-house. The few buildings that stand near the road are for the
most part caravanserais and _cafés_. The inhabitants are almost entirely
Jews, who, like certain tribes of their co-religionists that I have seen
in the Atlas Mountains, are cultivators of the soil and agriculturists. A
small mosque, the only whitewashed building in the place, shows, however,
that there must be some Moslem inhabitants in Khadar.

A wild group were seated at the door of one of the _cafés_, Arabs and
camels from Mareb, whence they were bringing salt. Our mutual curiosity
in each other led to conversation, and I found them good fellows on the
whole, though rougher in manners than the Yemenis I had as yet come in
contact with.

Two hours after leaving Khadar we reached our night’s resting-place,
Waalan, the best-built village we had as yet come across. The size and
solidity of the houses was astonishing; and when, on being led up a
staircase and along a wide passage into a beautifully clean room in
a handsome khan, the change from the quarters we had as yet found on
our journey in the other villages, almost took one’s breath away. Our
chamber, which commanded a fine view of several surrounding villages
through large windows opening down to the ground, was well whitewashed,
the doors and window-shutters being handsomely carved of polished dark
wood, and with a ceiling of the same material overhead. The change from
what we had been accustomed to was a most pleasant one, and we soon made
ourselves comfortable. A dear old lady, and a very tolerably clean one,
waited upon us, and insisted on cooking our dinner, a task usually shared
by Abdurrahman and Saïd—and very well she did it too.

[Illustration: VIEW FROM WAALAN.]

This appearance of cleanliness and civilisation was a sure sign that
we were nearing the capital, and I turned in to rest that night with a
feeling of satisfaction, for only a few hours’ ride lay between us and
Sanaa.

Four hours of heat along the valley of the Beni Matar, and we reached the
large village of Estaz, where we rested for an hour or two in a large but
dirty _café_. There is certainly but little to see in the place, though
Turkish soldiers were more common here than elsewhere, and the curiosity
of their officers would not allow of my being left undisturbed even for
the brief space of the hour or so we stayed there. They must needs come
and call and ask all sorts of absurd questions. Estaz, however, boasts
one superiority over much of the Yemen plateau, a river of running water
that flows by many channels through gardens, the greenness of which was
most pleasant after days of travelling over yellow plains.

Before mid-day we were off again, and turning a corner could see far away
across the level ground, shimmering white and yellow in the steaming
heat, the city of Sanaa.

With a thrill of satisfaction I urged my mule on to its quickest
paces, and a couple of hours later found us entering the city by an
old broken-down gateway, near which a company or two of troops were
drilling. Signs of the fighting were common enough. Some of the little
towers erected as forts by the Turks outside the walls were in ruins,
and half an hour earlier we had passed all that remained of the village
of Dar es-Salaam, the “house of peace”—ill-fitting name!—where the Arabs
had made their last strong stand against their Turkish enemy, and which
they only left when driven forth by the Turkish artillery playing upon
the houses of the village. Little remains to-day but broken walls and
tumble-down towers. In many places one could see exactly where the shot
had hit, and one tower was drilled through, the torn-up flooring and
rafters showing what havoc the ball had accomplished.

At length we were in Sanaa. The road had been a difficult and a
dangerous one, but this was all forgotten now. In spite of warnings and
repeated efforts to dissuade us from so rash an undertaking, we had been
successful, and it was with the keenest satisfaction, though not without
some doubts as to how I should be received, that I watched my little
caravan enter the city.

Passing through a narrow street with high houses on either hand, we drew
up at the door of a great caravanserai, a four-storeyed building of which
the rooms all looked out on to balconies overhanging a large _patio_. The
place was in wretched condition, and the ground-floor, which served as a
stable for camels, horses, mules, and donkeys, looked as though it had
never been cleaned out. Here I paid off my men, with the exception, of
course, of Abdurrahman and Saïd. I had made a bargain with a caravan-man
in Aden to send me through to Sanaa, and this bargain he had carried out
in every particular, in spite of all manner of dangers and difficulties;
and it was with much satisfaction that I paid the worthy fellows the
remaining half of the sum agreed upon at Aden, and sent them on their
way with more _bakshish_ than had probably ever been in their possession
before. Our parting was almost a sad one: from the day they had joined me
we had shared the same food and the same room at the khans, and though it
was under three weeks that they had been with me, I felt as though I had
known them ages, and shall always remember with pleasure the trustworthy
way in which they saw me through the country, and how, weary as they must
at times have been with the long marches, they maintained their tempers
throughout, and were always ready to do me some little service, however
far removed it might chance to be from the routine of their work.

A saunter through the bazaars brought us to the quarter in which
the Government buildings are situated, and in a few minutes more I
found myself in the residence of his Excellency Ahmed Feizi Pasha,
Governor-General of the Yemen and Commander of the Seventh Army Corps. I
was almost immediately ushered into the generals presence. He was seated
on a divan at the end of a handsome room, surrounded by quite a number
of his staff. His Excellency received me pleasantly, and after exchange
of salaams, a chair being fetched for me, he began to ask me what had
brought me there. I thereupon presented him with my passport, vizéd by
the Turkish Consul-General in London, and made out for the “Ottoman
Empire,” which had been issued to me by H.M. Foreign Office the day
before I left London to visit the Yemen. Being unable to read English,
Ahmed Feizi Pasha sent for an Armenian who spoke and read French, and the
wording of my passport was explained to him. Suddenly his Excellency’s
manner quite changed, and he became very red and irascible, asking all
sorts of absurd questions, which he did not give me time to answer.
First, I was not an Englishman at all; then I was an officer sent from
Aden to map out the country, and assist the Arabs in the rebellion;
until at last I almost became bewildered as to what I was, or rather
what the Pasha imagined me to be. Abdurrahman, good Moslem that he is,
was an Englishman in disguise. No Arab, the Pasha said, ever spoke Arabic
with such a foreign accent; and as to Morocco there was no such country,
and no such person as Mulai el-Hassan, its Sultan, for he knew well
enough that all North Africa was under the French. At length he insisted
on his saying the Mahammedan belief, to assure himself that he was in
truth a co-religionist. Abdurrahman’s indignation was intense, especially
as Saïd happened to be present; for with a true oriental love of
exaggeration the Moor had been telling the Yemeni wonderful tales of the
greatness and power of his country and its Sultan, and it pained him to
find that the Turkish Pasha had never heard of either, and Saïd’s smile
and look were anything but reassuring to his pride in his fatherland.

[Illustration: THE AUTHOR BEING EXAMINED AND HIS PASSPORT READ IN THE
PRESENCE OF AHMED FEIZI PASHA, GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF THE YEMEN.]

At length, in a burst of anger, Ahmed Feizi called to a couple of
officers, and his remarks being translated to me by the Armenian, I
learned that I was to be kept in security for the present. A hand was
laid on my shoulder, and I was gently led away, leaving the handsome old
Pasha as scarlet as a tomato. In the large anteroom I was handed over
to a guard of four soldiers, who conducted me through the streets to a
guard-room, situated above the prison yard, where I was soon ensconced,
the door banged and locked, and a sentry posted on the outside. My
baggage, which I had left at the khan, was sent to me a little later.
Meanwhile, Abdurrahman and Saïd were strictly cross-examined by the
Governor-General, and as the account the first had to give of himself did
not seem satisfactory, he quickly followed me to jail. That Saïd was a
Yemeni there could be no doubt, but he suffered a like fate—I suppose for
keeping such bad company.

I spent five days in prison at Sanaa. The room was clean, and I was
decently treated, being only once roughly handled. Wishing to speak to an
officer in the courtyard, I proceeded to leave my room, the door of which
was kept open by day, when I was rudely pushed back by the sentry.

The first night I was allowed to sleep alone and in peace; but on the
succeeding three, two non-commissioned officers shared the chamber, dirty
things in uniforms, which wore the look of never having been taken off.
However, they were good-hearted fellows, and both spoke Arabic well.

[Illustration: _The Author in prison at Sanaa._]

My meals I was sent out to get for the first day; but after that, all
leaving the place was forbidden to me, except to take exercise in charge
of a guard of soldiers. On the whole I had little to complain of, except
that the water and sanitary arrangements were both very bad—so bad, in
fact, that on the last night I was taken with violent fever, as also
were Saïd and Abdurrahman, who by no means shared such good quarters
as I did, being housed in a large dirty room, where chained prisoners
were their companions. This, however, was changed on my representing
that both were suffering from fever to the Governor-General on my second
interview. On this occasion I found his Excellency more reasonable, and
once or twice he even laughed, being apparently much amused when I told
him how I had got over the frontier in the disguise of a Greek. But
the Pasha’s merriment did not bring about any change in my condition,
and I was taken back from his presence to the same prison as before.
I told him at this interview that one of my reasons for visiting the
country was to correspond for the ‘Times,’ and he thereupon entered into
a long political statement as to the rebellion and its reasons. His
Excellency asked me what we should do in India in a like circumstance,
and I replied that I thought the matter could be best solved by a total
disarmament of the Arabs. While agreeing with me, he acknowledged such a
task an impossibility with the troops under his command, and said he was
earnestly hoping for further reinforcements from Constantinople. From his
manner, and what I could gather about Ahmed Feizi Pasha, he seems to be
a man of great personal courage and perseverance, besides possessing an
extraordinary amount of diplomacy and skill in dealing with the Arabs,
learned, no doubt, during the time that he was Governor of Mecca; and
in spite of the fact that he saw right to put me in prison, I cannot
but admire the thorough character which the general seems to possess.
His surroundings showed that here, at least, some regard was shown for
the common soldiers, and all wore boots, not to say fezzes. Here, too,
their uniforms were not in rags, nor did they seem to be on the eve of
starvation. There seemed, too, in Sanaa, more organisation than I had
seen elsewhere. I asked the Pasha why I was kept in prison, and he
replied that my presence was not entirely satisfactory, and that he had
ordered me to be lodged in the guard-room lest the Arab population might
do me harm.

I can quite imagine that to the jealous Turk the unexpected arrival of
an Englishman was by no means a pleasant surprise. Up to this time all
truth concerning the rebellion had been withheld, and the sole matter
that the press had been able to obtain was from official sources at
Constantinople. Therefore any chance of the truth leaking out, and the
general public being made aware how very nearly the Osmanli Government
had lost the southernmost of its Arabian possessions, would prove far
from acceptable to the authorities. On this account Ahmed Feizi’s bearing
toward myself is explicable, nor do I complain very much of it. Not so,
however, with the action of H.M. late Secretary of Foreign Affairs, who
laid all the blame of my imprisonment upon myself, and entirely ignored
the fact that my passport,—demanding that I should be allowed to pass
without let or hindrance, and that I should be afforded every assistance
and protection of which I might stand in need in the Ottoman Empire,
and which had been vizéd by the Turkish Consul-General in London,—bore
his own signature, which, if it were not lithographed, might have been
worth the sum paid for the document that bore it, as an autograph, but
was certainly entirely useless for the purpose for which it was supposed
to be affixed. Although I made my journey through the Yemen with the
knowledge and consent of the late Sir William White, then H.M. Ambassador
at Constantinople, I was informed, in one of those elegant despatches
of the Foreign Office, that I had entered the Yemen on entirely my own
responsibility, and must bear the results of my actions myself! and
that if the Turkish Government saw right to put me in prison and give
me such bad water to drink that fever was the result, they really could
not hold any one responsible for it beyond my own person. My question
as to whether the wording of my passport was of any value, or merely a
form that meant nothing, they entirely ignored, and to this day I have
been unable to obtain a reply. Suffice it to say that with all its seals
and titles and stamps, a British passport does not seem to be of much
value in the Ottoman Empire; nor when it is absolutely disregarded is any
one blamed by the Foreign Office except the unoffending bearer, who may
have been so dazzled by its splendour as to believe that it might be of
service to him. However, what with making treaties and doing their duty
in society, it can be easily understood that the time of the officials
is too much occupied to attend to such an unimportant question as the
imprisonment of an Englishman, even though by such an occurrence every
word and sentence of a paper to which H.M. Secretary of State appends his
signature is disregarded and abused.

CHAPTER VIII.

SANAA, THE CAPITAL OF THE YEMEN.

The city of Sanaa is situated in a wide valley, at an elevation of seven
thousand two hundred and fifty feet above the sea-level. Although the
town lies almost altogether on the flat bottom of the valley, a mountain,
Jibel Negoum, rises abruptly on the east—so abruptly, in fact, that the
old fortress and castle which form the citadel of Sanaa are perched on
one of its spurs, from which the main peak rises in rocky bareness to a
very considerable height.

The town is in form a triangle, the apex being formed by the _kasr_
above-mentioned, and the base by the wall of the garden suburb Bir
el-Azab. There are three distinct quarters within the outer walls: the
first or east quarter that of the Turks and Arabs, where are situated
the bazaars, the Government buildings, and the principal native houses;
the second the Jews’ quarter, separated from the last by a wide strip of
barren ground, part of which shows signs of once having been a cemetery;
and thirdly, this suburb of Bir el-Azab, where many a villa stands
within luxurious gardens of fruit and other trees, enclosed with high
walls. In spite of the fact that Sanaa is situated only between the
15th and 16th degree of north latitude, and so well within the tropics,
there are very few signs to be seen of anything approaching tropical
vegetation, and one is surprised at first, until the great altitude
of the place is taken into consideration, to find that nearly all our
English fruits flourish there. Although, of course, by day the sun is
intensely hot, it is quite a common occurrence to experience frosts on
winter nights. Yet in spite of lying at so great an elevation above the
sea, Sanaa is subject at times to serious droughts; and although in the
rainy season a torrent of water pours down the river-bed which runs
through the centre of the town, in the dry periods of the year water is
procurable only from wells sunk to a great depth in the solid rock. The
water drawn from these wells is said to be very fresh and good. As is the
custom in so many parts of the East, it is a marketable produce, and is
carried about in skins by water-bearers, and sold at so much per skin,
or even per cup. Yet in spite of water being a thing of money value, it
is extraordinary how clean the general population of Sanaa seem to be,
with the exception of the lower-class Turks, who, to judge from their
appearance, one could believe never to have even heard of its existence.
However, happily they are in the minority.

The whole town of Sanaa is surrounded by a wall built for the most part
of mud-bricks dried in the sun, though in many cases the towers, which at
regular intervals protect the walls, and on most of which the Turks have
mounted small guns, are of stone. The city is entered by four principal
gates, one lying to each point of the compass. Although extremely badly
built, and capable apparently of withstanding no armed force, the walls
of Sanaa formed a sufficient protection to the city against the wild Arab
hordes by whom the place was infested in the autumn and winter of 1891.
Had the Arabs been possessed of any artillery, instead of being armed
with only a few matchlock-guns and rifles and their spears, no doubt
the city would have fallen. Yet it has been found by proof, especially
in the several bombardments of Mokha, that walls and fortifications of
sun-dried bricks are by no means as easy to form a breach in as it might
be supposed. However, in these days of shells they would offer but poor
resistance, although when fired at with shot the missile merely buries
itself in the clay, without doing any appreciable damage. To further
fortify the place, the Turks have at regular intervals built, some
few hundred yards outside the walls, towers, somewhat resembling our
martello towers of the south coast. Here, as they have done upon the
main wall, they have erected small guns which proved of great use in the
Arab attacks upon Sanaa. These towers, by being built within easy range
of one another, and being exposed to no more serious fire than that
of matchlock-guns, are said to have played terrible havoc amongst the
natives, as a handful of Turks in each, with one piece of artillery and a
dozen or so rifles, were able to pour a telling fire into the flanks of
the Arabs as they approached the city walls.

But the strongest point in the fortifications of Sanaa is the old fort on
the spur of Jibel Negoum, the walls of which are solidly built of stone.
Where necessary, the Turks have repaired and strengthened it. It was
opposite to the gate of this fort, which serves as the Turkish arsenal,
that I was lodged during my stay in Sanaa; and I was not a little amused
to notice that the guns by which the walls are protected point ominously
into the city. It is no doubt by the constant view of these cannon,
whose gaping mouths point direct at the Arab quarter, that revolt and
revolution against the Osmanli forces was held in check within the city,
when all the rest of the Arab population, with but few exceptions, had
risen up in arms.

A fort, but not nearly so large or strong, protects the city to the west,
lying close to the gate by which the highroad to Hodaidah and the coast
leaves the town. Both this edifice and that at the east end of Sanaa
contain the remains of old palaces, but to-day they have fallen into
disrepair. No longer the fountains splash their crystal waters into the
clear air; no longer the pavements re-echo with the bells and anklets of
dancers: now nothing is heard but the rough voice and rougher tread of
the Turkish troops upon the marble floors. There is, in fact, but little
to tell of the former grandeur of Sanaa. No doubt, within many of the
houses there must be beautiful courts and gardens; but of these I saw
little or nothing, for although I visited the Turkish Governor-General,
Ahmed Feizi Pasha, in one of the old palaces of the Imams, the place has
been so changed and decorated and spoiled that it resembles to-day a
huge barrack rather than a palace. The walls have been whitewashed, the
great staircases are dirty, and the steps worn away by the nails of the
soldiers’ boots; and even in the great rooms in which Ahmed Feizi Pasha
resides, or does his business, the simple old Arab taste has been changed
for decoration of _Louis Quatorze_, by no means bad of its kind, some of
the wall-painting being far above the average, but still sadly out of
place.

Of the remains of the old palace and temple of Ghumdan, reached by some
sixteen hundred steps, nothing but a heap of ruins remains to-day. Yet
what a strange great place it must have been, with its four walls painted
different colours, and its centre tower seven storeys in height, each
diminishing in size, until the highest of all was floored with a single
piece of marble. At each corner of this little summer-house was a marble
lion, the open mouth of which exposed to the wind seemed to emit roaring.
Strange fancies they had, these old-world Yemen people; and it must
be regretted that the old palace and the adjacent temple dedicated to
Zuhrah, supposed to be the Venus of Arabia, should have incurred the
fanatical wrath of Othman, the third Caliph, and by his orders have been
destroyed; for had it been left to die a natural death, there is little
doubt that, in the situation and climate it enjoyed, there would have
been at least some of it left to-day to tell of its former splendour.

Although one cannot see the interior of the Arab houses of Sanaa, a fair
estimate of their size can be gained from the outside; and even to us
English, who are used to great houses, many of those of Sanaa appear
immense. It is impossible to describe the style of architecture in which
they are built, for it is a style that exists nowhere else. It is purely
and essentially Yemenite, though in some cases gateways and windows are
found of Byzantine and Gothic form. There is one house at Dhamar, built
of red brick and faced with white stone, with a stone porch, that, were
it set down in an English country district, would pass for Elizabethan.
The house, too, forms an E, and although I could find out nothing about
its history, it seems impossible that the strange building could be an
accident; and I am inclined to believe that it must have been erected by
one of the many renegades who, in the middle ages, sought their fortunes
in the wealthy cities of Arabia.

At Sanaa I saw no houses of this kind, the style of architecture, with
the exception of the decoration of doors and windows, being more or less
uniform. Many of the larger houses are built of stone and brick and
cement, the lower two storeys perhaps being of well-squared stone of
various colours, arranged so as to form designs, the upper portion being
of brick covered with a hard cement that takes a fine polished surface,
not unlike the material used in Cairo, and corresponding to the _tabbia_
of Fez. Many of the upper storeys are built overhanging the streets, but
this is not carried out to nearly such a large extent as in many of the
oriental cities; while the _musher-ibeyeh_ work of Cairo is rare here,
its place being taken by long narrow windows filled in with stained
glass in designs. From the outside the pattern is often inappreciable,
as the chips of glass are simply stuck into the plaster framework. From
within, however, only such of the glass is exposed as fits in between
the solid pattern, and the designs are often exceedingly fine. The same
can be seen in the tomb and mosque of Kaït Bey, one of the tombs of the
Caliphs at Cairo, and again some specimens of the work exist in the
museum of Arab antiquities in the same city. What carved wood there is
used for window-screens does not in the least resemble that of Egypt, but
is arranged in geometric designs, much more in the style of Chinese and
Japanese workmanship, with which some of the designs are identical.

A word must be said here on the extraordinary quantity of Chinese and
Japanese pottery to be found in the Yemen. There is scarcely a _café_ by
the roadside where one will not find that the cups have come from the far
East, and yet I found that but very little enters the country to-day.
I believe the origin of the presence of this extraordinary amount of
oriental pottery is to be traced to the last few centuries, when Aden
was the great mart of exchange between the East and Europe. With great
wealth in the cities of the Yemen, a very appreciable quantity of the
goods brought to Aden would be taken into the interior, and the care with
which pottery and antiquities are treasured by the natives of the country
would explain their existing until to-day. There is little doubt that
should the Yemen ever be opened up, and Europeans be able to travel with
safety and comfort, that it will become a field for the curio-hunter such
as has not been known since the days when the Egyptian antiquities began
to be unearthed. Coins, gems, inscriptions, sculptures, old Persian and
Arab antiquities, embroideries, arms, brass and copper work, manuscripts,
carpets, oriental pottery and glass—the Yemen is full of them, and as yet
her treasures are almost untouched.

Although many of the streets of the town consist of narrow byways,
turning and twisting in every direction between the high walls of the
houses, there are parts that are by no means badly laid out, and one
or two of the main streets are quite wide thoroughfares, in which the
few carriages which Sanaa boasts are able to pass each other. The
most important of these streets leads from the square into which the
Government buildings look to the bazaars. It is only a few hundred yards
in length, it is true, but still it is sufficiently wide, and the shops
on either side sufficiently good, to compare favourably with many in
European towns. The “square” itself is a large oblong open space, faced
on the east by the old castle and the large much-bedomed Turkish mosque,
and on the west by what were once the palaces of the Arab rulers, and
to-day form barracks and Government offices. At one end of the square
an enterprising Turk has built a large _café_, where the officers and
the few Greek shopkeepers love to congregate, and from the large doors
and windows of which float clouds of pale-blue tobacco-smoke, issuing in
curling clouds from the _shishas_ of the smokers. It is from this point
that the main street leads off to the bazaars, and in the few hundred
yards of thoroughfare are to be seen the best shops, kept either by Turks
or by Greeks, in which every imaginable article can be procured, from
tins of sardines and inferior Turkish cigarettes to photograph-frames
and musty chocolate creams. One or two have large glass windows in which
the goods are exposed to view, but they have a dingy dusty appearance,
and seem to tell that trade is not bright. There, too, is a small
restaurant, where all the favourite Turkish dishes can be obtained, some
of which are by no means to be despised; while bottles of Greek and
native wines standing on shelves tell that the Turks of Sanaa do not keep
too strictly to the tenets of Islam with regard to drinking.

[Illustration: _Turkish officers in a café at Sanaa._]

Issuing from this street, one emerges into the bazaars, and here one sees
Sanaa proper, not as it has been altered and changed to suit Turkish
tastes.

Of the many scenes that the city presents to the traveller, the bazaars
are perhaps the most interesting; for here one loses all idea of more
modern times, and is thrown back, as it were, into the past. The bazaars
have never changed. From time immemorial there have existed the strange
box-like little shops, filled with much the same objects, and tended by
people who, from the distance that they are separated from the outer
world, have changed but little. Just as they dress to-day, so have they
dressed since the word of Islam was first heard in the land. The only
change, perhaps, noticeable to the casual observer, is the scattering
of Turks and Turkish soldiers, whom now and again one passes in the
narrow streets. The shops are all of one storey, the floor being raised
about two feet above the ground, but not projecting on to the street
in the little platforms one is so used to in Egypt and elsewhere. Here
the seller sits cross-legged amongst his goods in the shadow of his
mud-brick shop, gazing in front of him into the sunlit yellow street and
beyond into the shop opposite. A little awning or covering of wood often
projects above the opening, sufficient to give a patch of shade large
enough to shield the purchaser from the sun’s hot rays.

As is the custom throughout the East, each trade has a number of shops,
or often a whole street, put aside to its special business. The workers
of arms, the jewellers, the second-hand shops, the sellers of silks
and cottons, the crockery and china vendors, each has his own special
quarter; while the vegetable and fruit bazaar is an open space, where,
under rough little awnings, supported on poles and canes, the market
produce is exposed for sale.

Particularly interesting amongst the shops are those of the jewellers and
makers of arms. The walls of the former are hung with silver necklaces
and bangles and anklets, many of which are of very beautiful design.
Some of the necklets particularly are extremely lovely, resembling in
workmanship the finest and best Greek and Etruscan work, with none of
the roughness apparent in the jewellery of so many oriental countries.
The favourite design seems to be single chains supporting pendants of
various shapes and forms, from discs of fine filigree-work to solid
pear-shaped globules of metal. The bracelets are generally bands of
worked silver, though some, like the necklaces, are decorated with small
chains and hanging pendants. But the greatest skill of the jewellers of
Sanaa, who are rightly renowned for their workmanship, is exhibited in
the dagger-sheaths, many of which are of rich silver-gilt, and even, at
times, of gold. Perhaps the most lovely, however, are of plain polished
silver inlaid with gold coins, principally of the Christian Byzantine
emperors; others again, of delicate filigree, which the natives line
with coloured leathers or silks. But more than even the sheaths of these
_jambiyas_, as they call their daggers, the natives value the blades.
Antique ones are generally considered the best, and the people declare
that the old art of hardening the steel has been lost. Be this as it may,
there is no doubt that the modern blades are of no mean workmanship, and
great prices, for the Yemen, are paid for good specimens. The two parts
of the dagger are nearly always sold separately, and a Yemeni, having
found a blade to suit him, has a sheath made according to his taste and
wealth. The early European visitors to Sanaa speak of the jewelled arms
worn by the Imams and their companions; but I saw only one specimen of
these in the bazaars, a silver-gilt sheath studded with rough pearls
and turquoises, for which the shopkeeper was asking some forty pounds
sterling, without the blade. Another art long lost, but of which examples
are still to be procured, is the application of silver to copper and
brass. This kind of work usually takes the form of boxes of one of
the latter metals, covered with inscriptions in Kufic or other Arabic
characters in silver. The later forms of this work are very inferior to
the earlier, and the silver is apt to peel off.

One of the great institutions of Sanaa are the khans, or caravanserais,
of which there are a considerable number, the greater part being situated
near the gates of the city. These buildings vary in size, but some are
very large, though nearly all in bad repair. They usually consist of
large houses three and four storeys in height, open to the sky in the
centre. The lower floor forms stabling for the animals, while a number
of rooms of various sizes open out on to the balconies which surround
the court on the upper storeys. The hire of these rooms is very small,
something like twopence a night, and as many as like to crowd into it do
so. There is nearly always a _café_ attached, where cooking can be done,
either by the visitors themselves, or, if more extravagantly inclined, by
the servants of the khan. Assembled round the gates of these khans are
to be seen the tribes-people from every part of the interior—bringers of
salt from Mareb, the modern Saba or Sheba; of coffee from the northern
districts; of indigo and grain and spices from wherever the soil is
suitable to their growth. Caravans from the Hadramaut and Yaffa discharge
their goods here too, to reload their camels with the produce of the
largest city of Southern Arabia.

The population of Sanaa, although there is no official census to base
one’s calculation upon, probably numbers some forty to fifty thousand
people, of whom twenty thousand are said to be Jews. These, as has
already been stated, have a quarter entirely to themselves; and although
many hire shops in the bazaars, and are daily engaged in the town in
attending to them, or in carrying on their respective trades, at night
retire to the _ghetto_, with the exception of a few who are servants, and
who sleep in their masters’ houses. There seems to be no more oppression
of the Jews in the Yemen than there is of the Arabs. They are free to
carry on whatever trade they will; to attend their synagogues and
schools, and, in fact, seem very little interfered with by the Turks.
They, of course, pay their regular share in the taxation, as is only
right they should; and if it be exceptionally heavy in their case, it is
so also in the case of the Arab inhabitants—though naturally the Jews, as
to nature born, cry out a great deal more than the natives.

The _ghetto_ is quite separate from the Arab city. The houses are built
almost entirely of mud-bricks, but look clean and comfortable, though
the habit of throwing all their refuse into the streets is by no means
a pleasant one for the passer-by. However, in this they are little
worse, if at all, than the Arabs, whose drain-pipes project well over
the middle of the narrow streets, through which generally flows an open
drain. The passer-by has to be careful to keep near the house-wall, or
he will run the risk of coming terribly to grief. There are said to be
more than twenty synagogues in the Jews’ quarter, and over seven hundred
boys attending the schools. The whole male population is supposed to be
able to read; but the females attend entirely to their house-work, or the
sewing of garments, and all education is neglected in their case.[41]

The Jews of the Yemen are believed to have come from India, and, as
far as is known, there are none remaining of the old Jewish stock of
pre-Islamic times. Although much despised by the proud Arabs, they
are seldom treated with violence or even roughness, and what little
persecution there can be said to exist consists almost entirely of the
jeers of small boys, and even this is rare.

One cannot help noticing and admiring the extremely pleasant manners
shown by the people of the Yemen toward Europeans. With the exception of
the lower classes there is no crowding; and even when curiosity leads
the people to congregate round a stranger, there are no rude remarks,
much less any of the ribald cursing which distinguishes the attitude of
the Moors of Morocco toward Europeans. This trait in the character of
the people of the Yemen adds very largely to the pleasure of travelling,
and many a kind word was said to me on my journey by “warriors” of the
fiercest aspect, and many a pleasant smile and “God-speed” followed me
as I rode away from the villages and towns. In fact, with a very few
exceptions, I never heard a word of unpleasantness spoken either to or of
myself. There is apparently less religious fanaticism towards Christians
than exists between the two sects of Islam represented in the country—the
Zaidis[42] by the Arabs, and the Sunnis by the Turks.

Through the centre of Sanaa flows at times the river Kharid. However,
the river-bed is dry except in the rainy season, when a huge torrent
pours down its course, often doing considerable damage to the adjacent
houses. A bridge spans the river at one spot, and from here a good view
is obtained both up and down the stream, the high yellow banks of which
are crowned with tall houses, built in the peculiar style of architecture
common to the place.

Beyond the Jews’ quarter, and to the extreme west of the town, is the
suburb of Bir el-Azab, of which mention has already been made. Here the
roads are wider, and pass between the high walls of the gardens, over
the top of which can be seen the leaves and blossoms of the fruit-trees.
Two villages also form country residences for the inhabitants of the
city—Jeraaf, about two miles to the north, and Raudha, the same distance
farther on. Shortly before my arrival at Sanaa the rebels had succeeded
in blowing up with gunpowder the Turkish barracks at the latter place,
together with some five-and-twenty soldiers.

[Illustration: _Turkish mosque at Sanaa, as seen from the prison window._]

With the exception of the Turkish mosque, all the others seem to be in
bad repair, owing, it is said, to the Osmanli Government having seized
most of the mosque property, the sole means of adding to and keeping in
order the building themselves. The great mosque is a huge square building
surrounded by a high wall, and boasting two tall minarets of curious
construction. It was here that Ibn Fadl, the leader of the Karmathians,
in the year 911 A.D., carried out one of those acts of licentious
cruelty with which the history of the East teems. Having in that year
successfully installed himself at Sanaa, from which on two previous
occasions he had been ousted, he caused the great courtyard of the
mosque to be filled some three or four feet deep with water, into which
were driven naked all the young girls of the city. From his seat on the
minaret he gazed upon them, and such as pleased him he dishonoured. The
height of the water, however, discoloured the walls, and for centuries
told the tale of the brief power wielded by this licentious usurper.

[Illustration: _Turkish soldier._]

But of all the sights offered by the city of Sanaa, the population
presents the most interesting. Everywhere some strange figure meets the
eye: here it is some wild tribesman with bronzed skin and raven-black
locks, girded with his loin-cloth of dark blue cotton; there some
merchant from the Hejaz, slow and stately, with strange glassy eyes that
speak of _hashish_, robed in striped silks, and whose turban, so white
it is, literally seems to sparkle in the sunlight. Again it is some
ill-fed, ill-clothed Turkish soldier, with only one boot perhaps, and
that scarcely more than a shadow of its former self, with face unshaven
and sunk with illness; and as one is still watching him, there rattles
past a shabby victoria, in which is seated some fat Pasha or Bey, with
hideous black-cloth clothes richly sewn in gold lace; and one knows that
as often as not his clothes, his carriage, and his horses are bought with
the money that ought to feed the soldiers, for but a small proportion of
the pay of the troops ever reaches them. Then, again, a woman passes,
wrapt head to foot in coloured garments, the veil of coloured stuff
just transparent enough to allow her to grope her way, for so do the
women of Sanaa hide their charms; and here, there, and everywhere are
the “gamins,” the same all over the world, though their blood and their
language be different,—little monkeys all, and in Sanaa rebels to the
very heart.

Of all the cities of the Yemen, there is none that can boast the
antiquity of Sanaa. Tradition says that it was founded by Ad, the
ancestor of the tribe of Adites, who were destroyed by a miraculous hot
blast of wind for refusing to listen to the voice of the Prophet Hud.
A second tribe, that of Thamud, met with a like fate for disregarding
the Prophet Salih; only in their case it was a terrible voice that
called to them from the skies that caused their deaths.[43] There is
only one drawback to this tale—namely, that long after the destruction
of the Adites we find them attacked and conquered by a descendant of
Yarub, brother of Hadramaut, and son of Kahtan. He was apparently more
successful than the miraculous hot wind, for they were evidently entirely
wiped out on this occasion, and we find no more mention of them in
history. But there is another interest belonging to the Adites—namely,
that they were of the autochthonous stock of the Yemen, and therefore
probably one of the original Semitic people who afterwards spread over
Arabia and founded the Arab races, and who have, with the propagation
of Islam, wandered far into Asia and Africa. The original name of Sanaa
was Azal, Uzul, or Uwal, the latter of which means “primacy” in the Arab
tongue. The authorities appear to differ as to which was really the first
name, and it seems not improbable that Azal or Uzul was the original
title, which, being incomprehensible to the later races, they changed
to the Arabic Uwal—a word that described not only the antiquity of the
place, but also bears a strong resemblance to its original name. This is,
however, merely a conjecture.

Although Saba seems in the days of the Sabæans to have been a more
important place than Sanaa, there is little reason to doubt that the
latter was in existence; and amongst other authorities Ibn Khaldun states
that Sanaa was the seat of the Tubbas or Himyaric kings for centuries
before the time of Islam. This alone, apart from the traditions of far
greater antiquity, of which we have no reason to doubt the truth, shows
that probably two thousand years ago the city of Sanaa was a flourishing
community, the seat of the government of powerful kings, who were living
in a state of civilisation and culture. But the question of the antiquity
of Sanaa is not one that can be entered into at any length here, and
interesting as is the subject, space does not allow of carrying it
further.

There are one or two episodes in the history of Sanaa that cannot be
passed over without some slight mention. The first is the erecting there
of a Christian church by Abrahá el-Ashram, Viceroy of the Yemen, under
the Abyssinian King Aryat, for the building of which the Emperor of Rome
is said to have supplied marble and workmen. Abrahá, who was a fanatical
Christian, hoped by the erection of this wonderful structure, of which
unfortunately we have but few details—and such as do exist are absurd—to
change the goal of pilgrimage from the Kaabah at Mecca, which, it must be
remembered, was an object of veneration long before the time of Mahammed,
to Sanaa. Failing to entice the Arabs, he attempted by force to bring
them to his church, which eventually led to his famous attack upon Mecca
in 570 A.D., and in the total destruction of his army by pebbles dropped
from the claws and beaks of birds.[44]

At the time of the introduction of Islam into the Yemen, we find the
government in the hands of Budhan, or Budzan, the Persian Viceroy, who,
however, embraced the new religion, and was confirmed by Mahammed as
Governor of the Yemen—a post he held until he died. Within a year or
two of the death of Mahammed himself, Islam was firmly grafted in the
country, owing, it must be added, to the indomitable courage and energy
of Mohajir, who, on his triumphal march to the Hadramaut, secured the
leaders of the party dissentient to the rule of the then Caliph Abou
Bekr, and, sending them prisoners to Mecca, planted the Caliph’s rule
firmly in Sanaa.

Although the Christians of Nejrán continued such for a period, the
enthusiasm of the people for Islam swept them along in its tide, and
idolatry and Christianity soon became extinct in the Yemen—the third
Caliph, Othman, destroying almost the last vestige of the former by
razing the temple of Zuhrah at Ghumdan, the remains of which and of the
Christian church of Abrahá are visible to-day in a heap of ruins at and
near Sanaa respectively.

From this period the history of Sanaa has been a troubled one. Constant
warfare with foreign princes, and assassinations and rivalry fraught
with bloodshed between the local rulers, help to make up as dark a page
of history as can be imagined. Yet in spite of this, the city has been
always an important and flourishing one, renowned for its manufactures,
its trade, and its wealth. With every disadvantage accruing from a
constant change of government, it managed to survive; and not only to
survive but to increase, until toward the middle of the seventeenth
century it reached unparalleled prosperity under the then powerful Imams.
But as they sank in power, so did Sanaa lose its prosperity. Its fate
seemed drawn along with that of its Imams; and as ruler after ruler lost
more and more of his territory, so the glories of the capital diminished.
Yet there was now and again a flicker in its death-throes; but never
did it last above a few years, when once more the steady decline would
commence.

How it ended is well known; for, broken in spirit and harassed by the
surrounding tribes, Sanaa offered no resistance when the Turks, in 1872,
entered the place; and the city, which had nobly held her own in so
many encounters, almost welcomed the stranger into her midst. Had the
inhabitants been aware at that time how their action would lead to their
oppression, there is but little doubt that they would have hesitated in
their invitation to the Turkish forces, already firmly established on the
coast, to come and take over the reins of government.

[Illustration: MENAKHA, FROM THE NORTH.]

CHAPTER IX.

SANAA TO MENAKHA.

As long as I live I shall never forget my departure from Sanaa. In the
cold grey dawn, the temperature little if anything above freezing, worn
out with a night of raging fever that still throbbed in my veins, I was
lifted on to my mule at the door of the _conàk_, and, with a couple of
soldiers to accompany me, sent upon my way. Weird and wretched everything
looked. The houses, that only the day before had struck me as beautiful
in their strange oriental architecture, now looked like pallid ruins,
depressing in the extreme; while the few hurrying persons we passed
seemed but shadows in the grey light of dawn.

On through the bazaars with their closed shops; on by narrow streets
and byways, over which the tall houses seemed verily to hang suspended;
across the bridge that spans what is at times a roaring torrent but was
now but a dry bed; across a wide open space and through the dirty Jews’
quarter, and the garden suburb of Bir el-Azab; then out under the great
town gateway with its strange towers, on which a shivering sentry or two
kept guard, into the open country. A long level road leads one from the
city across the surrounding plain, a road as good as one could expect to
find in England. Then a range of bare hills seems to block the way, and
one begins to climb up and up by the winding twisting track, until the
summit is reached. Looking back, a fine view of Sanaa was obtained, lying
on the spur of Jibel Negoum, backed by still higher mountains. To right
and left extended the valley, until some way off to the north one could
see the town of Raudha, where not a month before the rebels had blown
up the Turkish barracks and some twenty-five soldiers with gunpowder.
From this spot one could obtain a better idea than we had as yet been
able to do of the size of Sanaa, as it lay mapped out below us, a great
flat-roofed city, dull yellow and white, upon still yellower and whiter
plains, the only break in which were the gardens at Bir el-Azab.

At the summit of the ascent a plateau is reached scattered with villages,
now all more or less knocked down by the Turkish artillery, after the
road from Hodaidah had been forced, and the Arab Shereef, Sid esh-Sheraï,
dislodged from Hajarat el-Mehedi, a spot a few miles farther on. Over the
plateau the road proceeded tolerably straight, though the going was by no
means good, in spite of the fact that the track was a wide one. But its
repair had evidently been neglected for a time, and it was strewn with
stones.

After the sun had risen it became very warm, but it was a change for the
better from the miserable cold of the early morning, and, weak as I was
from fever, I was glad to get off my mule for a time and stretch my limbs
by walking.

At the _café_ of Metneh we stopped for our mid-day meal. A large, low,
stone building forms the caravanserai, both for man and beast. The place
is roughly built, one storey in height, the roof being supported on
arches and stone columns, round the bases of which are little raised
platforms, on one of which we spread our carpet and rested for a time.
The _café_ was nearly full of Turkish troops, poor, ill-fed, and
ill-clothed fellows, but the very acme of good-humour. It was amusing to
hear them discussing my presence with some Arab merchants who happened
to be there at the same time. The conclusion they arrived at was that
the presence of a Christian in the country foretold the downfall of the
Yemen, and the sooner they, the Moslems, cleared out of it the better.
It was flattering certainty to hear one’s self considered of such vital
importance to a country the size of the Yemen; nor did the fact that
I was a prisoner in the hands of a Turkish guard seem to lessen their
opinion of me. On discovering at length that I spoke Arabic, we joined
parties and lunched together, and very polite they all were. The group
was a strange one, representing in the Arabs the rebel party, in the
Turks the conquerors and oppressors, and last, but not least, in my
humble self the future of the Yemen (for so they deemed my presence to
foretell). Yet we were a merry band, and shared the same hubble-bubble of
peace, and parted with protestations of profound respect and friendship
for one another.

One of the pleasantest recollections of the Yemen that I bore away with
me is, and always will be, the hours spent in these wayside _cafés_. Then
more than at any other time one saw the people as they really are. Then
all restraint was thrown aside; there was exhibited none of the suspicion
we habitually show to fellow-travellers; and often we unburdened our aims
and ideas to one another, the Arabs and I. As I write of it I long once
more to go back, to sit cross-legged on the floor and sip the beverage
of coffee-husks from the tiny Japanese and Chinese cups the Yemenis love
so much, and listen to the patient murmur of the hubble-bubble amongst a
group of half-naked Arabs.

Leaving Metneh in the afternoon, we pushed on through Bauan, with
its strange market, toward our night’s resting-place. The road still
continues to ascend, and is in most parts very rough and bad, rendering
travelling by no means pleasant. However, any unpleasantness from this
was amply repaid by the magnificent view that from time to time met our
gaze. The track was leading us along the summit of a mountain-top,
which to the north looked straight down into a great valley thousands
of feet below. What a wonderful valley it was, full of coffee-groves,
and luxuriating in all the glories of gorgeous vegetation, amongst
which banana-leaves could be plainly distinguished, waving their great
green heads! Amongst all this verdure, clinging as it seemed to the
mountain-sides, were villages, each crowned by its _burj_ or fort, the
whole perched on some overhanging rock. On to their very roofs we seemed
to look. Often on the road I would rest for a few minutes to gaze in
wonderment on this entrancing scene, until, as evening came on, filmy
mists rose from the valley, and concealed from view all but the opposite
mountain-peaks, torn and rugged, which rose above the sea of iridescent
cloud like great cathedral steeples. What a land it is, the Yemen! What
a world of romance and history lies hid in those great mountain valleys!
What tales the little, sparkling, dancing rivulets could tell, for often,
I wot, their limpid waters have run red with blood! Night fell, and the
scene became one of still grey silence, weird and strange.

After reaching an altitude of ten thousand feet above the sea-level the
road began to descend, and we passed once or twice through villages,
crowned by their strange towers, until at length Sôk el-Khamis, our
night’s resting-place, was reached. There are several of these villages
in its vicinity, and one we passed was occupied by Turkish troops, whose
riotous laughter and singing jarred on the peaceful sounds of night, the
humming of the insects and the soft hoot-hoot of the rock owls.

We stopped at one of these strange tower-like buildings, and my guard
informed me that this was our halting-place. After repeated knockings
at a heavy wooden door we were admitted into a yard, and from thence
entered the house—the way led by a dirty mountaineer in little else but
a sheepskin coat, who, with a small oil-lamp, lighted us up a flight of
stone stairs into the guest-chamber. A poor enough place it was, and none
too clean, its ceiling blackened by the fumes of charcoal-fires, its
floor of rough stones and mortar, the ups and downs of which a carpet
ill disguised. This was, however, the sole accommodation, and our host
plaintively asked us to make ourselves as comfortable as we could, while
he went off to search for provisions, adding that the Turkish garrison at
the neighbouring village had exhausted the supply.

So we spread our carpet, and Abdurrahman and Saïd, and the Turkish and
Arab soldiers who formed my guard, sat down together over a charcoal
brasier, in which bubbled one of the common narrow-necked earthenware
pots in which they brew their drink of coffee-husks, and smoked our
hookah in peace, sharing alike in its cracked amber mouthpiece. We were
all tired, and talked but little; but Saïd now and again would burst into
song, and very well he sang, too, the plaintive melodies of the country.

Presently our host returned with a scarecrow of a fowl and some
leathery bread, which was all the good fellow was able to raise, and
it was not long before a rather too savoury dish of rancid butter and
chicken-bones—for there was little else—had usurped the place of our
coffee-pot on the brasier. What jokes we made about that poor chicken!
After all, we agreed, it could not be anything but thin after having
lived through the late rebellion. However, we ate it all right.

The view as we left Sôk el-Khamis the next morning was almost as lovely
as that of the day before. As the night-mists rose at sunrise, range
after range of mountains loomed up before us, peak above peak, until in
the far west one great mass overtopped all the rest.

The road descends steeply, winding the while, in parts showing signs of
the repairs of the Turkish engineers, in others merely a foothold on the
mountain-side. Numbers of blue rock-pigeons fluttered hither and thither
in the morning sunlight; but lovely as they were, I was enticed to shoot
a few, for, after all, one fowl is not sufficient food for eight persons,
and there seemed every likelihood of our faring as ill at our next
halting-place as we had done the night before.

At one spot we passed one of the most lovely scenes I had as yet seen in
the Yemen. Half-way down a steep slope, wooded with forest-trees, was a
tomb and fountain, the clear cold water tumbling into a deep tank. Away
behind a peak of the mountain rose bare and rocky into the blue sky, its
lower slopes covered with trees, its summit crowned with the ruins of
a village which the Turkish artillerymen had destroyed, leaving little
but the walls to tell of its existence. The domed mosque, a tiny place,
glistening white against the foliage, and the sound of the running water,
added a charm to a scene of perfect peace and loveliness.

At length the descent was accomplished, and we entered a desolate valley,
keeping to the rock-strewn river-bed, now almost dry, as being better
than the road, which here is almost indistinguishable, winding and
turning amongst great boulders, which appear to have fallen from the
steeps above. An hour or so later we passed under the strange fortress
of Mefhak, grandly situated on a pinnacle of rock some five hundred feet
above the valley; and, leaving a large encampment of Turkish troops on
our left, once more began to ascend. For a while our way led through the
loveliest of little valleys, which seemed like the greater one we had
been passing through in miniature. On either side walls of rock some
fifty to a hundred feet in height rose precipitously, but, sheltered
from the sun, a number of varieties of wild-flowers had taken root, and
the place was a fairyland of colour. Great clusters of jasmine hung
over the precipices, while on every side bloomed acacias and aloes. A
gorgeous flowering-tree, bearing pale-pink blossoms, edged the narrow
water-course, just as if it had been planted there by the hand of man.

An hour more and we drew up at the caravanserai of Ijz for our mid-day
rest. Very hot it was; but the proprietor of the _café_, a wounded
Turkish soldier, full of grievances and very dirty, amused us much,
mumbling and grumbling as he leaned over the fire to cook my coffee and
the men’s drink of coffee-husks. Although coffee in very large quantities
is exported from the Yemen, it is drunk only by the Turks and the richer
classes, the poorer contenting themselves with, and preferring, they say,
the boiled husks.

We spent only an hour or two at Ijz, as I was anxious to push on to
Menakha before dark; and accordingly in the heat of the early afternoon
we said good-bye to our old host and the handful of Turkish troops who
had joined us in our meal, and mounted our mules once more.

[Illustration: _Gorge near Menakha._]

As our road proceeded it increased in magnificence, entering the heart
of the mountains, on the summit of one of which the town of Menakha is
perched. This river lies at an elevation of somewhat over five thousand
feet above the sea. Quite suddenly the valley comes to an end, and we
commenced one of those steep ascents to which we were almost becoming
accustomed now. The path is little but a boulder-strewn track in the
mountain-side, and one could not help wondering how our little mules
would ever accomplish the climb. Dismounting at the foot, Abdurrahman,
Saïd, and I raced ahead, scrambling and tumbling over the rocks, and
nearly frightening the wits out of a descending caravan, who probably
had never seen the like of us before; for although Saïd was in the Yemen
costume, Abdurrahman wore the there unknown dress of the mountaineers of
Morocco, while I was in riding-breeches, and flannel shirt, and a red fez
cap. Great proud-looking fellows the caravan-men were, and they watched
us with a startled stare, evidently putting us down as lunatics. However,
our laughter at their surprise so amused them that they became quite
friendly, and would not let me go on till I had shaken each singly by the
hand, which I was only too pleased to do. Up and up we toiled, leaving
the mules to follow with the muleteers. Every here and there are springs
which the natives have aided by building tanks, and now and again we
would stop to drink and bathe our faces and hands.

Almost suddenly we reached the summit, after a climb of over two thousand
five hundred feet up the execrable zigzag path, and the little town of
Menakha lay before me.

I determined to wait here for my soldier-guards, whom we had left a long
way behind us; so we threw ourselves down, panting and hot, upon a ledge
of rock, and gazed at the scene before us. Wonderful, stupendous it
was! Around us on all sides the bare fantastic peaks and perpendicular
precipices, on the edge of one of which we were perched, and up the
face of which we could see the path we had climbed winding in and out.
Below us, far, far below, like little ants, we could see our mules and
men toiling up. A thread of river, the Wadi Zaum, was distinguishable
down the valley, the few green thorny trees which grew along its banks
being, with the exception of some stunted brushwood and a few aloes and
creepers, the sole vegetation in view. A very entrance to the “Inferno,”
gloomy and dark. The rays of the setting sun lit up in contrast to all
this the roseate peaks of the mountains, many of which, thousands of
feet above us, were crowned with strange villages and towers. At length
our mules caught us up, and mounting again for the few yards that yet
remained between us and Menakha, we made our entry into the town, drawing
up at the principal Government building, where the Kaimakam resided.

My guard of Turkish soldiers had been intrusted with letters to the
governors respectively of Menakha and Hodaidah, and no sooner was our
missive presented than I was shown into the presence of the Kaimakam. I
found him pleasant, as nearly all Turks can be when they like, and an
hour or so passed very cheerily. Meanwhile he had given orders for a room
to be prepared for me within the precincts of the Government offices, and
on leaving him I was shown to a large, comfortable, airy chamber on the
ground-floor, with a window looking over a sort of drill-yard, beyond
which was a fine view of the mountains, the opposite spur of which, at
an altitude of some hundreds of feet above the town, was crowned with a
Turkish fort, near which some artillerymen were drilling.

It should have been mentioned already that the road we had been following
from Sanaa was almost identically the line taken by the Sanaa and
Hodaidah telegraph-wire, which, like all provincial Turkish telegraphs,
is, I believe, worked by the Government, from a representative of whom
one is obliged to obtain permission before making use of it. This
permission had been refused me at Sanaa. At Menakha there is quite a
pretentious office.

After leaving the Kaimakam I went for a stroll in the town, followed of
course by a guard, who, however, did not in the least interfere with
my actions, and in whose presence I was venturesome enough to sketch,
without calling forth any sterner reproof than that if they were caught
allowing me to draw they might get into trouble, so that I had better
creep behind a rock and make any sketches I wanted from a spot where I
would not be seen.

Of all the places it has ever been my lot to see, Menakha is the most
wonderfully situated. The town is perched on a narrow strip of mountain
that joins two distinct ranges, and it forms the watershed of two great
valleys—that up which we had proceeded on our arrival, and the second to
the west. So narrow is the ridge on which the town stands, that the walls
of the houses on both sides seem almost to hang over the precipices; and
there are spots—for instance, near the military hospital—where one can
sit and look down absolutely into the two great valleys at the same time.
Curious and wonderful as this is, the grand effect of the scene is doubly
increased by the extraordinary peaks which rise above the place—enormous
pinnacles, for no other word can express their fantastic shapes and
forms. Great, bare, rocky crags they are, perpendicular, and ending,
like sugar-loafs, in points, on which, in several places, the natives
have built their strange towers. How they ever ascend or descend seems
incredible, or from whence they obtain their water-supply.

The town of Menakha is quite a small one. It contains, perhaps, some
five thousand inhabitants, without counting the very considerable number
of Turkish troops stationed there at the time of my visit. The houses
are well built of stone, some of them four storeys, and many three, in
height. The Government offices and the military hospital and barracks
give the place quite a European appearance, for they are all built in
modern Turkish style, with glass windows and flat roofs.

The bazaar is tolerably well supplied with the necessaries of life,
though at the time of my visit meat and vegetables were scarce, on
account of the influx of troops. There are, too, several large shops,
one or two kept by Greeks. I was surprised, in passing through the town,
to be accosted in excellent English by one of these shopkeepers, who, he
told me, had been a servant to an Englishman in Suakin for some years.
I went with him to his store, where everything was purchasable, from
sardines to port wine, and spent half an hour or so talking with him. He
was evidently an intellectual man, and seemed well up in the affairs of
the Yemen. He had been present at the taking of Menakha by the Arabs, and
its recapture by the Turks; but his property had been respected in both
cases, and he had suffered little if any loss.

The great altitude at which Menakha is situated—some seven thousand six
hundred feet above the sea-level—renders it liable to sudden changes of
temperature; and two hours after we had arrived in blazing sunshine,
clouds gathered over the town, obscuring the view, and the temperature
fell to below 50°. We managed to procure a charcoal brasier, over which
my men and I huddled, our circle being joined by a couple of charming
Turkish officers, both of whom spoke Arabic well.

About eight o’clock I was taken suddenly ill with fever, which did not
leave me until ten the next morning, by which time I was so weak that
I could only stand with assistance, and accordingly travelling was out
of the question. The Kaimakam made no difficulties about my remaining
another day, and did all in his power to make me comfortable. During the
afternoon I had sufficiently recovered my strength to crawl out and seek
the shade of a hollow in the rocks, where my men lit a little fire and
brewed coffee. The spot we had chosen looked directly into the great
valley that runs west from Menakha, far down which we could see. Away
below us, tier above tier, were the terraced coffee and banana groves;
while the rocky precipices, here bare and frowning, were in other parts
hung with creepers, while in every crevice some strange flowering aloes
had found room to grow.

Amongst this mass of verdure, for, far away below us, lay villages,
their flat roofs upturned, as it were, to us, who were so high above
them, looking like the squares on some fairy chess-board. Away down the
valley a silvery thread of light told the presence of a river, fed by a
hundred little streams, which, issuing from the rocky slopes, leaped and
danced to join the larger stream below. Beyond, again, all was haze and
mountain-peaks, faint as a cloud and inexpressibly lovely.

Wild-flowers and ferns, especially maidenhair, grew in abundance round
our little nook in the rocks, in which we were shaded from the sun’s
rays by an overhanging crag. The whole scene was so framed by shrubs and
creepers and flowers, a mass of blossom and green, that one lost the
effect of distance; and, in the clear air, it seemed but a step from
our resting-place to the bottom of the valley, and a step more to the
far-away peaks.

But it is not on account of its gorgeous scenery that Menakha has become
an important place. Rather it is owing to its great strategical position;
for it dominates the two parts of the highroad from Hodaidah to Sanaa,
from each of which it is roughly equidistant. It is, no doubt, on this
account, and to the practical advantages it offers, owing to its fine
position for keeping up a line of communication between the capital and
the coast, that a considerable number of troops are stationed and some
forts erected there.

It played by no means an unimportant part during the rebellion; and
although this has been referred to elsewhere in a chapter dealing with
that subject, it may be as well to mention the facts here. Menakha was
one of the first Turkish strongholds to fall into the hands of the Arabs.
The governor was taken prisoner; numbers of the troops were killed in the
rebel rush; and what remained of its military population were sent to the
leader of the rebellion at Sadah. It was not, in fact, until after the
battle fought near Hojaila, on the road from Hodaidah, at a spot where
the Teháma ends and the mountains commence, that Menakha was retaken. To
Ahmed Feizi Pasha belongs the credit of the wonderful march from Hodaidah
to Sanaa, in which the Turks dragged their guns by execrable roads over
passes ten thousand feet in altitude; and it was upon this triumphal
entry of the new Governor-General of the Yemen that the town once more
came into the possession of the Turks, being deserted by the Arabs
before the arrival of the Osmanli troops. Had the native horde only been
better officered and possessed better arms; had they destroyed the road
more successfully than they did, and stood firmly to their impregnable
position at Menakha,—there is little doubt that the capital could not
have held out, and that the Yemen to-day would have been in the hands of
the Imam Ahmed ed-Din. At sunset, as had happened the evening before, the
place became wrapt in cloud, and the temperature fell to such an extent
that even in our room, with a fire, we suffered considerably. However,
one can bear the cold, provided one is free from fever; and, tired and
weary after a sleepless night, I lay like a log, and, in spite of the
cries of sentries and the occasional blowing of a bugle, did not awake
until grey dawn was creeping up, and my men were loading the mules.

CHAPTER X.

MENAKHA TO HODAIDAH.

The road from Menakha to the coast leads one for the first few miles
along the mountains on the southern side of the valley, gradually
ascending the while, until, an hour or so after leaving the town, an
altitude of eight thousand feet above the sea-level is reached. At this
spot a spur in the mountain is crossed, near to which is the remarkable
village of Kariat el-Hajra, a rock crowned with tall stone houses,
many of which are built in the strange fashion of towers. A precipice
surrounds the village on every side, the lower slopes of which are
cultivated in terraces. The place has the appearance of being a large
and important one, and from its position must be exceedingly strong. The
country immediately surrounding this spot is very beautiful, there being
an abundance of water and no lack of trees, while the terraces and fields
were, at the time of my visit, green with young grass and crops, and
gorgeous with wild-flowers. Leaving Hajra on the right, the road begins
to descend, and soon another village, more extraordinary than that we
had already passed, came into sight. This is Attara. From an expanse of
terraced slope rises a single pinnacle of rock some hundreds of feet in
height, split perpendicularly into two divisions. On the very summit,
on which there is only just room for it to stand, is a large building,
apparently a house and tower. Although unable to see the track by which
this, to the eye, apparently unscalable position is reached, my men
informed me that there is a stairway cut in the solid rock, by means
of which the inhabitants ascend and descend. Close nestling under the
pinnacle is the rest of the village, built tier above tier on the steep
mountain-side. The path by which we were descending zigzags down until
one arrives in a sort of amphitheatre, of which the village forms an
apex. The ground here is richly cultivated with coffee-trees and bananas,
growing upon terraces. In one place the jungle seems to have gained
possession of what was originally cultivated land, and appears in a mass
of euphorbiæ and other strange trees and plants. Here, too, jasmine
grows in wonderful abundance, the whole air being filled with its sweet
fragrance.

Zigzagging down the mountain-side, we arrived before mid-day at the
_café_ of Wisil, wonderfully perched on the very edge of the precipice.
The place is poor enough, but a few shady huts of grass and mats have
been erected round a little terraced garden, over the wall of which one
gazes far down into the valley beneath. Here under a shady tree we spread
our carpet and refreshed ourselves, revelling in the magnificence of our
surroundings. This resting-place was situated at an elevation of a little
over four thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level, so that since
the morning we had descended some three thousand feet.

[Illustration: THE VILLAGE OF EL-HAJRA.]

From this spot is obtained perhaps the most extraordinary view of the
terraced mountains we had as yet obtained. These surrounding ranges are
celebrated for their coffee, principally Jibel Masar and Safan, both of
which lie to the north of the road. Away above the terraces the mountains
rise in perpendicular precipices, and nearly every peak is crowned with
one of the curious towers already described.

The view from Wisil was the last we were to see of its kind, for we
were fast leaving the mountains behind and descending to the plains, or
Teháma, and even from here the change to the country was appreciable, for
far away to the west the great mountains became lower, and the horizon
was bounded with rough barren hills, very like those we had seen around
Jibel Menif, when we left the desert beyond Lahej. A weird old lady
served us with coffee and food at our resting-place—a parchment-skinned
grinning old hag, half clothed in torn dark-blue rags, with a lot of what
looked like dirty bandages wound round her head; but she was a cheery old
gossip, and Saïd took advantage of her to exhibit his wit and sarcasm,
much to her amusement as well as our own.

[Illustration: _View near Wisil._]

Poor Saïd! The wear and tear of the last month had worn him a bit.
Fever had paled his skin, and left him thinner than he was when he had
started from Aden; but no weariness, no fever, had caused him to pay
less attention to his personal charms than before, and his curly locks
were as soft and silky and glossy as ever, although his loin-cloth and
sash told tales of travel. Still, in all our hardships he had been ever
bright and gay, and as we neared civilisation once more, and there seemed
some chance of his seeing his paradise—Aden—again, his eyes regained
their former twinkle, and his laugh grew more cheery than ever. With
Abdurrahman it was different, and the strain and exertion he had been
through had told on his more delicate constitution. Brought up in the
bracing mountains of Morocco, where frosts are common, and even in the
daytime the heat is never oppressive, he had felt severely the sudden
changes of the tropics. All his gaiety had left him, and he scarcely
spoke. It was with difficulty that we could rouse his spirits, try
hard as we did, Saïd and I. Almost every evening, in spite of arsenic
and quinine, fever would seize him, and he would lie awake of a night,
tossing and moaning in a way that was pitiful to see and hear.

Leaving Wisil, the road descends, by a zigzag track, the steep
mountain-side. Here were apparent one at least of the advantages of
the Turkish occupation of the Yemen, for the road was wide and in good
repair, supported by a stone embankment, and planted on either side with
mimosa-trees, which no doubt help in some degree to prevent the floods
which the heavy rainfalls occasion from washing the stones away, and
which will eventually prove no small advantage to the traveller by their
shade. At length the bed of the water-course was reached, down which the
road proceeds, roughly and unpleasantly, over great boulders and stones
that tired our poor little mules, and necessitated our proceeding on
foot. Thick vegetation, principally trees of the mimosa type, fringe the
edge of the river-bed, which, except for an occasional pool or spring,
contained no water.

On and on, until the gorge narrows and enters a defile, merely the
water-course and walls of rock on either hand, some eighty feet perhaps
in height. Here was a sight that caused us an hour or so of amusement
and laughter, for the precipices were the haunt of hundreds of apes and
monkeys, which scampered away at our approach, and sat chattering and
grinning at us from their perches. So tame many of them were, that we
were able to approach within fifteen or twenty yards of them before they
would seek refuge in the nooks and crannies of the rocks. My men were
eager to shoot one or two, but I would not allow it, as it was a real
pleasure to watch the funny creatures in their antics, and to listen
to their squeaking and chattering. In some cases the larger apes were
carrying their young in their arms, and handling them as carefully as a
woman does her child. Even Abdurrahman awoke from his melancholy, and
laughed heartily at the strange creatures, which bounded from rock to
rock, or showed their rows of chattering white teeth from some hole in
the cliff.

Continuing along the bottom of the valley for some little way farther, we
turned eventually from the water-course, and climbed a bare rocky hill to
the north of the river, and, crossing a small plateau, descended to the
village of Hojaila, which we reached an hour or two before sunset.

At this point we had said farewell to the mountains, for although the
foot-hills extend farther into the Teháma, beyond Bajil in fact, we
were to see no more of the greater ranges. But not only is Hojaila the
finishing spot of the mountains, but the people entirely change, becoming
from that point Arabs of the plains, dwelling in mud and thatch houses,
and different in appearance and habits.

We had passed during the day’s march through a part of the country
the inhabitants of which need investigation, and about which I,
unfortunately, can say but little here. These are people of a religious
sect who called themselves Makarama, but of the origin of which, except
that their belief is said to be of Indian extraction, I have found it
impossible to discover anything. These Yemenis are in language and
appearance like their Moslem neighbours, although several names in the
vicinity tell of India. Principal amongst them is the “Dar el Hinoud,” or
Indians’ monastery or house, farther on in the Teháma. Of their belief
but little was to be ascertained. It is summed up, however, in two lines
of poetry, of which I was able to obtain the translation:—

“God is indiscoverable, by day or by night.
Do not worry about anything, there is neither heaven nor hell.”

Professing these strange tenets, there is this sect on the highroad from
Hodaidah to Sanaa. As to their observances, the only man of their belief
I met with would say but little, while the Moslems, although uninfluenced
by the fanaticism one would expect to find, are careless. They have, I
was told, the old Judaic observance of the scapegoat, and a particular
night in the year in which they shut themselves into their houses, and
are said to practise incest. This, however, may be possibly the Moslem
idea of what really takes place. Were this to be absolutely depended
upon, the fact might point to a Karmathian origin, for Ibn Fadl allowed
the drinking of wine and this practice; but then it is scarcely likely
that a Karmathian superstition should survive in a belief which is in
direct contravention to Islam. It is known that in certain Phœnician
rites incest was allowed, and the practice of a certain nightly annual
feast in which the houses are illuminated might point to the worship
of Adonis, certain remains of which, I am informed, are found amongst
the mountaineers of the Himalayas. My information on this sect of the
Makarama continues that they are at times visited by natives of India,
who prize the charms that they are in the habit of writing; and most
probably their origin may be found in that country, for Hodaidah has
always been largely frequented by Indian traders.

[Illustration: TURKISH CAMP OF HOJAILA.]

Hojaila is but a small place, more a collection of huts than a town,
as it is elsewhere described, though at the time I passed through it
was augmented by a large Turkish camp, pitched near the _jimerouk_, or
custom-house. There seems, with the exception of this building, a large,
low, square place, to be no other of importance, though the Sheikh
resides in a house two storeys in height, painted red and white in bands,
which stands a curious landmark on the edge of a steep incline leading
down to the river-bed. A few trees are scattered about the place, and
under these were lolling Turkish soldiers, while the tents, and sentries
passing and repassing, gave quite a martial appearance to the otherwise
dreary scene; for, with the exception of these trees and the oleanders in
the river-bed, the country was dull and sun-dried.

Only a short rest was allowed me here, although we had been travelling,
almost without interruption, since the early morning. However, as I was
entirely in the hands of the Turkish guards who had been sent to see
me to Hodaidah, any attempt at expostulation was out of the question.
Another advantage, too, was to be gained by pushing on—namely, the
moonlight night.

We had left behind us now the high elevations and watered valleys, and
nothing but plain and desert lay between us and Hodaidah, some eighty
miles distant, over which, although the month was February, travelling by
day is torment. So an hour or two was all the time we spent in the _café_
at Hojaila, and as soon as the sunset glow was dying away we loaded our
little mules again and set off.

From sunset until near dawn we plodded on over the plain, the broken
rocky hills showing up on either side in the clear moonlight, which was
sufficiently bright to allow us to see that a considerable portion of the
country we were passing through was under cultivation.

How balmy and warm the night was! and had it not been that one was tired
and weary with the long ride from Menakha, it would have proved most
enjoyable. As it was, one could not help admiring the loveliness of the
still moonlight, and the silence, broken only by the thud of our mules’
feet upon the sand and the humming of the insects in the air. Every now
and then we would pass a caravan of camels, slow-gaited and patient,
which seemed to grow out of the moonlight like spectres, only to vanish
again into the darkness.

As dawn grew near we reached Bohay, situated to the north of Jibel Damir.
It is a poor little place; but the rest in a mat _café_ was inexpressibly
refreshing, for out of the last twenty-four hours we had been nearly
twenty on the road.

Stretching ourselves upon the string couches, which do not seem to be
in use anywhere out of the Teháma and the southern plains, we were soon
wrapped in sleep. But at sunrise my guards woke me, and we made a start
again. But our march was happily to prove only a short one, and three
hours later we drew in sight of Bajil, where at length I was promised a
well-earned rest.

Bajil is quite a little town, its population numbering probably some
3000 souls. Except for a large Turkish fort, built for the most part of
squared stones, and a few houses of the same material, it consists of
mud-and-thatch and mat houses, enclosed by high hedges of dry mimosa and
acacia thorns in the form of zarebas. The place is prettily situated,
lying at the foot of Jibel Obaki, the surrounding plain being cultivated
with millet of two varieties, the _dokhn_ and the _durra_; while a good
water-supply allows of the growth of a considerable number of trees,
principally acacias, which render the place a veritable oasis.

The _café_ here, except for those of the towns and that at Waalan, was
the best we had come across; for although it only consisted of a series
of mat-huts built round a large yard, everything was so clean and so tidy
that it was a real pleasure to rest in the shade, all the more so as by
this time the rays of the sun had become fierce in their heat.

We engaged one of these mat-houses for our private use, and unloading
our mules, settled in for the day. What rendered our stay at Bajil more
refreshing than it otherwise would have proved was the presence of an
excellent _masseur_, under whose skilful hands one’s limbs lost all their
weariness.

As soon as the cool of the afternoon allowed, I sauntered out for a
stroll through the little town. There was but little to see, it is true;
but a Yemen village always presents sights which, if not exactly pretty,
are generally of interest. A wedding-party was in full swing, guns were
being fired off, tomtoms rendered the air hideous with their sound, and
shrill pipes added to the confusion. The crowd of women who filled the
open spaces between the zarebas, that answered for streets, were attired
in holiday garments, and a gay throng they were; for, in spite of their
dull-blue clothing, they had succeeded in tying themselves up with
handkerchiefs and scarves of all colours, until they resembled rainbows.
Here, as elsewhere, it seems to be the lot of womankind to do the hard
work, and I stood for a time to watch them filling their pitchers from
the wells. The manner in which the water is drawn is the following. A
framework of wood is built over the mouth of the well, a solid beam
passing from side to side; over this cross-beam runs the rope, to the
end of which is fastened a bucket. Owing to the great depth to which the
wells have to be sunk, these ropes are necessarily of enormous length,
and the only means by which the weight can be supported is by a couple
of the women harnessing themselves to the end and running at a gentle
trot until the bucket has reached the surface, where it is emptied by a
third. One well, the length of the track passed over to draw the bucket
to the surface I measured, was only a few feet under two hundred in
depth. The labour is a severe one, but the women seem to take it as a
matter of course. In southern Morocco, where much the same system is in
use, camels or donkeys are harnessed in their place.

The only building of any size or importance in Bajil is the Turkish
fort. It is a great square place, with circular towers jutting out here
and there, and is built almost entirely of cut stone and bricks. Though
useless against artillery, it would prove impregnable to Arab hordes,
armed only with spears and matchlock-guns. A few ill-dressed Turks were
lying about under the shade of some acacia-trees, and half-a-dozen
field-guns, none too well kept, stood near the door; but the place
offered no other signs of things military, and wore the weary appearance
of orientalism.

This was all that there was to be seen in Bajil, so I retraced my steps
to the _café_, where I found our mules being loaded preparatory to
a start. A number of Turkish officers from Sanaa had arrived during
my absence, and we instantly struck up an acquaintance, as we were
proceeding over the same road to Hodaidah. They had been invalided from
the steamy Teháma, and had been in hospital at Sanaa. Their recovery told
a tale of the magnificent climate of that place, for they assured me that
they had left Hodaidah a couple of months before almost dead of fever.

At four o’clock we made a start, our two little caravans uniting. The
road continues over the desert, which is here dotted with mimosa-bushes
and tufts of long grass. It was the delight of the Turkish officers to
throw matches into the latter, and as night came on we left a track
behind us of fiery stars and heaps of black ashes. There was no danger
of the fire taking too large dimensions, as the tufts of grass were
sufficiently far removed from one another to prevent the flames spreading.

It was the last of our desert marches. A glorious night, the sky a blaze
of myriads of stars, the desert like a silver sea. Quietly and quickly
our little mules glided on. Every now and again a caravan of slouching
camels would pass by us with a dozen or so wild Bedouins in charge, on
the heads of whose spears the moonlight played and flashed, but they
soon vanished into the night. One could scarcely believe that this cool
plain, fragrant with the sweet scent of mimosa, its fragrance increased
by the heavy dew, was in the daytime a howling desert, where the sun
scorched everything to death save the thorny bushes and the coarse grass
tufts, and the camels and their Bedouin drivers; but even they scarcely
ever travel by day. Wonderful as were the sights and the grandeur of the
mountains of the Yemen, I think these night-rides over the desert have
fixed themselves more upon my memory. Tired as we often were, one could
not but wonder at the glories of the starlit heavens, and revel in the
fragrance of falling dew and mimosa.

[Illustration: GATE OF A WALLED VILLAGE IN THE YEMEN.]

Before midnight we reached a _café_, merely a few little huts in the
desert, but welcome nevertheless, and with shouts and cries we woke the
owner, who lit a lamp and showed us into his best accommodation, a roof
of grass supported on long canes. However, one could need no more; for it
kept off the chill of the dew, and allowed the breeze, which every now
and again stirred, to cool the hot night air.

I shall never forget that last night in the desert,—Turks, Arabs, Moors,
and Englishman squatting on carpets, sharing a common pipe in a dimly lit
_café_ in the desert. Coffee and supper were cooking, and one could hear
the bubbling of the coffee-husks in the earthen pot that was preparing
for our men. And then they brought our supper, a couple of desert fowls
that tasted as though they had tramped a century over the sand, so tough
they were. A rest of an hour or two was all we were allowed, and long
before daylight we were off again. The desert here takes the form of
sand-dunes, in parts covered with scanty scrub, in parts bare yellow
sand, broken only by the hideous lines of crooked telegraph-posts. There
were no signs of a road, not even a track in the sand, for the slightest
breeze destroys the marks left by those who have gone before. But our
men knew the way well, and just a little after seven o’clock, when we
were beginning to suffer severely from the intense rays of the sun, a cry
proceeded from our foremost man, who stood spear in hand, a silhouette
against the burning sky.

Hodaidah! There it was at last, dancing in the shimmering heated air
of the desert,—turned, and twisted, and indistinct, but Hodaidah
nevertheless! As we neared the town the scene became quite picturesque.
Here an old Turkish fort, half in ruins, stood out yellow from the white
sand; there the remains of some aqueduct in which no water flowed. Then
we entered palm-groves, whose greenness after the desert was refreshing,
under the shade of which nestled the clean grass-and-mat huts and zarebas
of the Arab and Indian inhabitants.

Still on; past many a pretty country-house of the Arab merchants,
surrounded by gardens, until at length we emerged into the great
market-place that lies without the walls of the town proper, above which
rise the houses snowy white, tier upon tier in strange disorder.

Passing under a great gateway, the upper part of which served as
barracks, we proceeded by narrow streets to our destination, a large
_café_ kept by a Greek. Here I engaged a room, and sending my Arabs and
Turkish guards to forage for themselves until I had rested, we carried
our scanty baggage to an upper chamber, the windows of which looked
out on one side to the sea, and on the other to the principal street I
settled myself in.

But the fatigue of my march from Sanaa had been too much for me, and
in an hour my fever had returned, and I was lying, almost unconscious,
tossing from side to side. Saïd and Abdurrahman likewise were attacked,
and suffered as much perhaps as I did. But our journey was over, we had
finished with the mountains and plains of the Yemen, and our goal was
reached.

CHAPTER XI.

HODAIDAH.

The earliest mention that one finds of Hodaidah in Mahammedan history is
its capture by El-Ghuri, Sultan of Egypt, in A.D. 1515. In the native
historian’s account of the invasion of this wild horde of Circassians,
Kurds, and other strange peoples, the town is mentioned by the name of
Jadidah,[45] the new (town), although this by no means can be taken as a
proof that the city had only been founded shortly before that period—for
Jadidah, as the name of a city, is common all over the East, and every
place was probably at one time “new,” though the title may long ago have
become inappropriate. This tends to prove that it was probably not until
the Red Sea trade had reached a flourishing condition, although at that
time entirely in the hands of the natives, that Hodaidah sprang into
existence.

Being situated on the sea-coast, and only a little to the south of
the country of the Asir tribes, it has not escaped from attack from
both quarters. Principal amongst these, perhaps, was its capture by
the Asir chief, Abd el-Hakal, in 1804. In the interests of the Wahabi
belief, which he, like so many of his tribe, had embraced, he made an
organised attack upon the northern Teháma. His people, buoyed up with the
fanaticism of their new tenets, devastated whole districts, and held the
entire Yemen in terror. Four years later, however, Hodaidah was once more
restored to the then reigning Imam of Sanaa, Seyed Ahmed ibn Ali Mansur.

From this time, for a space of some four-and-twenty years, we find
Hodaidah thriving under the impetus given to trade by the European
merchant-ships, which were at this period crowding to the Red Sea; and
its lot seems to have been a peaceful one, until the arrival there in
1832 of the dreaded Turkchee Bilmas, by which nickname Mahammed Agha was
generally known. Marching overland from the Hedjaz, he encamped close to
the city, while his vessels, which had proceeded by sea from Jeddah and
Yembo, blockaded the port. On being refused provisions by the governor,
he commenced to open fire upon the town walls, whereupon the place
capitulated. However, the energetic Mahammed Agha did not remain there,
but, leaving four hundred men under the command of Agha Murshid, he
marched on Zebeed.[46]

The Egyptian Government abandoned the Yemen in 1840, eight years after
the taking of Hodaidah by Turkchee Bilmas, and it was arranged that
this portion of the country at least should fall into the possession
of the Grand Shereef of Mecca. But another claimant stepped forward in
the person of Huseyn ibn Ali, Shereef of Abou Areesh, who with the Asir
tribe, whose assistance he had been able to obtain, took the field with
twenty thousand men;[47] and the very day that Hodaidah was abandoned by
Ibrahim Pasha, the Shereefs troops, under the leadership of his brother,
Abou Taleb, took possession of the place. Notwithstanding the recognition
of the Shereef Huseyn’s power did not last long; for the Asiri, ever
ready for plunder, occupied the town, and only released the merchants,
whom they had imprisoned, on their paying large ransoms.

In 1849 a great change was destined to take place in the government of
the Yemen, and the Turks, proceeding from Jeddah, occupied Hodaidah, the
Shereef of that town obtaining a subsidy from the Ottoman Government in
return for his handing over the place. This pension, however, he never
received; and accordingly, in 1851 he started to report his case to the
Sultan at Constantinople. But sudden death cut short his career on the
road, and there is little doubt but that he was murdered.[48] The leader
of this Turkish expedition, Tufieh Pasha, became governor of Hodaidah and
the surrounding country.

It was shortly after this that a treaty was drawn up between the Imam of
Sanaa and the Sublime Porte, in which the principal clauses were that the
Imam was still to continue to reign, but that he should be considered as
a vassal of Abdul-Mejid, the then reigning Sultan of Turkey; that the
revenues were to be equally divided between the Sultan and the Imam; and
that Sanaa should be garrisoned by Turkish forces. Although the sequel
of this story belongs rather to the history of Sanaa than to that of
Hodaidah, it may be given briefly at this point, as it follows as a
sequence upon this treaty of Hodaidah. Returning with the Imam, Tufieh
Pasha arrived at Sanaa, and the change in government was made known to
the inhabitants. What, however, seems particularly to have fired them
to opposition was the substitution of the name of Abdul-Mejid for that
of their Imam Mahammed Yahia in the prayers. Being of the Zaidi sect,
one of the many divisions of the Sheiyas,[49] this naturally affected
them more than any temporal changes could have done, and before midnight
they had cut to pieces a large proportion of the Turkish troops, who,
although they had taken possession of one of the city forts, were unable
to make any resistance. At length, wounded, and with only a handful of
men, Tufieh Pasha bought a permit to return to Hodaidah, for which he
paid twenty thousand dollars, and retired to that spot, where he died of
his wounds and exhaustion. Mahammed Yahia, the unfortunate Imam who had
entered into this treaty with the Turks, was secretly assassinated,—Ali
Mansur, already twice deposed, being installed in his place.

But a still more horrible tale is yet to be told regarding Hodaidah. In
1855 some sixty thousand men of the Asir tribe marched against the place
with the idea of sacking it. They deferred the attack, however, owing to
the presence of British ships of war; but the inhabitants, owing to all
communication with the interior being cut off, had reached a condition
of great misery, when cholera broke out amongst the Asiri, no less than
fifteen thousand dying before they reached their homes.

But to return to Hodaidah as I saw it in February and March of last
year—1892.

Hodaidah lies on the north-east side of a large bay, and somewhat
sheltered by a promontory on the north-west. The town is a large one, and
contains probably between thirty and thirty-five thousand inhabitants,
though at the time the author was there the number was swelled by a large
addition of Turkish troops. The place is a nourishing one: the bazaars,
of which more anon, are well supplied; the houses solidly built, and
high. Its one great drawback is its feverish climate, the few Europeans
and the natives alike suffering at certain periods of the year. After a
rainfall, for instance, or in the winter when the westerly winds are
blowing, fever attacks the place like an epidemic.

With this short description I may revert to my personal experiences of
Hodaidah.

As soon as my attack of fever had worn off sufficiently to allow of
my going out, accompanied by my guards, I proceeded to the Governors
residence. He received me most politely, a chair was at once got for
me, cigarettes and coffee brought in, while his Excellency perused the
letters which my soldiers had brought from the Governor-General at Sanaa.
This over, he bade me welcome, and we had a pleasant chat, conversing in
Arabic, of which his Excellency knew less than myself, so that at last we
found that things went more easily when a Greek entered who spoke French.

[Illustration: _A Street in Hodaidah._]

The Governor’s first question to me was worth recording. He was a little
nervous at first, and for a minute there was an awkward silence, which
his Excellency broke by asking, “Did you fight in the Crimea?” I replied
that I was not born until some ten years after that war was over.
However, I found the question had a purpose, for on the Governor’s breast
hung the English Crimean medal, which he handed me to examine with great
pride. After this episode conversation was carried on more easily, and
finally I obtained his Excellency’s permission to continue residing in
the upper chamber of the _café_ until I should depart. Very different
were the Government offices here from the gorgeous apartments of the
Governor-General at Sanaa. Here there was only a small bare room with a
few chairs, none of which were in very good repair. An outside staircase
of rickety steps leads to the first storey of the building, where the
principal offices appear to be situated, the lower portion serving as
a store. A constant flow of gaudy officers and ill-clothed soldiers
passed and repassed. I had several interviews with the Governor during my
stay of a week in Hodaidah, and on every occasion found him polite and
amiable, although he refused to allow me to continue my journey by land,
as I had hoped to have done, _viâ_ Beit el-Fakih, Zebeed, and Hais.

On my return to my quarters I found a couple of Turkish soldiers calmly
seated in my room, one of them on my bed, and smoking my cigarettes.
Although I was prepared to be watched, I was not at all inclined to put
up with this intrusion, and with the aid of Abdurrahman, Saïd, and a
boot, soon put them to flight. I at once returned to the Governor to
explain the matter to him, and on my way to his apartment was accosted
in the most polite manner by an officer, who begged me not to report the
matter, saying that if I liked to pay him a couple of dollars he would
see that the guard was removed. But what with annoyance and fever, I was
not in a mood to pay anybody anything, so went straight to his Excellency
and told my story. The old man and his officers burst into fits of
laughter, explaining to me that the guard had only been put there for
me to pay something for their removal, and that the whole thing was a
“plant.” I begged him to send for the officer who wanted _bakshish_, and
speak to him, so that I should not be put to the same annoyance again,
and this he willingly did. Nevertheless, in spite of the fact that I
was left in tolerable peace, I soon found that my every movement was
watched, but never interfered with. This last was no doubt owing partly
to the good offices of one who showed me great kindness and hospitality
in Hodaidah, Dr Ahmed, a native of India, who ably represents H.B.M.
Government as Vice-Consul there. I cannot speak highly enough of my
appreciation of his and his English wife’s many acts of kindness toward
me; and although, owing to ill health, my recollections of Hodaidah are
none too cheery, I shall always remember how anxious Dr and Mrs Ahmed
were to render pleasant my stay. A doctor of Glasgow University, Dr Ahmed
made his name in Assam in the Indian medical service, and was only a
short time ago appointed Vice-Consul at Hodaidah; and it is to be hoped
that the skilful way in which he carries out his by no means easy duties
there, and keeps firmly rooted in that town a feeling of respect between
the British and Turkish Governments, will shortly obtain for him a post
in some more healthy and important place.

The _café_ in which I had taken up my quarters faced the sea on one
side, and the only wide street in the town on the other, that which lies
along the seaboard, from which it is only divided by the Government
offices and huts of _areesh_ or reeds. From my window on the second
storey I was able to watch the people passing and repassing, and many
an hour was spent thus in idleness. But if this street offered scenes
of character, how much more so did the bazaars! and there, when I was
well enough, I used to sit talking to the Arab shopkeepers and sipping
coffee. Good intelligent fellows many of them were, and always ready
to waste half an hour in listening to tales of Egypt and Morocco, and
even of my journey in the Yemen. What sights the bazaars offer! All the
nationalities of the world seem to crowd there—strange weird people in
every stage of clothing, from almost nakedness to rich robes of striped
silks. Unlike the bazaars at Aden, those of Hodaidah are roofed in from
the sun, the fierce rays of which yet find cracks and crannies in the
wood and mats to creep through. But their brilliant light falling upon
some stall of fruit perhaps only tends to throw into deeper shadow the
rest of the crowded street. In the cool of the afternoon I would saunter
round and take up my station on the little shop-platform of a seller of
books, and spend an hour or two with him. A wizened little old man he
was, a native of Zebeed; but he was good company, and would put aside all
ideas of business when he saw me coming, and would point out the strange
figures amongst the passers-by, and tell me whence they came and who they
were. Jews, Indians of all kinds, Persians, Arabs, Egyptians, Bedouins,
Abyssinians, Turks, Greeks, negroes, and a few Europeans, would jostle
each other in the narrow ways.

From the bazaars to the town walls is but a step. Passing out of the
fortified gates, of which there are several, one issued on to the large
open space, the _sôk_ or market, which we had crossed when we entered
the town. Here garden produce was offered for sale, generally exposed on
the ground, though a number of little mat-and-reed huts contained small
shops. The larger of these flimsy structures serve as _cafés_, and one
or two as Parsee theatres. The largest of the _cafés_ was a constant
resort of mine, and of an evening I would sit, accompanied by Saïd,
who, in spite of his fever, had polished up his dress—what there was of
it—and his raven locks. So beautiful had he become that little groups
of the female sex would come and joke with him; and though he treated
them with a certain amount of haughty indifference, he was by no means
unappreciative of their attentions, and had a knack of being out after
dark. There one would see the Turkish officers in gold-lace, with their
glass hookahs in front of them, lounging away the afternoon hours. There,
too, were the merchants, gorgeous in silk raiment and turbans, talking
business over coffee and tobacco.

The remaining streets and places of Hodaidah offer but little
attractiveness. The streets are narrow and the houses high, and except
now and again for a richly carved doorway, there is but little of
interest to be seen.

The greatest disadvantage to Hodaidah, after its feverish climate, is
the exceedingly poor water-supply; for although there are some brackish
wells in the neighbourhood, all pure water has to be brought from a
distance of some miles. It is carried in skins and barrels on the backs
of camels and donkeys.

Near these wells, under the guidance of Dr Ahmed, I spent a pleasant
afternoon in a beautiful garden belonging to a certain wealthy Arab,
whose fortune was made, it is said, by purchasing the right of collecting
taxes from the Ottoman Government. This, in the hands of an unscrupulous
and hard man, means a very considerable income, and the garden in
question was a proof that the old Arab evidently throve. The road from
the town passes along sandy lanes and amongst palm-groves until the open
desert is reached. Continuing over this for a mile or so, one reaches the
wells, while green trees peeping over the high garden walls break the
monotony of sand and scrub.

Immediately on our arrival the gate was thrown open, and we entered a
veritable paradise—a walled garden many acres in extent, and filled with
gorgeous trees and shrubs, which the owner is said to have collected from
all quarters of the tropics. Irrigation was carried on by water-wheels
and wells, and streamlets flowed in every direction. Under the shade of
the large trees summer-houses had been erected of trellis-work, over
which jasmine and roses and many a creeper, the name of which I did
not know, climbed in luxuriance. In these divans were arranged, and
one could enjoy the sight of the flowers in cool shade. Wonderful they
were, those shrubs and trees and plants, hung with great masses of bloom
of every colour, while here and there tall lilies raised their stately
heads. The trees were full of birds, and the garden was sweet with the
scent of the flowers and the hum of the insects’ wings.

Long into the moonlit night we sat there, until the chill dew told us it
was time to seek more secure shelter. Yet in all their loveliness there
lurks poison in this paradise, and nearly all our party suffered from
fever in consequence of our visit.

But few Europeans live in Hodaidah, with the exception of the Greeks. The
wife of the British Vice-Consul was the one English lady in the place,
the only other British subject, excepting natives of India, &c., being a
Maltese gentleman, agent for a British firm. A few Americans, however,
are to be found, the trade in skins to America being an important
one. Of the other nationalities there are perhaps in all half-a-dozen
representatives.

During my stay the port was visited by a small Turkish gunboat, the
captain of which, whose name I never discovered, paid me a call. He had
been educated at the Naval College at Constantinople, and spoke English
remarkably well. He was tired of his berth, he said, his weariness being
materially added to by the irregularity of his pay. In this respect, he
added, he was better off than most of the Turkish soldiers in the Yemen,
for they received none at all. Although at Hodaidah the condition of the
troops seemed fairly good as regards food and clothing, we had found at
more than one place in the interior the soldiers bootless and payless,
and receiving as rations only two loaves of bread a-day, one of which
they usually ate, the other being exchanged for tobacco. A piastre or two
to a soldier won as genuine thanks as ever one heard. It meant little
luxuries which his heart longed for, cigarettes and coffee, and which for
weeks very likely he had been unable to attain to.

At length, after seven days of fever, a steamer arrived in the port,
and I saw means of getting to Aden. Saying good-bye to Dr Ahmed on the
rickety little pier, down one of the supports of which I was obliged to
clamber in order to reach the rowing-boat, as the steps had been washed
away, or never built, I forget which, I shook off the dust of Hodaidah
from my feet, and in an hour or so was aboard an English steamer, having
a yarn with an English captain and mate.

In a few days we were back once more in Aden, arriving on the very day on
which quarantine from the Red Sea ports was removed, so that I was only
detained half an hour on the hulk Hyderabad, in place of the seven days I
had feared I would have to undergo.

The welcome I received from all friends here was very kind, and many a
laugh we enjoyed together over my adventures in the Yemen.

* * * * *

Just as my journey was then concluded, so is my account of it finished
now. A year has passed since I left the country, and yet its every detail
is as clear to me as if it had all happened yesterday. As I lay down my
pen I conjure up in my mind the desert-rides under a myriad of brilliant
stars; I feel upon my cheek the soft balmy southern breeze; I see again
our little party hiding in the gullies, and creeping on by night over the
terrible rough roads of the mountains. Once more, warned by an unknown
friend, I escape by night from Beit Saïd; once more, but this time with a
smile, I spend five days a prisoner in the _conàk_ of Sanaa. Once more I
pass through the great valleys and descend to the desert, and I shudder
over the remembrance of nights and days of fever—a fever that clung to
me for months. Yet my recollections of the country are ones that I shall
always treasure; and in spite of dangers and sickness, in spite of long
marches and days in prison, the Yemen will always be for me, at least,
Arabia Felix.

FOOTNOTES

[1] In 1871 the rainfall at Aden was only one-fourth of an inch.

[2] Hist. gen. des Voyages, vol. xxxi. p. 438.

[3] Playfair’s Yemen, p. 22.

[4] Ibid., pp. 135-139.

[5] Sailing Directions for the Red Sea.

[6] Kay’s translation of Omarah’s Yemen, 1892.

[7] Ibn Khaldun, Kay’s translation, 1892.

[8] Playfair’s Yemen, p. 4.

[9] Niebuhr, vol. ii. p. 68.

[10] Playfair’s Yemen, pp. 43, 44.

[11] Kay’s Omarah. London, 1892.

[12] Professor Sayce’s “Ancient Arabia” and “Results of Oriental
Archæology,” in the Contemporary Review.

[13] Human Origins. S. Laing, 1892. P. 94.

[14] These measurements were made by Mons. D’Arnaud in 1843.

[15] Vincent’s Periplus, vol. i. p. 53.

[16] Koran, chap. lxxxv.

[17] Akhdam, plural of Khedim, a word usually employed for a slave to-day.

[18] Ibn Khaldun, Kay’s translation, 1892.

[19] A list of the Imams of Sanaa will be found at the end of the book.

[20] Niebuhr’s Travels, vol. ii. p. 85.

[21] Playfair’s Yemen, pp. 113, 114.

[22] Playfair’s Yemen, pp. 118, 119.

[23] Playfair’s Yemen, p. 131.

[24] Playfair’s Yemen, p. 147.

[25] Playfair’s Yemen, pp. 153, 154.

[26] Mahomet and Islam. Sir William Muir. 1887.

[27] Al-Baha-’l Janadi, ‘Karmathians in Yaman.’ Kay’s translation, 1892.

[28] Les Confréries Musulmanes du Hedjaz. A le Chatelier. Paris 1887.

[29] The Sunnis hold that the Caliphate need not necessarily descend in
the family of the Prophet.

[30] Sadah is situated about eight days’ journey north of Sanaa, on the
borders of the desert.

[31] Ezek. xxvii. 21-23.

[32] “Arriani periplus maris Erythræi.”

[33] Itinerario de Ludovico de Barthema, 1535. Translated by Richard
Eden, 1576.

[34] Three Hours in Aden. Bombay, 1891.

[35] “In the name of God”—the Arab grace before eating.

[36] The salutation of Moslems all the world over.

[37] _Tholba_, the plural of _thaleb_, a name generally applied to those
who have studied the Koran—members of the priesthood.

[38] This rifle was returned to me on the eve of my departure from
Tangier for the Atlas Mountains in October 1892.

[39] _Kabyla_ = a tribe.

[40] “Haran, and Canneh, and Eden, the merchants of Sheba, Asshur, and
Chilmad, were thy merchants.”—Ezekiel xxvii. 23.

[41] General Haig, in the Royal Geographical Proceedings, August 1887.

[42] The Zaidis are a division of the Sheiya sect.

[43] The Koran, _sura_ vii.

[44] The Koran, _sura_ xv.

[45] Kay’s Omarah, p. 237.

[46] Records of the Bombay Government.

[47] Playfair’s Yemen, p. 146.

[48] Ibid.

[49] See chapter on “The Influences of Islam in the Yemen.”

APPENDIX

GENEALOGICAL AND CHRONOLOGICAL TREE OF THE IMAMS OF SANAA, SHOWING THEIR
DESCENT FROM MAHAMMED.

MAHAMMED, died A.D. 632(= A.H. 11).
|
FATIMA AND ALI.
|
HASAN.
|
HASAN.
|
IBRAHIM.
|
ISMAIL.
|
IBRAHIM.
|
ALI KASIM ER-RASSI.
|
HOSEYN.
|
EL HADI YAHIA.
|
EN NASIR AHMED.
|
YAHIA.
|
YUSUF ED DAY.
|
---
SEVERAL GENERATIONS.
---
|
ALI EL AMLAHI.
|
MAHAMMED.
|
+------------------+----------+-----------------+
| | |
| (1) |
| _MANSUR EL KASIM_, 1620; died 1620. HOSEYN.
| | |
| +----+------+ +----------+-----------+
| | | | | |
(4) (2) (3) (10) (5) (8)
_AHMED_, _EL MUAYYAD _ISMAIL_, _ABBAS_, _MAHAMMED_, _KASIM_,
1677. MAHAMMED_, 1676. 1774. 1678. 1719.
| 1645. | |
| +-------------+---------+ |
| | | |
(6) (11) | (9)
_MAHAMMED_, _ALI_, KASIM. _HOSEYN_,
1707. 1809. | 1740.
| |
(12) |
_AHMED_, MAHAMMED.
1817. |
| |
+-------------+--------+------+ |
| | | |
| (16) (13) (15)
YAHIA. _MAHAMMED_, _ABDULLAH_, _ABDULLAH_,
| 1844. 1834. 1840.
| |
| |
(18) (14)} |
_MAHAMMED_, (17)} =ALI= (three times Imam).
1849. (19)} 186-.
|
(20)
_GHALIB_
(Living in 1859).

_Note._—The parentage of the seventh Imam Mahammed ibn Hasan is not known
for certain. He died in 1708.

The names in italics are those of the Imams of Sanaa. The numbers within
parentheses refer to the order in which they reigned. The numbers after
the names are the probable dates of their deaths.

A LIST OF THE IMAMS OF SANAA, GIVING THEIR FULL TITLES.

_Note._—This list is compiled from Niebuhr’s table, as given in Sir R. L.
Playfair’s ‘History of Yemen,’ with one or two corrections from native
authorities.

1. Mansur El-Kasim El-Kebir.
2. El-Muayyad Mahammed.
3. Ismail El-Metawakil Al’ Allah.
4. Ahmed El-Mejd Billah.
5. Mahammed El-Mehdi Hadi.
6. Mahammed El-Mehdi.
7. Mahammed En-Nasir.
8. Kasim El-Metawakil.
9. Hoseyn El-Mansur.
10. Abbas El-Mehdi.
11. Ali El-Mansur.
12. Ahmed El-Metawakil.
13. Abdullah El-Mehdi.
14. Ali El-Mansur.
15. Abdullah En-Nasir.
16. Mahammed El-Hadi.
17. Ali El-Mansur.
18. Mahammed El-Metawakil.
19. Ali El-Mansur.
20. Ghalib El-Hadi.

PEDIGREE OF THE REIGNING ABDALI SULTAN OF LAHEJ.

_Note._—The dates are those of their succession according to Playfair’s
‘Yemen.’

INDEX TO PROPER NAMES.

Abbaside dynasty, 50, 51.

Abd el-Hakal, 359.

Abd er-Rabi, 60, 167.

Abd esh-Shems, 31, 38, 126, 145.

Abdali tribe, 7, 16, 132, 165, 181, 211.
Sultan, 21, 133, 167.

Abdul Hamid, 86, 92-94, 116.
Mejid, 361.
Wahab, 54, 63, 147.

Abdullah the Sulayhite, 18.

Abou Arish, 20, 21, 22, 66.
Bekr, 49, 85, 86, 321.
’l Jaysh, 52.
Mahammed, 51.

Abrahá, 43, 44.

Abraham, 30, 31.

Abyssinia, 75, 138.

Abyssinians, 41-45, 53, 71, 80, 135, 253.

Acacia eburnea, 139.

Ad, 318.

Adites, 318, 319.

Aden, 4, 6-8, 10, 12, 13, 15, 16, 18, 20, 21, 23, 41, 44, 53, 55, 56,
60, 66, 104, 105, 115, 116, 121-129, 130-133, 139, 148-150,
151, 158, 163, 165-167, 175, 185, 208, 209, 211, 214, 222, 306,
345.
Gulf of, 4.
Little, 133, 136, 159.

Adenum obesum, 140.

Adirbijan, 40.

Adnan, 30, 31, 189.

Adonis, 348.

Ælius Gallus, 30, 40, 127.

Africa, 14, 28, 33, 81, 84, 90, 91, 126, 137, 138, 164, 192, 293, 319.

Agha, Mahammed, or Turkchee Bilmas, 65, 131, 359, 360.

Agha Murshid, 359.

Ahmed ed-Din, 99, 101, 104, 105, 110, 252, 266, 339.
Doctor, 365, 369, 370.
Feizi Pasha, 107, 109, 111, 112, 115, 202, 297, 303, 339.
ibn Ali Mansur, 63, 64, 359.
ibn Musa, 16.
Pasha, 66.
Sultan, 168.

Ahurram, Jibel, 197.

Akhaf, desert of, 22.

Akhdam, the, 45, 253.

Akrabi tribe, 21.

Akran, el-, 40.

Akriba, 49.

Alajioud, 189.

Albuquerque, Alphonso de, 129.

Alexander the Great, 9.
or Iskander, 128.

Algeria, 4.

Ali abou Mehdi, 167.
bou Rhaleb, 209.
el-Mansur, 17, 63, 67, 362.
ibn Abou Taleb, 48, 50, 52, 57, 84, 85, 98, 255.
ibn Fadl, 87, 88, 264.
ibn Mansur, 54.
Sultan of Lahej, 161, 165, 169.

Aloui tribe, 115, 189.

Amat, El-, 180.

American traders, 11.

Amin, 51.

Amin el-Bahr, 59.
es-Sôk, 59.

Amir Morjaun, 129.

Amir of Bishi, 198, 200.
of Dhala, 25, 195, 198.

Amran, 104-106, 110.

Anis, Jibel, and tribe of, 49, 111, 286.

Arab tribes, 24, 32, 189.
Zaidis, 86.

Arabia Deserta, 5.
Felix, 5, 7, 48, 225, 232, 238, 272.
Petræa, 5.
South, 28.

Aredoah, 197.

Arib, 31.

Arnaud, Mons d’, 37, 146.

Aryans, 36.

Aryat, 42, 43, 320.

Asaad abou Karib, or Dhu Nowas, 41, 42.
ibn Yafur, 52, 53.

“Ascension,” the ship, 57, 130.

Ashari, Beled, 197.
Jibel, 197.

Ashram, 43, 44, 320.

Ashur, 33.

Asia, 319.
Central, 242.
Minor, 183, 250.

Asir, tribe of, 4, 5, 10, 22, 25, 63, 64, 66, 93, 100, 105, 358, 359,
360, 362.

Assam, 365.

Assassins, the, 88.

Asshur, 126.

Astarte, 33.

Aswad, El-, 49.

Athaik, 283.

Athl trees, 182.

Atlas Mts., 231.

Attara, 342.

Aylan, Kays, 31.

Ayyubite Caliphs, 54, 127.

Azab, 215, 218.

Baal, 40.

Bab el-Mandeb, 14, 16, 21, 24, 62, 134, 165.

Bagdad, 48, 172.

Bajil, 67, 347, 351-353.

Balkis, Queen, 23, 40.

Banna, el-, Wadi, 222, 231, 236.

Barthema, L. de, or Vertomanus, 128.

Bashi-bazouks, 102.

Bashir ibn Ardeb, 50.

Bas-Katéb, 58.

Bauan, 326.

Bedouins, 7, 13, 20, 22, 94, 101, 162, 163, 183, 187, 189, 192, 194,
355.

Beit el-Fakih, 15, 16, 68, 365.
en-Nedish, 225, 229.
Saïd, 229, 233, 234, 236, 239, 372.

Beled Alajioud, 198.
Ashari, 197.
el-Hawad, 239.
el-Jehaf, 20, 23.
el-Kabail, 20, 21.

Belkama, or Yalkama, 40.

Beni Hallel, 21.
Matar, 289.
Meruan, 100, 105.
Yafur, 51.
Zuray, 127.

Berbera, 138.

Besaisi, Sheikh, 206, 208, 209, 215, 220, 223.

Beyrout, 197.

B’dam trees, 166, 198.

Bir Ahmed, 147, 161.
el-Azab, 106, 299, 323, 324.

Bishi, Amir of, 198, 200.

Blanket, Admiral, 14.

Bohay, 350.

Bombay, 60, 88, 135, 174.

British traders, 37, 130.

Broeck, Van den, 11, 130.

Bruce, Captain, 12, 65.

Budhan or Budzan, 47, 320.

Bukht Nasser, or Nebuchadnezzar, 30.

Bulhar, 138.

Cadi, 58, 77.

Cæsars, the, 127.

Cairo, 65, 305.

Caliph of the East (Harun el-Rashid), 51.

Caliphs, the, 53, 58, 83, 85, 86, 93, 305.

Campbell, Mr, 62.

Canneh, 126.

Caparidiciæ, 139.

Catha edulis (“Kat”), 170.

Chaldæa, 34, 38, 40.

Chevalier, Mons. A. le, 90.

Chilmad, 126.

China, 40, 138.

Chinese, the, 135, 305.

Christianity, 70-74, 79, 83, 90.

Christians, 41, 42, 46-48, 50.

Circassians, 358.

Claudius, 127.

Cleopatris, 39.

Constantine, 127, 207.

Constantinople, 67, 96, 97, 105, 115, 116, 149, 151, 169, 297, 298,
370.

Constantius, 41.

“Coote,” H.M.S., 131.

Covilham, Pedro de, 55, 127, 128.

Crimea, 363.

“Cruizer,” H.M.S., 132.

Damascus, 33.

Damir, Jibel, 350.

Danish expedition, 61.

Dar el-Hinoud, 347.
en-Nekil, 201.
es-Salaam, 107-288.

“Darling,” H.M.S., 130.

David, 79.

Day Imran, 148.

Denmark, 61.

“Deria dowlat,” 131, 168.

Dhala, 115, 176, 202.

Dhamar, 17, 18, 21, 25, 87, 96, 97, 100, 104, 111, 113, 212, 251,
256-259, 263-265, 267, 269, 271, 272, 279, 280, 281, 286, 287,
304.
el-Gar, 257.

Dhofir, 105, 112.

Dhu-biyat, 188, 196.

Dhu Jiblah (or Jiblah), 18, 21, 104, 111.

Dhu-Nowas. _See_ Asaad abou Karib.

Dhu Ruayn, 251.

Digishúb, 255, 256.

Dodekites, 85, 87.

“Dokhn,” 351.

Dommicetti, Lieutenant, 65.

Domville, Captain, 191.

Doran, Jibel, 282.

Dowla, 58.

Druses, 85.

“Durra,” 351.

Dutch traders, 11, 130.

East India Coy., 14, 57, 130.

Eden, 126.

Egypt, 14, 17, 34, 35, 39, 55, 66, 72, 90, 129, 135, 367.

Egyptians, 129, 367.

El-Asfal, Medinet, 24.

El-Faki, Saïd, 67.

El-Ghuri, 358.

El-Hadi Mahammed, 67.

El-Hadi Yahia, 53, 57.

El-Hajra, 341.

El-Hasan, Mulai, 293.

El-Hinoud, Dar, 347.

El-Islam, Sheikh, 77.

El-Kasim, 59.

El-Kebir, Wadi, 176.

El-Khamis, Sôk, 327, 329.

El-Mamun, 51.

El-Mehdi Abbas, 62.

El-Mehdi Najoul, 324.

El-Mehdi Senussi, 90.

El-Muayyad Mahammed, 58.

El-Mustansir, 58.

El-Mutawakil, 52.

El-Muzaffer, 54.

Emporium Romanum, 127.

En-Nekil, 287.

Es-Salaam, Dar, 107, 288.

Es-Seghir, Wadi, 176.

Esh-Shari, 206, 212.

Ethiopia, 39.

Euphorbiaceæ, 139.

Fatimide dynasty, 85.

Fez, 209, 245, 305.

Fezzan, 91.

Florence, 55, 128.

Foudthel ibn Ali, 167.

Foudtheli tribe, 7, 16, 21, 131, 165, 211.

France, 6, 14, 62.

Frederick V. of Denmark, 61.

French, the, 62.
traders, 11.

Galata, 149.

Galla-land, 8, 232.

Ghadan, 230.

Gharrah, 24.

“Ghee,” 186.

Ghubbat Seilan, 176.

Ghumdan, 303.

Glaser, Dr Edward, 29, 32, 244.

Goa, 56.

Greece, 35.

Greeks, 125.

Gregentius, St, 43.

Habesh. _See_ Abyssinia.

Haddha, Jibel, 202.

Hadramaut, 4, 18, 23, 28, 102, 131, 253, 269, 287, 312, 319, 321.

Haig, General, 313.

Haines, Captain, 131, 132, 146.

Hais, 21, 365.

Hait Hirran, 258, 264, 272, 274, 280, 281.

Hajarat el-Mehdi, 110, 324.

Hajeriya, 60.

Hakim, 85.

Hamdani princes, 127.

Hanífa, 48.

Haran, 126, 281.

Harrar, 8, 138.

Harun el-Rashid, 51.

Hasan Pasha, 57.

Hashishiyin (or Assassins), 88.

Hashid wa Bakil, 20.

Hashma, 176.

Hazarmaveth, 30.

Hedfaf Pass, 143.

Hejaz, the, 4, 22, 25, 40, 43, 64, 65, 93, 94, 100, 113, 317, 359.

Hejira, the, 27, 48.

Helena, Queen of Abyssinia, 127.

Himalayas, 348.

Himyar, 31, 44, 45, 126, 145, 244.

Himyaric kings, 38, 40, 42, 51, 145, 319.

Hindus, 135.

Hodaidah, 10, 13, 15, 65-67, 69, 98, 99, 100, 104, 105, 107, 113,
151, 153, 302, 334, 335, 339, 348, 349, 350, 354, 356, 358,
359, 360, 363, 367, 368, 370, 371.

Hojaila, 109, 339, 350.

Hormuzd, 41, 44.

“House of the scholar,” or Beit el-Fakih, 15, 16, 68, 365.

Houshabi tribe, 115, 165, 180, 181.

Howr, 24.

Howra, 241.

Howta, 16, 163, 165, 166, 172, 174, 175, 177.

Hud, 318.

Hungary, 11.

Huseyn, 53.
ibn Ali, 360.
ibn Salaamah, 18, 22, 287.
Shereef, 67, 68.

Hyderabad, 169, 371.

Ibb, 18, 21, 104, 111, 287.

Ibn Abou Taleb. _See_ Ali.
Ali Foudthel, 167.
Ardeb, Bashir, 50.
Hasan, Mansur, 87.
Hasan, Tubba, 41.
Huseyn, 360.
Khaldun, 17, 18, 19, 126, 263, 319.
Khalifa, Nizar, 88.
Mehdi Ali, 167.
Salaamah, 18, 22, 287.
Yafur. _See_ Asaad.

Ibrahim, 53.

Ibrahim Pasha, 17, 65, 360.
Tabátabá, 53.

Idris, Mulai, 209.

Imamites, 77.

Imams, the, 17, 52, 53, 57-59, 60-62, 65, 85, 98, 104, 115, 131, 167,
252, 322.

Imran, Day, 148.

India, 9, 53, 56, 62, 84, 125, 129, 131, 135, 138, 148, 347, 349, 356.

Indian merchants, 61.
Ocean, 4.

Ishmael, 31.

Ishmaelites, 30, 32.

Iskander. _See_ Alexander.

Islam, 28, 36, 39, 48, 49, 53, 58, 70-73, 82-87, 90, 91, 94, 308,
321, 360, 362.
Sheikh el-, 77.

Ismail, 53, 59.
Pasha, 111, 214, 230, 246.
Seyed, 132, 133.

Ismailites, 85, 87.

Issi, Jibel, 258.

Jadidah, 358.

Janad, 87.

Janadi, el-, 85, 264.

Jaskum, 44.

Jeddah, 13, 65, 359, 360.

Jehaf, Jibel, 202.

Jelileh, 202, 206.

Jeraaf, 315.

Jerusalem, 55.

Jews, 23, 34, 50, 73, 74, 106, 124, 125, 148, 177, 255, 264, 272,
312, 313, 323.

Jibál, the, 7.

Jibel Ahurram, 197.
Anis, 49, 111, 286.
Ashari, 197.
Doran, 282.
Issi, 258.
Jahaf, 202.
Menif, 181, 343.
Mrais, 202.
Negoum, 106, 107, 110, 224, 298, 299, 301.
Obaki, 351.
Safan, 343.
Samára, 247, 253.
Zukur, 255.

Jiblah, 18, 21, 104, 111.

John, Prester, 55, 128.

Joktan, or Kahtan, 21, 22, 23, 30, 31, 127, 140, 189, 319.

Jopp, General, 140.

Joseph, or Yusef, 42.

Judaism, 40, 42, 73, 83.

Kaabah, the, 43, 320.

Kabail, Beled el-, 21.

Kabyla el-Owd, 220, 224, 250.

Kahtan, or Joktan, 21, 22, 23, 30, 31, 127, 146, 189, 319.

Kaimakams, 104, 247, 251, 259, 334, 335, 337.

Kaït Bey, 305.

Kamaran, 13.

Kariat en-Negil, 18, 287.

Karmathians, 87, 264, 348.

Kasim el-Kebir, 57.
er-Rassi, 53.

“Kat” (Catha edulis), 170.

Kátaba, 21, 22, 25, 60, 111, 115, 202, 206, 212, 214, 230, 233, 246,
247, 250, 260.

Kaukeban, 20, 21.

Kay, Mr, 19, 30, 88.

Kebir, Wadi el-, 126.

Kedar, 126.

Kesra, 44.

Kha, Wadi, 254, 257.

Khadar, 287.

Khaldun, ibn, 17, 18, 19, 120, 263, 319.

Khalid, 49.

Khalifa, Nizar ibn, 88.

Khamis, Sôk el-, 327, 329.

Kharejites, 84, 88.

Kharid, Wadi, 314.

Khasraji, el-, 15.

Khaulán, 20, 22, 23.

Khoreiba, 192, 198, 200.

Konfoda, 64, 65.

Kopts, 72, 80.

Koran, the, 30, 36, 42, 58, 73, 76-78, 146, 197, 245.

Koreish, 45, 46.

Kos, Bishop, 46, 75.

Kudaah, 31.

Kufa, 50.

Kurds, 358.

Lahej, 16, 20, 21, 24, 60, 65, 115, 132, 151, 161, 167-169, 171, 172,
177, 179, 180, 181, 242, 243, 287.
Wadi, 176.

Laing, Prof., 36.

Lakhnia, or Lakhtiaa, 41.

Lebanon, Mt., 85, 88.

“Liars,” the, 49.

Lisbon, 128.

Lohaya, 10, 13, 64, 100.

Lokman, 38, 145.

Ludovico de Barthema, 128.

Lumley, Captain, 12.

Maaber, 111, 285.

Maadi Karib, 44, 45.

Maala, 136, 143.

Madeira, 231.

Mahammed, 36, 44-49, 52, 53, 57, 77, 82, 83, 94, 255, 320, 321.
Agha, 65, 131, 359, 360.
Ali Pasha, 17, 64, 65.
el-Meccawi, 66.
ibn Ziad, 51.
Rushti Pasha, 96.
Yahya, 67, 361, 362.

Mahdi el-Fakih Saïd, 17.

Mahmoud, 43.

Main Pass, 143, 158.

Makarama, 347.

Makulla, 131.

Malik, 31.

Mamlooks, 55, 65.

Mamun, el-, 51.

Mansur, el-, 54.

Mansur el-Kasim, 57.
ibn Hasan, 87.

Mareb, Saba, or Sheba, 23, 36, 37, 38, 40, 126, 143, 280, 288, 312,
319.

Masar, Jibel, 343.

Mashonaland, 28.

Mavia, 25.

Mecca, 4, 13, 18, 22, 43, 45, 46, 63, 64, 66, 93, 205, 296, 320, 360.

Medina, 4, 63, 64, 93.

Medinet el-Asfal, 24.

Mefhak, 330.

Mehdi el-Mantether, 67.

Mehdi, Senussi el-, 90.

Melh, el-, 187.
Sailet, 188.

Menakha, 78, 104, 109, 331, 333, 336, 337, 339, 340, 341, 350.

Menes, 35.

Menif, Jibel, 181, 343.

Mequinez, 246, 297.

Meruan, Beni, 100, 105.

Merveille, Mons. de, 148.

Metneh, 325.

Middleton, Admiral, 130.

Milne, Captain, 133, 181.

Minæans, or Maïn, 32-36, 38, 39.

Mjisbeyeh, 196.

Mohajir, 321.

Mokha, 10-13, 55, 56, 59, 61, 63-66, 68, 130, 138, 301.

Morocco, 4, 81, 91, 123, 153, 156, 171, 201, 246, 255, 293, 314, 345,
353, 367.

Mosailma, 48, 49.

Moulas, the, 77.

Mrais, Jibel, 202.

Mshareg, 102.

Muavia, 50.

Muayyad, Mahammed el-, 59.

Muir, Sir William, 77.

Mundah, 236.

Munkat, 243-245.

Munsoorie Hills, 149.

Mustain, el-, 52.

Mustansir, el-, 88.

Mutawakil, el-, 52.

Mutazelites, the, 89.

Muza, 6, 11.

Muzaffer, el-, 54.

Nadir, 230.

Nebuchadnezzar, 30.

Negoum, Jibel, 106, 107, 110, 224, 298, 299, 301.

Nehm, 20.

Negil, Kariat en-, 18, 287.

Nejed, 22, 173.

Nejrán, 20, 22.

Niebuhr, Karsten, 19, 22, 24, 58, 61.

Nisáb, 24.

Nizar ibn Mustansir, 88.

Noah, 30.

Obadites, the, 84.

Obaki, Jibel, 351.

Ofar, 241.

Okelis, 11.

Oman, 23.

Omar, 85.

Omarah, 15, 18, 358.

Omeyyad dynasty, 50.

Osmanli Government, 17, 20, 24, 64, 94, 95, 99, 101, 105, 115, 116,
315.

Othman, the Caliph, 50, 85.

Othman, Sheikh, 133-135, 158, 160, 161, 168.

Ottoman Empire, 297, 369.

Oulaki tribe, 24.

Oun, Mahammed ibn, 66.

Owd, Kabyla el-, 222, 224, 250.

Palestine, 73.

Parsees, 135, 145, 149, 368.

Paruiz, Kesra, 45.

“Peppercorn,” the ship, 130.

Peri Pasha, 56.

Perim, 6, 13, 14, 24, 62, 121, 137, 168.

“Periplus,” Vincent’s, 39.

Persia, 84, 86.

Persian Gulf, 116, 126, 137.

Persians, the, 44, 135, 149.

Phœnician characters, 34, 35, 39.

Playfair, Sir R. L., 6, 20, 24, 40, 51, 59, 61, 66.

Popham, Sir Horne, 62, 131.

Port Said, 209, 210.

Porte, the Sublime, 25, 65, 67, 69, 72, 92, 114, 360, 361.

Portuguese, the, 11, 55, 129, 130.
traders, 11.

Prester John, 55, 128.

Prophet, the. _See_ Mahammed.

Punt, 39.

Quarnu, 33.

Raamah, 126.

Rabiah, 31.

Raïs Suleiman, 129, 145.

Ras Seilan, 177, 220.
Zebeed, 255.

Rashid, Harun el-, 51.

Rassites, 54, 57.

Raudha, 315.

Red Sea, 4, 6, 10-14, 21, 57, 59, 62, 100, 127, 133, 137, 358.

Resaaba, 283.

Rima, Wadi, 15.

Rodaa, 21.

Romans, 39, 44, 127.

Rome, 35.

Russia, 86.

Saba, Sheba, or Mareb, 23, 36, 37, 38, 40, 126, 143, 145, 280, 288,
312, 319.

Sabæans, 32, 34, 36, 39, 319.

Sadah, 18, 20, 22, 52-54, 105, 106, 252, 339.

Safan, Jibel, 343.

Sahán, 20, 22.

Saïd, Beit, 229, 233, 234, 236, 239, 372.
el-Faki, 66.

Sailet el-Melh, 188.

Salah ed-Din or Saladdin, 54.

Salih, 318.

Salt, Mr, 168.

Samára, Jibel, 247, 253.

Samarcand, 40.

Sanaa, 8, 17, 18, 20-26, 37, 43, 44, 49, 51, 53, 54, 57, 61-64, 68,
69, 87, 98, 99, 101, 104-107, 110, 115, 151, 199, 210, 243,
250, 252, 264, 267, 289, 290, 294, 295, 299, 322-324, 335, 340,
353, 354, 361, 365, 372.

Sargon I., 35.

Sayce, Prof., 35.

Seddah, 111, 236.

Seghir, Wadi el-, 176.

Seilan, Ghubbat, 176.
Ras, 177, 222.

Selim I., 55.

Semitic races, 36.

Senussi, Sheikh, 90, 91.

Seyed Hasan, 188.
Ismail, 132, 133.
Kasim, 17, 66.
Mahammed el-Hadi, 17.
esh-Sheraï, 110, 324.

Sham-sham, Jibel, 143, 147.

Shari, Beled esh-, 206, 212.
Wadi, 206, 212.

Sheba. _See_ Saba.

Sheikh el-Beled, 59.
Besaisi, 206, 208, 209, 215, 220, 223.
el-Islam, 77.
Othman, 133-135, 160, 168.

Sheiyas, 78, 84-87, 89, 90, 93, 98, 361.

Shem, 30.

Shereef, Huseyn, 66-69.

Shoa, 128.

Sidi Sheikh, 5, 24.

Sinai, 33.

Smyrna, 213.

Soarez, 129.

Sobeh, 111, 224.

Sôk el-Khamis, 327, 329.
el-Thuluth, 236, 237.

Solomon, 23, 24, 36-38, 79.

Somali-land, 91, 138.

Somalis, 135, 148, 159, 232.

Soudan, 81.

Stace, Col., 140, 163.

Stamboul, 94, 149, 208.

Suakin, 337.

Sublime Porte, 25, 65, 67, 69, 72, 92, 114, 360, 361.

Suez, 39, 56.
Canal, 33.

Suleiman the Magnificent, 56.
Raïs, 120, 130, 146.

Sufis, 89.

Sunnis, 77, 78, 84-86, 89, 90, 95, 314.

Syria, 40, 50.

Tabátabá, Ibrahim, 53.

Taif, 18.

Taiz, 16, 17, 18, 21, 25, 54, 60, 66, 104, 111.

Tartars, 40.

Tawahi, 136, 141.

Teháma, 6, 7, 9, 10, 13-18, 20, 21, 24, 51, 53, 67, 101, 190, 242,
339, 343, 347, 351, 354.

Teima, 33.

Thamud, 318.

Theophilus Indus, 41.

Thoba, 196, 206.

Thuba, Wadi, 236.

Thuluth, Sôk el-, 236, 237.

Tigris, 66.

“Topaz,” H.M.S., 12.

“Towers of Silence,” 145.

Tripoli, 90, 91.

Tsar, 33.

Tubba el-Akran, 40.
ibn Hasan, 41.

Tubbas, the, 126.

Tufieh Pasha, 360.

Tunis, 91.

Turan Shah, 54, 127.

Turkchee Bilmas, 66, 131, 359, 360.

Turkey, Sultans of, 65, 87, 92.

Turkish dominions in the Yemen, 24-26, 37, 56, 64, 203, 286.
troops, 13, 102, 105, 106, 109, 111, 133, 198, 212, 239, 286, 302,
309, 324, 327, 330, 331, 336, 340, 349, 361.

Turks, the, 6, 17, 52, 55, 57, 65, 68, 76, 84, 86, 94, 96, 98, 104,
133, 135, 151, 286, 322, 324, 353, 356.

Uzul. _See_ Sanaa.

Venice, 11.

Vertomanus. _See_ Barthema.

Vincent’s “Periplus,” 39.

Waalan, 288, 351.

Wadi el-Kebir, 176.

Wahab, 191.

Wahabis, 63, 64, 65, 89.

Wáhat, 133.

Wahraz, 44.

White, Sir William, 298.

Wisil, 342, 344, 345.

Yaffa, 20, 23, 24, 253, 281, 312.

Yahya, 52, 67, 69.

Yakoub Bey, 116.

Yalkama. _See_ Belkama.

Yarub, 318.

Yasir, 148.

Yemenite tribes, 23, 30, 189.

Yerim, 17, 21, 25, 41, 104, 111, 113, 212, 218, 246, 247, 250, 251,
253, 260, 286.

Yusef, 42.

Zafar, 41, 43, 251.

Zaida, 183.

Zaidis, the, 52, 53, 85, 314, 361.

Zanzibar, 88.

Zarahoun, 246.

Zaum, Wadi, 334.

Zayd, 31.

Zebeed, 15, 53, 54, 56, 65, 67, 359, 365, 367.
Ras, 255.
Wadi, 255.

Ziad, ibn, 15, 52.

Zurayites, 53.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS

[Illustration: Sketch Map of THE YEMEN illustrating THE ROUTE OF W. B.
HARRIS.

Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ., London]

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