THE COLUMN OF MARCIAN.       49

Occasionally, as the tourist meditates beside it, or the artist near the mouldering wall which separates it from the road, transfers its noble proportions to his canvass of his sketch-book, the cheerful voices of women come on his ear from the latticed casement of the dwelling by which it is immediately overlooked: nor can he fail to feel that he is himself the subject of their harmless mirth; his foreign and tasteless garb, his unturbaned head, his beardless chin - even the very nature of his occupation, is food for laughter an for jest; while the certainty of a present to old Akif, which is never refused by those who visit his classic garden, adds, in no inconsiderable degree, to the gratification of his harem, when the apparition of a wandering giaour comes to relieve the tedium of their existence.

Old Akif himself is also a worthy subject for the easel of the artist; he seems to have grown grey with the column, and to have withered with the olive-tree. The innovations of late years have wrought no reform in the garb of manner of Akif; he looks like an Asiatic Turk who had never gazed on the glories of the "Golden City." His turban is large and loosely folded; his tchalvar(*) are of the widest dimensions; his open sleeves of the extremest length; his waist-shawl is freighted with an ample tobacco-purse; and he leans upon his chibouque with an air of sturdy and majestic independence finely demonstrative of his proud and self-centered disposition. He does the honours of the monument like one who is conscious that he is conferring a favour. He neither murmurs at the heartless haste, nor at the tedious delay of his visitors; and he ultimately receives the gratuity of his departing guests with all the quiet and unmoved composure of a creditor tendering his hand for the payment of a well-won debt. The venerable Akif in no antiquarian in spirit; to him stones are stones, and inscription which do not treat of the Korân a mere waste of words; and as the smoke from his chibouque curls slowly over his long white beard, many a thought probably passes through his placid brain, not altogether flattering to the earnest Frank who scrambles about the ruin, seeking for traces of a time and people now passed away for ever.

(*) Trowsers.