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THE INDIAN ANTIQUARY.

[JUNE 7, 1872.

stand adorned with coloured glass globes, can

gently strikes the open palm upon it—just as I

dlesticks with glass drops, handsome water

have seen a European father do when he was

jugs, and everything else that can make it look

dazed and broken with the loss of his darling son. There was no display, no shouting, or any thing else that could invite attention, but it was plain to see how deeply moved he was.

tempting and gorgeous. On this stand are vessels of water and sherbet, sufficient to relieve the

thirst of a couple of hundred people.

With

Presently the singer narrated the death of

these exceptions the room is quite bare. One of the most beautiful features of the Mu harram is the charitable and free distribution of

water and sherbet to all comers.

In

every

street in Triplicane (the Musalman quarter of Madras) during the ten days of the feast, there were water pandals, to which any thirsty passer by might go and drink to his heart's content.

During the evenings, when the streets are crowded with eager sight-seers,

these water

stands are much frequented, and are of great service. It will be seen that the martyrs were greatly tortured by thirst, as they were for three days cut off from the Euphrates—their only supply of water. In pity for their sufferings, the water is thus freely distributed to all that ask, whatever their creed or nationality.

The court and its verandas are well filled by men, besides the women we cannot see. They are friends of the family who have provided the

Husain, here the Arab's fortitude gave way altogether, he buried his face in both his hands, bowed down upon his knees, and wept as if his heart would break. It was no mean study of human nature to see this Arab, who would pro bably think it no wrong to rob and perhaps murder the lonely traveller in the desert, and yet he had a place so soft somewhere within that stormy heart, that he could not listen to

the story—most skilfully related be it remem bered—of agony and shameful death without being as much melted as any tender mother. There were many here more unmoved than we

were and seemed very perfunctory mourners, but the greater part of the assembly were like our Arab.

Two songs were thus sung, and then one of the assembly mounted the pulpit and delivered

an extempore address, dwelling mainly on the

house. All sit upon the floor in the mode most comfortable to them. We can see all, for

incidents in the life and death of Ali Akbar,

the place is well lighted with handsome chan deliers, while two candles are fixed to the pulpit, and others glisten on the water-stand.

the details with which a loving reverence has

Seated in the middle of the floor is a band

of about six singers.

In the centre is the chief

Husain's eldest son. He entered minutely into all surrounded the true probably. they were true, with every pain

story—few of them historically But he preached them as if and as if he fully sympathized that befel his hero. One inci

performer, and he is chanting line by line a song

dent out of many can alone be given here to

describing the conduct and sufferings of Husain

show both the kind of myth which has envelop ed the history and the pathos which renders it so touching. Ali Akbar went to the fight by his father's side, and fought, as he had promised, like ten men. In the tide of battle he was separated from his father, but fought on. No water had passed his lips for three days, a blazing sun burnt overhead, his raging energy in the fight had increased the torment of his thirst, and at length he is tired of killing. Unable longer to lift his wearied arm, he forces his way back to his father who, too, has for

at the battle of Kerbela.

The verses are rather

long, but each is closed by a sort of chorus, in which all the performers join, the audience taking no part in the actual song. They have an important duty, however, the painful and trying one of listening to the harrowing details of the death of their beloved chief. With every passage of the song, come cries, shrieks, and every sign of deepest sorrow from behind the cloth that hides the women. How they beat their breasts and weep, as the more touch

ing passages are recited. The men are less noisy, but are evidently very deeply impressed.

the moment driven back his foes.

Just in front of us is an old and weather-beaten

water. In a moment he revives somewhat, and says, “O father, I said that I could fight for

Arab–a most truculent looking fellow. He sits in an attitude of eager listening, resting his chin

upon his knees. As the singer proceeds, he is more and more engrossed. At the more touching pas sages he raises his hand to his forehead, and

Ali Akbar

falls fainting at Husain's feet, crying for

you and die with you, and see how God hath helped us this day. No arrow hath hurt me, no sword has prevailed against mine, I cannot let them slay me. Yet would God I could, for it is