In the land of the lion and sun, or, modern Persia

by C. J. Wills

Of course my wife had to be taken to that terrible fraud, the Shaking Minarets. Why, no one knows, but every one has heard of the Shaking Minarets. “You went to Ispahan. What did you think of the Shaking Minarets?” is constantly asked by those who have not been there. Even those who have, much on the principle of the bumpkin, who, on paying his penny, is triumphantly shown the biggest donkey in the fair, in a looking-glass, and urges his friends to go and see that show: so does a feeling of having been defrauded cause people to advise their friends to see the Shaking Minarets. The mere name is poetical and mysterious.

Upon a gentleman high in the diplomatic service being asked what was the use of the British Agent at Ispahan, he replied:

“Oh, it is an hereditary office; he shows British travellers the Shaking Minarets.”

But then that “excellency” was a humorous man. He it was who, on being troubled by a pertinacious clergyman with many grievances, and told by him (the parson) that “he was but a humble member of the Church Militant,” replied, “Church Pugnacious, you mean.”

Dearly did the British Agent love to perform his “hereditary function.” The new-comer, full of desire to see the Shaking Minarets, and really pleased with his visit to the town of Ispahan, would make the appointment for the sight, and, seeing the “hereditary functionary’s” enthusiasm, not liking to damp it, would acknowledge that he had seen the eighth wonder of the world.

An hour’s sharp canter through bridle-paths and shady lanes, after crossing the river by the old Marnūn bridge, would bring one to the little shrine, through the power of whose “Pir,” or saint, there interred, the miracle of the Shaking Minarets is daily on view. As one approached the village where the shrine is, the labourers in the field would begin to run towards it, each eager to be the holder of a European’s horse, and their shouts would bring a crowd to the scene.

There is nothing particularly wonderful about the shrine; it is under a lofty arch of modern construction, and is the usual rectangular chest, under which reposes the body of the saint. On the whole lies an open Koran and reading-stand. The chest is covered by a ragged pall of cotton cloth; and a few strings of copper “kendils,” or votive offerings, in the shape of small copper cylinders constricted in the middle, attest the popularity of the saint with the villagers. The guardian, also the village schoolmaster, is a Syud, or holy man; no information can be obtained from him, save that the dead saint has great power, and that the shaking is a miracle. Proceeding to the top of the shrine, a good view of the Ispahan valley is obtained, and here one sees the celebrated Shaking Minarets. A lusty villager ascends each, and by dint of strong shaking, both vibrate considerably. The “hereditary functionary” used to do this himself with great gusto, but, having visited England, has become too important for the personal exercise of his “functions.” When one man ceases to shake the vibration continues in both, and a peculiar sensation of insecurity is felt when one is inside the minaret.

The minarets are some twelve or fourteen feet high above the roof. They are of brick; and the fact is, that being continuous with a long thin wall which connects the two at the base, the vibration caused in one is communicated to the other. This is the miracle, which will probably some day cease by the vibrator being propelled into space, and then the office of the “hereditary functionary” will be really a sinecure. The place, however, has been repaired, and the minarets rebuilt, within the last thirty years, so the guardian says. I fancy that the explanation of the miracle lies in the hypothesis I have suggested, the long wall on which the minarets are built having probably settled, and so, having no communication with the side walls, being no miracle, but merely bad building. We saw the miracle, expressed our wonder, thanked “the hereditary functionary,” and went home sadder and wiser than we came.

Vaccination is now happily appreciated in Persia. On my first arrival it was unknown, and inoculation was regularly practised. Another plan, too, was common, and the future native pastor of the Protestant Armenians lost a child by its practice. He put his own child in bed with a child having small-pox, that it might take the disease in a benign form; confluent small-pox of the most virulent type resulted, and the poor child died, to the great grief of the parent, a most deserving and honest fellow.

This man and one other are the only teetotalers of Julfa, which may dispute the palm with any Scotch town for capability of swallowing liquor on a Sunday.