While in Shiraz I made my first acquaintance with the Tazzias, or religious representations, given by the grandees of the town, of the various histories from the Koran leading up to the climax, the tragedy of the saints Houssein and Hassan[28] and their wives and children.

Almost all of the wealthy did some public act or other in the Mohurrim, the month of mourning for the martyred saints. The tazzia, or dramatic representation, was given by the Zil-es-Sultan, the Governor, in the garden of his palace, on a very large scale indeed, and in a smaller way by the Muschir and the Kawam and others.

To the prince’s tazzia I went by his invitation each day, and the young prince took great interest in the getting-up of the various scenes in the story.

A platform, some thirty yards square, was formed by placing together a number of takhts, or wooden platforms. These were planked over, and a level stage made by placing on them big doors and planks. The whole was carpeted with thick felts, and at one corner was placed a pulpit, draped in black. This pulpit, like all Oriental ones, is merely a flight of wooden steps, some eight feet high, leading to a platform some two feet square, on which squats the preacher or reader, as the case may be. The stage is placed some twenty feet from the principal front of the prince’s palace, the rooms of which thus form private boxes.

To the left spaces are roped off to accommodate the women, who pour in in hundreds; they are all closely veiled. In the lower room, also veiled, and facing the crowds of women, sit the prince’s ladies. Above their apartment, at a large open window, is the prince himself, and during the waits, and sometimes even during the most pathetic parts, the young fellow amuses himself in ogling the ladies, the better-looking of whom seize these opportunities of raising their veils and casting coquettish glances in his direction. I have even known him, when very young, to have a basin of frogs handy, and he would toss the animals out among the thickest throng of the tightly-packed women, and shriek with laughter at the cries and confusion produced.

To the right of the platform were dense crowds of men, the common people of Shiraz, while several large rooms opening towards the stage were devoted to the invited of the better class, officials and courtiers.

The whole crowd were protected from the sun, rain, and wind by a huge tent provided for the purpose, and the raising of which had taken a hard week’s work, all the soldiers of the two regiments in the town being employed to aid an army of professional tent-pitchers. This tent was without walls, thus permitting the free ingress and egress of the performers of the tragedy and interludes, and the many processions of horses, soldiers, camels, etc. It was sustained by four huge masts.

During this month the whole of the community go into the deepest mourning. Black is the only wear, and the poor seize the opportunity to have their old clothes dyed, and so get an extra bit of wear out of them, the more ceremonious going into mourning some days before the commencement of Mohurrim, and remaining in black the whole even of the following month.

Behind the stage is raised a huge scaffolding, covered with red cloth, and hung with Cashmere shawls.

On this are arranged all the glass and crockery that the prince possesses, and all he can borrow by hook or by crook, all his mirrors, lamps, and chandeliers, and the whole are set off by rows of brass candle-lamps hired from the bazaar, the general effect being that of a very miscellaneous broker’s shop. Considerable care is, however, devoted to this display, and its grandeur, or the reverse, is one of the subjects of town talk for a week.

The women having been crowding in from an early hour, the wives of the grandees and officials are accommodated with seats with the princess and her ladies, while the less favoured have places retained for them in good situations by their servants, and according to rank. As noon approaches every seat is taken, and the stage surrounded on all sides by a sea of faces, a path being, however, left all round it for the processions to advance and make the circuit of the stage. All being now ready the band plays a march, a gun is discharged, and the Prince-Governor takes his place at his window.

A priest now ascends the pulpit, on the steps of which others are seated, while a crowd of lesser moollahs squat at the base. In a clear voice, every word of which is plainly heard in this assembly of many thousands, the priest recites the facts of the death of Houssein and Hassan. At the mention of these names the audience become overwhelmed with grief, and, baring their breasts, smite them, crying, “Ai Houssein, Wai Houssein, Ai Houssein jahn!” (“Oh, Houssein, Woe for Houssein, Oh, dear Houssein!”) or at times join in the choruses led by organised mourners, who, with clenched fist or open hand, strike their breasts simultaneously at each mention of the names Houssein Hassan, Houssein Hassan, till they are out of breath, and their crimson and bruised chests force them to desist, with one final shout or shriek of “Houssein.” Half-a-dozen volunteers (these generally dervishes), as the sainted names are pronounced by the hundreds of voices, strike themselves over each shoulder with heavy chains. All the beholders are gradually worked up into a state of excitement and enthusiasm, and the descriptions of the saints and their children’s sufferings make even the heart of the European listener sad.

And now a curious chant in honour of the king is sung by a band of youths; after this the priests leave the stage, and the professional exponents of the drama make their appearance dressed to sustain the characters of the day. Small boys, chosen for their clear and sympathetic voices, from among the singers of the town, sustain the little parts of the granddaughters and grandsons of the prophet.

The wives are veiled, and these characters are played by bearded men, as are the angels and prophets, who are also veiled by glittering handkerchiefs.

Yezeed, the infidel king, and Shemr, the actual slayer of the saint, are clad in gay attire, booted and helmeted, and, with shirts of chain-mail on, rant as do the heroes of a Surrey melodrama; but the language is effective, the action rapid, and the speeches, though often long, accompanied by vigorous pantomime.

There are no actual acts, no scenery, no curtain, but as each scene terminates the actors leave the stage; and a long procession of horses, camels, and litters and biers, on which are carried the kotol (dummies) of the dead saints, enters with much noise, music, shouting, and drumming; followed and preceded by the volunteer mourners and breast-beaters, shouting their cry of Hous-s-e-i-n H-a-s-san, Houss-e-i-n H-a-s-san, and a simultaneous blow is struck vigorously by hundreds of heavy hands on the bared breasts at the last syllable of each name. Continual flourishes are played by the band, and the noise is deafening, the excitement contagious.

The actors are mostly well up in their rôles; many of those sustaining the principal characters have come from Ispahan, where the tradition of the tazzia is handed down from father to son; and year by year they have played the mournful tragedy, making it a business as well as a religious act. They are fed, dressed, and paid by the Governor. The numerous bands of well-drilled supernumeraries who combat on the stage are eager volunteers. Each speaking actor carries his part written out on a small scroll on the palm of his hand, and calmly reads it when memory fails him. Each act lasts from two to four hours. The drama itself goes on for from a week to twelve days, and various interludes and acts of it are performed; the most popular being the wedding of Kasim, from the great amount of spectacle, the death of Houssein, the death of Ali Akbar, and the Dar.

This latter is more than usually comic, and relates to the supposed conversion and immediate martyrdom of a Christian ambassador; the former of which is effected by the sight of the head of Houssein. The deaths of the various saints (imams) are portrayed with a ridiculous minuteness, but so excited are the audience that they do not appear to cause amusement. Thus, on the death of Ali Akbar, he enters wounded and thirsty, and beats off some thirty assailants, then after a long speech exits; then enter more assailants; re-enter Ali Akbar, covered with arrows sewn on his clothing to the number of sixty or so. He puts his assailants to flight, killing several, is wounded, exit. Re-enter Ali Akbar, long speech; he has now only one arm, puts assailants to flight, speech, exit; re-enter armless, his sword in his mouth.

Enter a murderer. They fight. The murderer is slain.

Enter thirty assailants. At last Ali Akbar, after rolling up and down the stage, is killed, to the immense relief of everybody.

His head is stuck on a long spear, the band strikes up, the mourners shout Houssein! Hassan! for ten minutes, and the drama for the day ceases.

There are other irregular interludes, Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, etc. Some of the scenes are very comic; as that between Yezeed the tyrant and his physician.

On the day when the martyrdom of Houssein himself is portrayed, the place is thronged. The cruel Shemr, generally very vigorously represented, is at times roughly handled by the mob. The crowd are often regaled with sherbets by the personage at whose cost the tazzia is given, also pipes, and even coffee; and the amount expended in pipes, coffee, tea, etc., to the numerous guests is very considerable indeed.

Almost every house has its rosehkhaneh, or reading of prayers and Scripture. These are generally given either to men or women; and in the latter case, female readers and singers are employed. When given to men, the moollahs officiate; and the reading takes place from a pulpit hung with black, the roofs being crowded with rows of veiled women.

The tazzias are not approved of by the higher classes of the priesthood, but custom has made the people cling to them, and each small village has its local tazzia. Wherever a tazzia or rosehkhaneh is held, small black flags are exhibited at the door, and any one walks in. By the performance of the tazzia the commemoration of the death of Houssein and Hassan is annually brought home to the Shiah Mahommedan, and the more fanatical yearly hold a sort of Guy Fawkes day, when a comic tazzia, in ridicule of Omar, is held, and the (from their point of view) usurper is finally conducted to the infernal regions by the devil in person.

During the greater part of Mohurrim bands of boys visit the houses of their quarter singing a long chant commemorative of the death of the martyrs, and collecting a few pence at its conclusion.

The month of Ramazan is the fasting month of the Persians, and the great majority of the people rigorously observe it, tasting no food nor water, nor even smoking, from sunrise to sunset. Of course when the month falls in the summer the penance is much more serious.

The more ascetic go “peishwaz,” that is, observe the fast a few days before it is really in force.

Only the sick, very aged, young children, and travellers are exempt, and no one dares to openly break it, though, of course, many of the more advanced or irreligious do so in secret.

In the night, an hour before dawn, the cry is, “Oh, water, water and opium!” This is the warning given to the people to take their last snack, the farewell cup of tea and pipe; and a copious draught of water and an opium pill are generally swallowed just at the gun-fire which announces daybreak.

Now the fast commences, and all compose themselves to sleep. At nine or ten the usually early rising Persian gets up and prepares to maunder through the day. He does no business save that which it is absolutely impossible to avoid. Half the shops in the bazaar are shut, or only opened for a few hours; the Government offices are closed the greater part of the day; everything is put off “until after Ramazan.”

Towards the latter part of the afternoon the streets become thronged; as sunset approaches every one gets more lively, and at the fire of the sunset gun the longed-for pipe is seized, a cup of tea taken, and in half-an-hour every one sits down to a heavy meal.

Many parties are given in this month, the guests generally spending the night at the host’s house.

A peculiar form of eatable, called zalābi, is prepared during Ramazan. A thin paste of starch and sugar, mixed with sesamun oil, is poured in streams upon heated copper trays, and a kind of fritter produced, which is delicate-looking and rather appetising. When eaten it is served cold.

A particular Mahommedan will not swallow his own saliva during this month; and riders may be seen during Ramazan with their mouths and nostrils carefully covered by the end of their turban, or by a handkerchief, thus in their idea preventing the breaking of the fast by the swallowing of dust, or animalculæ invisible to the eye. Generally, however, this is merely affectation of religious scruple.

The most severe trial, however, setting apart the thirst produced in hot weather, is the abstention from smoking; and a merchant or shopkeeper, who has the tube of a water-pipe between his lips eight hours out of the twenty-four, really suffers considerable inconvenience from a fourteen hours’ abstention.

The long nights of Ramazan are enlivened by numerous festivities; dinner-giving takes place throughout the month, and the number of pipes smoked till two A.M. is considerable. The story-tellers are now in great request, and drive a roaring trade going from house to house. Poetry, too, is much recited and read aloud, the favourites being Saadi, Hafiz, and Firdūsi. Story-books, cheaply printed and roughly illustrated, are much read. They mostly contain short tales.

Here is one paraphrased, with a facsimile of the rude woodcut illustrating the tale. I must premise that Mortaza Ali, the fourth successor and son-in-law of Mahomet, was assassinated by a fanatic; the caliphate having been previously usurped by Omar and Abubekr, an old man the father-in-law of Mahomet, who succeeded the prophet on his death. (So say the Shiah sect.)

The reading of poetry is much in vogue among the upper classes to promote sleep! and even the most ignorant can rattle off long recitations. So common is the habit of introducing poetry, that Europeans are looked on as very ignorant, because their conversation is prosaic; and one of the staff obtained quite a reputation as a well-read man in a curious manner. He was acquainted with one (and only one) verse of Persian poetry, a very well-known one. It was this:—

Now the gentleman, on the mention of the word mole, cheek, girl, Shiraz, Samarkand, or Bokhara, would instantly introduce the quotation; and as Shiraz was the town we lived in, and Central Asian affairs are continually on the tapis, Samarkand and Bokhara, unlikely words as they were for general conversation, were invariably introduced, and the inevitable quotation made. Unfortunately another member of the staff, jealous of his rival’s reputation, betrayed him, and Othello’s occupation went.

Books are treated with consideration in Persia. They are generally bound in boards, and these are elaborately hand-painted, generally with representations of birds and flowers. From two kerans to two hundred may be paid for a pair of these boards. Sometimes a book is bound in leather. This is, however, less common, save for account-books. A sort of outer envelope of cloth or chintz is made, and the book enclosed in it, thus preserving the binding and work at the same time.

Great expense, too, is lavished on the pencase (kalam-dān); it is nearly always of papier-maché, about seven inches long, one wide, and one and a half deep; it draws open and contains the pens, which are reeds, an ivory or bone block for nibbing them on, a tiny spoon for moistening the ink, and a penknife, also the peculiar scissors for trimming paper. At one extremity is a small box of silver or brass containing a skein of silk, which absorbs a quantity of Chinese ink, and is wetted with the tiny spoon as it dries up. A roll of paper is also carried at the girdle, and a few adhesive strips of thin coloured paper are provided for the closing of letters.

When it is wished to write a letter, the Persian sits if he can, but this is not a sine quâ non; he tears from his roll of polished paper (made in the country) a piece of the needful size, and commencing in the right-hand top corner, he proceeds to fill his sheet, writing from right to left, and leaving at the left-hand side of his sheet a large margin of at least an inch; should he reach the bottom of the page, and have still more to say, he turns the paper round and proceeds to fill the margin. He then concludes, reads the letter, and with his scissors carefully trims off the torn edges, and cuts off all needless paper. If it be an important letter he now seals it at the right-hand bottom corner, or at the end; the sealing is often repeated on the back, and is equivalent to our signature. He damps the paper with his tongue, inks his seal, breathes on it, and presses it sharply on the paper. A permanent and very distinct impression is the result. He now cuts a tiny piece off one corner, for to send a four-cornered letter brings ill-luck, the Persians say. The letter is either rolled up and squeezed flat, or folded as we should fold a spill; it is thus about three to four inches long, and half an inch to an inch wide. A strip of adhesive paper is rolled round it, and the end of this is sealed in the same manner as before. The letter is now addressed.

Titles are continually used in writing letters, and the language is usually high-flown and even bombastic. Thus an ordinary invitation to dinner would be couched from one merchant to another:—

“To the high, the great, the influential, the descendant of the Prophet Lord Ali Baba; please God you are in health. It is my representation that to-morrow your slave will be delighted to be honoured, in the house of your slave, with your illustrious and pleasant company to dinner. I trust your Excellency’s health is good. I have no further representation to make.”

Or after a long string of compliments and inquiries after the health of the correspondent, comes the “mutlub,” or essence of the letter, which is expressed thus:—“and please send by bearer your horse. I have no further petition to make.”

A Persian is apparently very pious in his conversation, the name of God being continually introduced, but these phrases have merely the meaning of affirmatives or negatives.

Thus:—“Inshallah (please God), you will ride out to-morrow.”

“Alhamdillillah (thank God), I have nothing to do. Inshallah, I will.”

“Bismillah” (in the name of God), handing a pipe.

Friend admiring it: “Mashallah” (God is great). And so on.

Many of these phrases in which the name of God is used are with the intention of avoiding the evil eye. Nothing must be admired, in so many words, without one of these invocations.

Thus, one must not say, “What a fine boy!” on seeing a Persian son, but “Mashallah” (praise God). In fact, the word “Mashallah,” engraved on gold or silver and ornamented with pearls, is commonly worn sewn to the caps of young children, and the word is often written and worn as an amulet to protect a fine horse. For the same reason a blue bead is often put in the tail of a horse, or sewn on the caps of the children of the poor. Cats’ eyes are frequently worn for this protection from the evil eye, and a hand[31] with one finger extended I have seen used. This hand was, of course, quite different from the metal open hand which surmounts religious buildings and banners, all the fingers of which are extended. Talismans (“Telism”) are constantly worn; they are generally enclosed in metallic cases and affixed to the arm (“Bazūbund”). They are often verses from the Koran, at other times merely figures rudely drawn, or a collection of letters placed in some eccentric figure, as the well-known Abracadabra; often the repetition of some of the names of God being simple invocations.

A Persian is very loath to let these talismans be seen. They are generally obtained from dervishes, priests, or old women.

During the cholera time in Shiraz I was attending the daughter of the then high priest. I happened to see the old gentleman, who was sitting surrounded by a crowd of friends, petitioners, and parasites. He was writing charms against the cholera. I, out of curiosity, asked him for one; it was simply a strip of paper on which was written a mere scribble, which meant nothing at all.

I took it and carefully put it away. He told me that when attacked by cholera I had but to swallow it, and it would prove an effectual remedy.

I thanked him very seriously, and went my way. The next day he called on me and presented me with two sheep and a huge cake of sugar-candy, weighing thirty pounds. I did not quite see why he gave me the present, but he laughingly told me that my serious reception of his talisman had convinced the many bystanders of its great value, and a charm desired by an unbelieving European doctor must be potent indeed.

“You see, you might have laughed at my beard; you did not. I am grateful. But if I could only say you had eaten my charm, ah—then.”

“Well,” I replied, “say so if you like,” and our interview ended.