Among the curious ideas that the Persians have, is that the presence of a pig in the stable is good for the horses’ health. They say the “breath of the pig” does the horses good, and makes them thrive. I fancy that the real fact is, that the tame pig turns over the “pane,” or dry horse litter, a great deal, and so prevents its rotting, and consequently saves the groom a large amount of work, for he has daily to spread the bed of “pane” used at night in the sun so as to thoroughly redry it. A good groom has always a large supply on hand, so as to give all the beasts warm, thick, and dry beds; a bad groom sells it off to the bath-keepers, and it is burnt by them as fuel.

Almost as soon as I had arrived at Shiraz my groom asked permission to buy a little pig; a tiny squeaker was brought and carefully nursed by him. These wild pigs are strangely thin, and as active as a terrier; they are very affectionate, and show it strongly to the horses and groom, all answering to the name of “Marjahn” or “Coral;” this is the universal appellation of tame pigs—much on the principle that all waiters are William, all boots (or bootses) George, and all chambermaids Mary.

When the horses leave the yard they are accompanied by the pig, who is inconsolable if left alone in the stable, and shows his grief by piercing screams and attempting to scratch his way out. As long as even one horse is in the stable piggy is perfectly happy, and goes on sedulously rooting and turning over the “pane,” which is his continual amusement and occupation, and from which he removes any stray grains of barley.

I marched, when we all camped out on account of cholera, some twenty-eight miles: “Marjahn” never left the heels of my horse, and was able to keep up when I galloped, but anything over half a mile was too much for him; he was not, of course, in such high training as his wild relatives, and when distressed he would commence squeaking and looking up in an appealing manner. He remained with us in camp, never leaving my horses, with whom he was on the best of terms. I often used to put the horse to speed when out for rides, and on “Marjahn’s” beginning to squeak the horse would look round and attempt to slacken his pace, and “Marjahn,” if really left behind, would show great distress. The pig would bathe in the river, and show delight in wallowing and swimming. As he got bigger he used to charge strange dogs who chased him, and was always more than a match for them, generally turning aggressor, and obstinately pursuing them with many grunts and shrieks. “Marjahn,” when a fine young boar of three years, was following my horse one day as I raced him against a friend, forgetting in the excitement the distress of the pig. Our gallop being over, I saw a black spot far away on the plain; it was poor “Marjahn,” who had burst a blood-vessel in his attempts to keep up with us; when we reached him he was quite dead. I never cared to keep another pig, and the groom’s grief was very great.

Another pet I had was an ichneumon, or mongoose; this was one of the large reddish variety, and had been brought from the Persian Gulf; I saw a boy dragging the poor beast along by a string; I gave him a shilling and possessed the mongoose. After the first two days, during which he was very timid, he became very friendly, and soon learnt to come to call.

His antics were most extraordinary; he would climb almost anywhere, and he killed all mice, scorpions, flies, beetles, and moths, also small birds and snakes when he could get them; his great delight was to get into any cranny or hole, and his activity and fearlessness were surprising. I had a large white Persian cat; this poor beast the mongoose was never tired of pursuing; he would erect all his hair and follow the cat, whose steps he would dog for hours; the cat was not allowed by him to eat, for did he once take his eye off his stealthy pursuer, the animal would spring on him, give him a severe bite, and disappear like a ghost under the fender, or in some convenient hole. I had to give the cat away, as he faded to almost a skeleton, being nearly haunted to death. The aspect of the mongoose when on the war-path was sufficiently terrific, the erected hair increased his size three times, while the bushy tail appeared part of the body, and was like a gauzy wedge: every now and then he would give a low growl, and when making his spring, emit a sharp rattling cry that was very startling.

He exhibited great affection to me personally, and would allow me to do anything with him; would cling on my finger by one paw and swing, or sleep on my shoulder as I read. At bedtime he would jump on the table and emit a plaintive cry, attempting to attract one’s attention to the fact that it was time to retire, and on my rising would precede me gambolling to my bedroom, sit on a chair when I undressed, and on my finally retiring jump into his little kennel. The animal was much cleaner than a cat, and made an interesting pet. He never would make friends with the servants, who teased him, or with the dogs, who, after all being smartly bitten in the muzzle, went in deadly fear of him. So tame did he get that on my leaving Shiraz for Ispahan I carried him the fifteen marches in my holster, turning him loose while I breakfasted on the road; at night he slept on the bedding, and when a stranger entered the post-house rooms he used to bolt up the chimney (these chimneys had no soot in them). He had a great fancy for warmth, and would sleep for hours under the fender. On one occasion this desire for warmth was nearly the cause of his death; he jumped into a brazier of live charcoal, doubtless deceived by the white appearance of the ashes on the top; of course the poor beast was much burnt, but I managed to save him, and his affection was, if possible, enhanced. I am sorry to say that his fate was a sad one: the Armenians caught him and killed him for his skin. I was happily able to cause the fellow who did it to be punished. On reaching England I obtained a mongoose of a similar kind from the Zoological Gardens, Regent’s Park: he too became a great pet with us all, but he used to terrify the neighbours, in whose houses he would suddenly appear, and on several occasions I had to rescue him from the clutches of a mob of British boys. He had an epileptic fit, to which he was subject, and died. He too manifested the same extraordinary affection far exceeding that of the dog, and while we had him we never had a mouse or black-beetle. These animals, like the weasel and ferret, are inordinately fond of meat, and it is dangerous to attempt to take it from them, especially if the beast be hungry. Neither my wife, myself, nor my English nurse was ever bitten, and the mongoose, as I knew it, showed far more affection and intelligence than most pets.

Something in an account of Persian life must be said of Persian cats. The fact is, that long-haired cats are very seldom seen; the usual cat is similar to the regular London cat of the leanest variety, and the village cat resembles most the half-starved beasts found in empty houses. Long-haired cats are generally only seen in the houses of the rich, and they are eagerly purchased for ten to fifteen shillings, when good specimens and white, by the horse-dealers, who take them to India in cages; they there find a ready market for them.

The best cats are Van cats, which are not really Persian; these, if well bred, are deaf, and also have eyes of different colours—a pink and a yellow eye, or a blue on one side and yellow on the other. They will not catch mice, show no affection whatever, their hair sticks to everything in spring, and they are in every way objectionable. A few long-haired cats are ash-coloured—these are rare. I saw one belonging to the wife of the late Major Pierson. While Pierson and I looked on, we saw this cat, which was a male, fight with and kill another cat upon the roof. But the cat was tame and almost affectionate to his mistress. The fact is, if you want a Persian cat of the finest kind, you can best get one in Paris, at any of the numerous bird-shops on the quays.

Dogs are not kept as pets by Persians, though they are used for hunting and as sheep-dogs. The greyhound is an exception; the Persians will pet and fondle these animals, and even pay a long price for one. They are of two kinds, the Arab dog, similar in all respects to a small English greyhound, but deficient in bottom: the Persian dog, with longer hair and feathered ears, feet, and tail, with immense bottom, but deficient in speed: these are often crossed with each other. The ears, feet, and tail of the Persian variety are often dyed magenta or yellow, and a sufficiently ludicrous appearance is the result. The “tazzies,” or greyhounds, are not looked upon as unclean, and the term of sag or “cur-dog” is never applied to them. The “toolah” is any kind of dog that is not exactly a pariah, and is much affected by sporting Persians, who attempt to hunt game with him; he is never of any use, and generally is only kept as swelling his master’s importance. These “toolahs” remind me of a curious definition I once heard from a well-known dog-fancier, now dead.

Years ago I, with many other of my fellow-students, used to keep bull-dogs and terriers; it was a common foible enough in those days. My landlady, of course, would not permit a dog of apparently ferocious breed to be kept on her premises, so I boarded my dog with a dog-fancier. This man constantly used the term “tyke” when he wished to speak disparagingly of an animal. I asked him what the word “tyke” really meant: and his definition of a “tyke” comprehends the Persian “toolah.” “A tyke,” he replied, “is a dawg as ain’t no sort of breed, and ain’t no sort of use!” What a number of tykes we see in England, and why do people keep and pay tax on them?

Watch-dogs are kept and kindly treated; they are let loose on the roof at nights. The wandering tribes have some fine dogs—short-haired, tawny, with black muzzles, having all the characters of mastiffs; they are very fierce, and it is difficult to obtain them. Near Hamadan, and also at times near Ispahan, are found big sheep-dogs, of no particular breed, generally long-haired and tawny with black muzzles. These are a match for wolves, and are often savage; of this kind was our big dog “Jarge.”

Monkeys and baboons are kept and trained by the lutis, or professional buffoons, as are bears, and even lions. It is usual when the wife of a man of any substance brings him a son, that these men should bring the lion, with song and music, to the house. The delighted lady invariably gives a present. Should there be any disinclination to give it, the buffoons threaten to loose the lion, which generally has the desired result: if this be ineffectual they carry out the programme, and themselves simulate terror.

They brought the lion to me in Shiraz, and played me the trick of loosing him in my courtyard.

As I had not been presented with an heir, and the joke was very unpleasant, I simply told my groom to let loose my dogs. These flew at the lion, and he put his head in a drain and roared. I afterwards found that he had been starved, and teeth and claws drawn. The lutis were glad to apologize, and quickly removed the king of beasts.

Of pigeons I have previously spoken. Nightingales, goldfinches, talking larks, parrots, singing larks, and starlings, are all seen in cages.

Snake-charmers are not often seen, and then with only a few harmless snakes in a box. The Persians do not like to destroy house-snakes, for two reasons: first, because they say they do no harm; and secondly, because they suppose them to be tenanted by the spirit of the late master of the house. In my first house in Shiraz—an old and handsome one—I was continually annoyed by a buzzing, as of the winding of clockwork. This, I was told, proceeded from the snakes. I, however, never saw one, though the buzzing was frequently heard in all parts of the house.

One morning I heard a great twittering of birds, and on looking out, I saw some thirty sparrows on the top of a half-wall. They were all jumping about in a very excited manner, and opening their beaks as if enraged, screaming and chattering. I was at first at a loss to understand the cause of the commotion, but I saw a pale-yellow coloured snake deliberately advancing towards them from the ornamented wooden window from which he hung. They all appeared quite fascinated, which much surprised me, and none attempted to fly away. The snake did not take the nearest, but deliberately chose one and swallowed him. I, too glad to get rid of one of my buzzing annoyances, got my gun, and, notwithstanding the entreaties of my servants, some of whom wept, assuring me that the reptile was inhabited by the spirit of the late master of the house, I gave him a dose of duck-shot. He was a big snake, some four feet long. I cut him open and extracted the sparrow. After some ten minutes’ exposure to the sun, the bird got up, and, after half an hour, flew away, apparently unhurt. The snake was not a venomous one, nor do we find venomous ones in houses in Persia.

Shortly after, a servant of my landlord came, and took away the snake’s body, and all my servants sulked and looked black for a week. But, on speaking to my landlord, an educated man, he laughed, and simply congratulated me, and told me that the clock-winding snake had annoyed him for years. They are supposed to live in pairs, but I only saw the one, and never heard the noise again.

The wild ass (“goor-khur”) has been kept as a pet, and even ridden; but they generally begin to be very wild before reaching puberty; of course the adults are quite untamable. They are very rare, and do not generally live long in captivity; they are also very fleet indeed, and a very fine mule is produced by their union with a mare.

Rams are kept as pets, and trained to fight, as are bulls. These rams may be seen chained outside the shops of the owners, and on Thursday evenings they are fought, generally for a dish of pillaw. They charge each other with great fierceness, and the one driving the other from the field is proclaimed the winner. The fights are often for considerable sums. The rams wear large leathern collars, having bells attached to them; the collars are ornamented with cowries.

Partridges are often allowed to run in gardens, being fed like fowls; they become very tame; they are the red-legged variety.

There is now a close time for game generally enforced throughout Persia; this is a wholesome measure of the present Shah’s.

One of our pastimes in Persia was gardening, but the dryness of the climate and the great heat of summer render one’s previous experience in England nearly useless.

On getting into a new house, the garden is usually found in a very neglected state. It consists of a number of beds, which are sunk to a greater or less depth in the bricked courtyard.

These gardens are at times of considerable size, the one in my Ispahan house being a regular parallelogram, some fifteen yards by twenty. The place had nothing in it but three or four fine apricot trees. I turned it over to a Persian gardener from the town, who commenced operations by making a raised path six feet wide, lowering the garden itself to get the earth; this path was in the form of a cross, and divided the large plot into four equal beds. These were mapped out into ornamental flower-beds, and sown with various seeds; each bed, containing a different kind, was carefully sprinkled with strong manure, and then the whole was flooded with water from the town watercourse.

Each bed communicated with the other by a narrow trench; some six inches of water was let on to the bed, filling it to the top of the little bank of mould surrounding it; then the opening was closed, and the water allowed to proceed to the next bed. In this way each bed got thoroughly wetted once or twice a week.

The seeds were generally soaked for some days before sowing, often being tied up in a damp rag till they germinated; and, as a rule, seeds sown dry, save very minute ones, did not germinate.

The flowers sown were of the commonest description. They were scattered very thickly, and never thinned.

Convolvulus (Lulufer, or Neelufer), Marvel of Peru (Lalah basi), aster, zinnia of a uniform brick red, wallflower (or Gul-i-Kher, lit. asses’ flower), portulacca (Gul-i-naz-nazi, flower of coquetry), a kind of common cockscomb (Zūlf-i-aroos, bride’s locks), the dahlia and Lilium candidum (Gul-i-Mariam, Mary’s flower)—these two latter were looked on as rare flowers, and of great price—the larkspur and the sweet-William, the China rose (or Gul-i-Resht, flower of Resht), the nastorange, a lovely whitish, orange-scented, single climbing rose, the moss-rose (or Gul-i-Soorkh), of which the rose-water and attar of commerce is made, blooming only every other year, and the single orange and yellow rose, with the narcissus, pink, and the wild Lallah or tulip, formed the principal garden ornaments; while a useful background and edging was made of the Jarroo or broom-plant. This sows itself, and when cut in autumn and allowed to dry, it makes the usual carpet-broom of Shiraz and Ispahan.

The iris, both white and purple, are great favourites; the edges of the trenches had broad beans pricked in in twos and threes, forming the earliest green leaf of spring. At irregular intervals would be a pumpkin or gourd vine, or a vegetable-marrow; here, there, and everywhere were inserted fruit trees; while a few planes and poplars were planted to give shade and rest for the eye. The lilac and vine, too, were planted freely, but without any attempt at symmetry; while little patches of herbs, as mint, aniseed, fennel, parsley, etc., were grown in shady corners. No attempt at thinning out was made; the things came up, and the larger plants grew, while the smaller ones were dried up by the sun. The whole place was flooded once or twice a week.

At Shiraz the gardening was still more primitive; a few orange trees, the border planted with narcissus and a thick jungle of convolvulus, with an occasional rose tree, was all that one could manage.

In Teheran there is a French gardener, and was an English one, to the Shah, but their influence had not been of much avail. Mr. Finn, our consul at Teheran, was very successful with geraniums, which flourish in Persia; but the natives are too careless to preserve them through the winter, or to take cuttings; a flower, in fact, having no real commercial value.

Taking cuttings, save for the tobacco plant, is unknown; but the grafting of fruit trees is practised, also budding.

The Persians well understand the culture of the vine, and large harvests of fine grapes are the almost invariable rule; they never thin the fruit, but keep the vines very closely cut, resorting to a new vine in a very few years.

Manuring in some parts of the country is done on a very liberal scale, particularly in Ispahan, where the traditions of market gardening have been handed down from father to son. The profitable opium crop is now, however, engaging the attention of the Ispahani to the exclusion of almost everything else.

Persia has particularly fine quinces and pomegranates. The latter I have seen of four pounds’ weight. The Ispahan quinces are sent all over the country, packed in cotton, as presents. They give forth a very strong and agreeable perfume, which is much delighted in by the natives; and they are passed from hand to hand, and savoured like a sweet-scented flower. The Attar-beg pomegranates have no perceptible seeds, and their flavour is very delicious. Their variety is great—sweet, sour, or sour-sweet; they vary, too, from white to almost black in the pulp. As the pomegranate flourishes throughout Persia, it seems strange that it is not cultivated in England. It is very handsome as a shrub, and the scarlet bloom most effective as a garden ornament. The fig is small, but luscious, and innumerable varieties are found. Gooseberries and currants are unknown.

In Hamadan the vines are grown on the edges of deep trenches; the snow filling these trenches preserves the roots, while the vines themselves are often protected with earth during winter.

In the south of Persia, and also in the north, the very slightest cultivation is employed, yet in good years the harvests of every kind are very heavy. In all cases it is the abundance, or the reverse, of the supply of water that regulates the amount of harvest. Given plenty of water, the harvest must be large.

The melon has been spoken of in another place. The water-melons and the white-fleshed melons of Gourgab, near Ispahan, are the finest in the world. I have seen melons weighing twenty-eight pounds of the former variety; these were, however, phenomenal.

In the orchards of Ispahan clover is sown under the trees to break the fall of the fruit, which is only plucked when a choice dish of it is required as a present. The usual way is simply to pick up the droppings. The Persian never thins the fruit. I have often recommended their doing so, but on two occasions when I tried the experiment and marked the trees, it did not succeed: the trees where the fruit had been thinned merely giving fewer fruit, of the same size as the unthinned trees under the same conditions and of the same variety.

Nothing can be more delightful than these cool and silent gardens in the summer in Ispahan. The thick foliage keeps out the sun, and the deep green of the short clover refreshes the eye. Tea in a garden, with pipes and fruit, is a pleasant way of spending a warm afternoon. Unfortunately the Persian or Armenian usually looks on a fruit garden merely as a good place to get drunk in, and the frequent sounds of music and singing show the passer-by that this idea is being carried out.

Garden parties are, however, often given by Persians who never touch liquor, and they are as enjoyable a form of entertainment as may be. An invitation to one is generally given without any preparation, as during the paying of a call; it is accepted, and forthwith an immediate start is made. A few carpets and pillows are rolled up and placed on a mule, with the samovar or Russian urn in its leather case, and the tea equipage in its travelling box. The cook, on his pony, takes his whole batterie de cuisine, and hurries to the garden indicated by his master, probably buying a lamb and a couple of fowls, as he passes through the bazaar. The entertainer, his wife and children too, if we are very intimate, the former on his horse, the latter astride on white donkeys, proceed at a leisurely pace in the direction of the garden; while the servants, all smiles, for they enjoy the outing as much as the family, accompany them on foot or horseback, carrying water-pipes, umbrellas, and odds and ends. On reaching the garden, fruit is eaten; then the whole party roam unrestricted among the shady paths while tea is prepared. This is partaken of, and then a musician, or a singer, or perhaps a story-teller, makes his appearance and diverts us all. Or some servant, who has a good voice, sings or plays on the flute to us.

Often a grave and reverend merchant will produce a “tarr,” a species of lute, or a “santoor” (the dulcimer), a kind of harmonica, and astonish us by really good Eastern music. Few will consent to sing; it is infra dig. The nightingales sing merrily, and dull care is effectually banished. In these thoroughly family parties, wine or spirits are never introduced. Chess or backgammon (Takht-i-Nadir, the camp of Nadir Shah) are constantly played for a nominal stake of a lamb or fat pullet.

The party is collected on a raised daïs in the open air, and sit on carpets or lean on huge pillows. Candles are lighted in the lallahs or Russian candle-lamps; these are convenient, as they are not extinguished by wind. At about nine dinner is brought, after innumerable kalians or water-pipes have been smoked: this is eaten in comparative silence; host, guest, wives, and children, all sitting round the leathern sheet which represents a table, and dipping their hand in the platters. At about ten all retire, the bedding of each is spread in a separate nook, on one’s own carpet—all of course being in the open air—and at dawn one smokes a pipe, drinks a little cup of black coffee, and takes one’s leave.

Our host and his guests go about their several businesses, while the women and children and servants generally breakfast in the garden and return home together in the cool of the evening, bringing back fruit and huge bouquets of the moss-rose with them.

These impromptu entertainments are most enjoyable: there is no sense of restraint, and their absolute suddenness, absence of formality, and true hospitality, form a remarkable contrast to the more formal pleasures of European life and the regularity of entertainments which hang over one, till their very thought becomes insupportable. Of course, such entertainments are only possible in a country where the gardens are freely thrown open to everybody.