Governors of provinces who retain their position in consequence of having sent satisfactory tribute to the Shah, and ruled with at least a semblance of justice, get presents of new robes on New Year’s Day, and those who have been unfortunate enough to lose the royal favor get removed:  New Year’s Day brings either sorrow or rejoicing to every Persian official’s house.

The morning of my departure opens bright and warm after a thunder-storm the previous evening, and Mr. Mclntyre accompanies me to the outskirts of the city, to put me on the right road to Mijamid, my objective point for the day, eleven farsakhs distant.  The streets are, of course, muddy and unridable, and ere the suburbs are overcome a messenger overtakes us from the Prince, begging me to return and drink tea with him before starting.

“Tell the Prince, the sahib sends salaams, but cannot spare the time to return,” replies my companion, who knows Persian thoroughly.  “You must come,” says the messenger, “for the Khan of Bostam has arrived to pay the New Year’s salaam to the Prince, and the Prince wants you to show him the bicycle.”

“‘Must come!’ Tell the Prince that when the sahib gets fairly started, as he is now, with his bicycle, he wouldn’t turn back for the Shah himself.”

The messenger looks glum and crestfallen, as though very reluctant to return with such a message, a message that probably sounds to him strangely disrespectful, if not positively treasonable; but he sees the uselessness of bandying words, and so turns about, feeling and looking very foolish, for he addressed us very boldly and confidently before the whole crowd when he overtook us.

A few small streams have to be crossed on leaving Shahrood for the cast; splendid rivulets of clear, cold water in which there ought to be trout.  After these streams the road launches at once on to a level camel-thorn plain, the gravelled surface of which provides excellent wheeling.  An outlying village and caravanserai is passed through at a couple of farsakhs, where, as might be expected in the “district of terror,” are hundreds of the little towers of refuge.  This village would be in a very exposed position, and it looks as though it is but just now being rebuilt and repopulated after a period of ruin and desertion.  Beyond this village the towers of refuge and other signs of human occupation disappear; the uncultivated desert reigns supreme on either hand; but the wheeling continues fairly good, although a strong headwind somewhat impedes my progress.  Beyond the level plain and the lower hills to the north are the snowy heights of the Elburz range; a less ambitious range of mountains forms a barrier some twenty miles to the south, and in the distant southeast there looms up a dark, massive pile that recalls at a glance memories of Elk Mountain, Wyoming; though upon a closer inspection there is no doubt but that the densely wooded slopes of our old acquaintance of the Rockies would be found wanting.