Our road is level and good for
something over a farsakh, after which comes the rising ground leading
gently upward to the pass. The gradient is sufficiently gentle to be
ridable for some little distance, when it becomes too rocky and steep,
and I have to dismount and trundle to the summit. The summit of the pass
is only about nine miles from the city walls, and we pause a minute to
investigate a bottle of homemade wine from the private cellar of Mr.
North, one of our party, and to allow me to take a farewell glance at
Teheran, and the many familiar objects round about, ere riding down the
eastern slope and out of sight.
Teheran is in semi-obscurity beneath the same hazy veil observed when
first approaching it from the west, and which always seems to hover over
it. This haziness is not sufficiently pronounced to hide any conspicuous
building, and each familiar object in the city is plainly visible from
the commanding summit of the pass. The different gates of the city, each
with its little cluster of bright-tiled minars, trace at a glance the
size and contour of the outer ditch and wall; the large framework of the
pavilion beneath which the Shah gives his annual tazzia (representation
of the religious tragedy of Hussein and Hassan), denuded of its canvas
covering, suggests from this distance the naked ribs of some monster
skeleton.
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