Photograph by H. G. Dwight 



THE CLOCK TOWER OF VATOPETHI : MT. ATIIOS, GREECE 



"When the representatives finally dismounted from their gaily 

 caparisoned mules there was a universal embracing, while the white- 

 kilted escort burned more powder. Then, as the fathers entered 

 the court, the bells of the clock tower pealed their welcome" (see 

 text, page 267). 



and stony a road was never meant for 

 wheels — led us almost all the way 

 through lonely woods that were just be- 

 ginning to be aware of spring, first slant- 

 ing up the steep backbone of the penin- 

 sula and giving us romantic views of the 

 ^Egean and certain gray monastery tow- 

 ers at its edge ; then winding down a long 

 amphitheatrical slope to the bay. where 

 Vatopethi stood like a medieval castle. 

 Its distant air of grimness changed as 

 we came down through the olive yards 

 compassing it about. Windows pierced 

 the upper part of the massive stone walls 

 and high balconies leaned out on curved 



wooden corbels. Sub- 

 stantial outbuildings 

 were scattered pictur- 

 esquely among trees, 

 their old slate roofs 

 tinged with yellow 

 lichen and tipped with 

 crosses. The gay 

 mountain water 

 flashed past us in or- 

 derly little stone ca- 

 nals. The very mules 

 we met had an air of 

 mildness, well - being, 

 and dignified superi- 

 ority to their bony 

 brethren from Karyes, 

 which was not unnat- 

 ural of mules belong- 

 ing to one of the old- 

 est, largest, richest, 

 and most interesting 

 monasteries on Mt. 

 Athos. 



Before the great 

 gate, on an irregular 

 stone bridge above a 

 noisy mill-race, stood 

 a cupola which shel- 

 ters an icon of the 

 Virgin. Here all who 

 pass in or out stop 

 and cross themselves ; 

 and here the gate- 

 keeper shook hands 

 with us, took our cir- 

 cular letter, and rever- 

 ently kissed its seal. 

 Then we were induct- 

 ed through a vaulted 

 passage guarded by 

 two more massive 

 gates into the interior court of the mon- 

 astery. 



I could have spent the rest of the af- 

 ternoon in this wide irregular sloping 

 place, overlooked by open galleries, where 

 a domed church, a white bell-tower, and 

 sundry smaller buildings were set down 

 at random among orange and poplar 

 trees. But we were shown up an outside 

 stair, roofed with slate, to the guest- 

 house. The old gentleman in charge 

 thereof, in a rusty black gown and a 

 brown felt fool's-cap, made us welcome 

 in his own room, served us the refresh- 

 ments of rigor, and finally took us to a 



258 



