ANDROS is the second-largest of the Cyclades, and with Tenos forms a part of that chain which on the map looks as if it ought to form a part of Euboea. The mountains are more lofty than those of Tenos, its valleys deeper and more fertile. It boasts of streams which do not dry up in summer time, and its ancient attribute of Hydroussa, or the watery isle, is well maintained to this day. As we coasted along the eastern side it did not look prepossessing, and we shivered when we saw the black mountains, still covered with patches of snow, though March was well on, which we should have to cross in going from place to place.

But on landing the gloom entirely disappeared, for the town is highly picturesque: old houses of all colours are built on a narrow rock which juts out into the sea, and on an island rock connected with this tongue of land by a fantastic bridge stands the mediaeval castle, all now in ruins. Behind this town stretches inland one of the most fertile valleys in the world, and the slopes of the mountains are dotted with villages peeping out of cypress and lemon groves. Andros, in fact, is the best wooded of the Cyclades, and second only to Naxos in size and beauty.

Our letter was to the eparch of Andros, a gentlemanly old man, of a Pariote family; but lodging with an eparch is not repaying on the whole; he is generally a stranger and knows nothing whatsoever about the island over which he rules. He inhabits a large house provided for him by Government and furnished with as few comforts as possible, for he is a bird of passage. Eparch Matzi was no exception to this rule, for his comparisons between Andros and his native Paros were not to the advantage of the former. To his wife Kyria Matzi we shall be for ever grateful, for immediately on our arrival she introduced us to the great Andriote luxury limonakki, tiny green lemons made into a jam, so deliciously soft, and so deliciously sweet, that we longed for a potful and some bread and butter. If you get a treat in the way of jam in Greece it is truly aggravating only to be able to take one teaspoonful, and to have to wash that down with raki and water.

Lemons are so plentiful in Andros that they can afford to make jam out of the little ones. The whole of the southern slope of Mount Petalos, which runs across Andros and divides it into north and south, is one vast lemon garden. Boxes of lemons wrapped in paper are despatched to Constantinople, Russia, and England, and wherever we went we were presented with lemons in painful and burdensome profusion. Of late years a withering disease has attacked this staple trade, and the wealthy lemon-growers of Andros are feeling greatly concerned thereat.

Until a few years ago Andros produced a large quantity of silk, and still a great number of mulberry trees are scattered over the plains and hills; and one is surprised to find many houses of the poorer classes in the town so large and commodious: it is because once upon a time they were constructed with a view to the manufacture of silk. Fifteen years ago disease attacked the worms, and numbers of fine mulberry trees were cut down and lemons planted in their stead; with the fruit of those that are left they make a disgusting potent spirit called mourróraki ^gr, much drunk at feast time, and the cause of many a bloody brawl in Andros. In those days the Andriotes were very superstitious about their silkworms, and a woman who wished to secure a good crop of silk believed it a sure plan to appear stark naked on her flat roof at the early dawn of May morning. This curious custom is luckily not considered necessary for the success of the lemons, and hence it is abandoned, but it reminds one, oddly enough, of that lively picture drawn by Terence, in his ‘Adriana,’ of the women of Andros, which does not credit them with an abundant stock of morality.

With her mulberry trees useless, and her lemon trees blighted, Andros is not very flourishing just now, and that bane of insular Greece, namely, emigration, is going on in full swing; and, what is almost worse, many go to America for a few years to amass a little money, leaving their lands untilled and uncared for until their return. Andros properly managed might be a perfect paradise; corn is good and abundant; it received a medal of the first order at the Paris Exhibition of 1867; almost anything they choose to grow here would prosper with proper management.

We took a stroll round the town soon after our arrival, and were pleased with all we saw. The old town on the tongue of rock is entered by a gateway, and the houses are pretty, having more woodwork about them than is common in these islands; red-tiled roofs are rather a relief after perpetual flat ones. Over many house doors may be seen a ship carved in marble, betokening the occupation of the inmate, just as over the church doors a marble figure of the patron saint is inserted. A narrow street leads down to the bridge, one lofty span now crumbling into ruins, which leads you to the island where the Venetian lords of Andros lived. It is built of a greenish stone, much eaten away by the action of the waves, which in a storm lash themselves to fury around it.

Andros became Venetian property as far back as 1204, when Marco Dandolo took it, and then the well-known Zeno family had it for generations as a fief, the heiress of whom brought it as a dower to the Sommaripas. The Andriotes themselves turned out their last ruler of this family, and gave themselves voluntarily to the Turks. Some of the Sommaripas still live at Naxos.

Later on I walked out into the plain, and was struck with the fertility of the fields; those which are exposed to the north wind have cypresses planted around them to break the force of the ‘king of the winds,’ and they make tall hedges of bamboos, which sway before the tempests and protect the crops. Certainly Tournefort was right when he said that the traveller who leaves the town of Andros will enter upon one of the most beautiful plains in the world. Each garden has its large water-tank, which is worked by wheels for irrigation, and from the hillside to the south, up which we climbed, a coup d’oeil of greater fertility would be hard to find; but the hills themselves are barren and bleak, especially where the force of the north wind is felt, and miles of stone walls, curiously made, with great, big slabs at an interval of every two yards, built around with smaller stones, do not look picturesque.

Lent in all its earnest asperity was now in full swing; we knew that in the interior no flesh could be obtained, so we purchased another fat lamb to take with us. Lent is indeed a fearful season of abstinence. Like the nuns of Tenos, we found many women performing the trímeron ^gr, or three days’ fast, on nothing but water, and for the first week the truly pious would not think of touching anything but vegetables and bread. If an animal falls ill during this long fast they kill it, and pickle it for the Easter feast; every egg that a hen lays during this period is hard-boiled, and put by till the fast is over; so, to guard against starvation, we took with us our lamb and a little caviare, which came in most opportunely. At all times and seasons the Andriotes are most abstemious, and seldom indulge in other flesh than that of pig, except at weddings and feasts. After the feast of St. Demetrius (October 26) the season of the pig slaughter (choirosphágia ^gr) begins; each householder kills one or two, part of which they salt, and part they cut up into little bits, and cover with pigs’ fat in earthenware jars: this they keep for a whole year, and eat as occasion requires. They make sausages of it, and put it into omelets, and cook it with poached eggs; it is invariably green, and tastes rancid, but it is deemed a great luxury, one which at times we hardly dared to refuse.

A good road is in course of construction up the fertile valley along which we made our way at a rapid pace until we came to the village of Messariá, which has a church, of considerable architectural merit, dedicated to the archangel Michael, on a pillar of which we read that it was built in the reign of Manuel Komnenes in 1157. It is of pure Byzantine style, with a dome, and divided, as old churches of that date were, into narthex, middle temple, and holy place. The screen is of white and grey marble, and has on it several carvings, representing St. John’s head in a charger and Constantine’s two-headed eagle. It is a venerable structure, and points to Messariá as having been the second capital of Andros after the abandonment of the early Greek city, and before the modern town was commenced. It was favourably placed for defence high up in this fertile valley, and not until much later days, when the Venetian lords erected a fortress, could it have been possible to dwell by the sea where the capital now is.

Turning to the right we soon entered the paradise of Menites, with delicious streams rushing down the gorge from the mountain side, and bathing it in verdure; luxuriant maidenhair fringed the water mills, and on banks of soft moss we actually found primroses growing in abundance, and we were glad enough of the shelter afforded by the houses hidden away amongst the trees to take refuge from the midday sun.

At Menites we were first introduced to the towers of Andros, a peculiarity of the island, which arose from a constitution which it appears alone to have possessed. Until quite recent years the Andriotes were divided into two classes, the archons and the tillers of the soil: the former generally traced their descent from Venetian families, and each of them built a square tower in the midst of his land, and was a person of authority. There was a curious custom amongst these archons, that the first son who married always inherited the tower and the estate, whilst the others entered monasteries, became schoolmasters, or sought employment in foreign parts: hence Andros is especially rich in monastic establishments, several of which are still in existence.

These square lofty towers form a curious feature in the landscape. Originally they were entered at an upper storey by a ladder, which drew up and secured those inside from invasion. To the lower storey there were no doors or windows, but it was entered by a trapdoor from above and served as the family storeroom. Round the top of the towers were overhanging niches, out of which the beseiged could pour boiling oil and shoot their assailants; but, thanks to the quiescence of modern times, the gloomy aspect of these towers is much ameliorated. Stone staircases have been fitted on outside, to serve as approaches instead of ladders; windows have been opened, and in most of them an air of comfort now reigns.

But the family pride of the archons is by no means extinct, though under a different regime their power is greatly modified. They are exceedingly strict about marriages, and if the son of an archon demeans himself by wishing to marry beneath him the paternal wrath is at once aroused: the young man’s father will say that the girl has used magic to attract her lover, love philters and potions, such as they have plenty of in Andros, but which are discountenanced by the Church as emanating from the devil. In the face of accusations such as these the young man can hardly continue his suit for shame. Many of these little artifices are attributed to the girls of Andros, such as sewing something on the sly into the coat of the object of their desire, or stealing his handkerchief and shuffling it in some mysterious way as they mutter incantations. These are harmless enough, but they know more intricate ones than these, which are brought into requisition if the simpler ones fail, and which are not very pleasing to recount.

Silly Andriote women think, too, that by treading on their husbands’ foot during a certain portion of the marriage service they will command in the household. We were shown one day, as an instance of this, a young woman who had lately married and tried this method on; and so enraged was her newly acquired husband that as soon as they returned from church he gave her a good beating, and now she looks as humble-minded a helpmate as any man could wish to have.

Menites has a church through which a sacred stream of water flows. ‘This,’ said Kyrios Kretes, who was acting as host, ‘was the celebrated temple of Dionysos, where once a year the water flowed as wine in ancient times.’ I privately begged leave to differ from him, first, because there is not a vestige of antiquity in this part of the island; and secondly, because a sceptical nature suggested that a miracle such as this must have been difficult to perform on a stream which runs straight down from the mountain side; if it had passed through a tank behind I could have understood it. No; we must look elsewhere for our temple of Dionysos. Every house at Menites was gay with flowers — geraniums, double stocks, and other sweet-smelling flowers — for without they are sweet-smelling or useful for something a Greek despises flowers. Inside, too, the houses were clean, and for the most part stocked with boxes for the lemon trade.

The household jams of Andros are really exquisite; jams of lemon flower and roses, jams of citrons and quinces; and the honey cakes of Andros are things to dream of; they are made of honey mixed with walnuts and served up on lemon-leaves. Such delicacies as these are commonly reserved for feast days, but we were guests in a foreign land, and the accommodating housewife was proud to show us her handiwork, even though it were the first week in Lent.

We left Menites, with regret, late in the afternoon, and made our way towards the great monastery of Panáchrantos, the richest in Andros, where we proposed to pass the night. This monastery is built on a fearful spot under the rocks of the mountain ridge, to the south of the vale of Andros, so that it faces due north, and in the winter months gets no sun, and is exposed to every chilling blast. As seen from below, it is like a village with a wall all round it, of dull brown stone, and with a whitewashed church rising up in the midst. There were quantities of leafless mulberry trees around it, and a gushing stream which was swollen by the melting snow from above. Inside, it was just like the nunnery of Tenos — intricate lanes and alleys full of pigs and fowls, leading into a sort of agora before the church, where in summer time the monks meet to chat; but now nothing could equal the chilliness of the spot. Evening had come on before we arrived; huge mist clouds rolled down upon us from the mountains, and everything we touched about the place felt clammy and damp. We were conducted down endless lanes and passages to the room of the superior Gregory (igoúmenos ^gr), a tall, gaunt man of very ascetic appearance, which inspired awe. Our comfort was not enhanced by the presence of a madman, who frequently told us that he was king of Andros, and that this was his favourite palace. Superior Gregory apologised for him by saying that there were no asylums in Andros, and that when a man is too dangerous to be at large he is taken by a monastery out of charity. Then again the lay brother, who acted as servant to the superior, had no chin — a most repulsive object to look upon. His duties are to wait on the superior, ring the bells, light the candles in the church, and say ‘Kyrie eleison’ as fast as he can at the proper time; and to fulfil these offices the good monks always chose a man whose deformities would unfit him for shining in any other rank in life.

Though I have visited many monasteries in Greece this was the first time I had passed a night in one, and I must say my curiosity was blended with awe at the appearance of those around me. Superior Gregory looked very cross at us from time to time, and presently I heard that our servant had suggested that, as we were tired and hungry, we should like to cook a portion of our lamb for our evening meal. ‘Unheard-of thing!’ I heard him say. ‘Why, to cook flesh in our monastery during the first week in Lent is against the canons of the Church;’ and feeling that we had imposed our society on them we felt it only right to offer no remonstrances, though when dinner time came our hearts sank within us. Our bill of fare was as follows — First course, a soup of rice boiled in water, and tasting chiefly of the latter ingredient. Second course, a soup of lentils and onions, more substantial than the last, but horribly unsatisfying to hungry travellers. Superior Gregory then graciously permitted us to eat some of our own caviare, and even went the length of producing red caviare, such as the Greeks rejoice in, and kalvas, a Turkish sweetmeat made of sugar, flour, and sesame oil. Such was our meal, which we washed down with generous wine, and as the meal went on the stern Gregory thawed a little.

Our next fear was about sleeping arrangements, and here again our worst apprehensions were realised: we were to occupy a damp cell, no sheets on the bed, only coarse home-spun rugs, and these dripping with wet.

‘Matins will be at four o’clock to-morrow morning,’ said Gregory as he somewhat sarcastically wished us a good night.

‘Must we be there?’ asked I humbly; our tyrant considered a little, and then told us that we might remain in bed if we wished, being heterodox and travellers.

It was the first Friday in the great fast, so matins in the morning would last four hours. ‘Should I go?’ thought I; and when, at four o’clock, I was sleepless and heard the semandron sound, I decided that bed offered no charms and went.

The Greek semandra are curious inventions for making a noise. Each monastery has generally two, one of wood and one of metal; the former is a planed piece of timber, made often of maple wood, about three feet long and nine inches wide. This is hung up outside the church, and the ringer produces his noise by striking it with a wooden mallet. As a rule, the wooden one only is sounded at dawn, but to-day, being a great Lenten service, the iron one was sounded: it is a semicircular hoop, which produces a noise not unlike a cracked gong. I have heard that these semandra date from the days when the Turks refused to allow the Christians to use bells. In the dead of night it was a curious noise, and as I issued forth into the chilly morning air and saw the monks, lanterns in hand, hurrying to church, I seemed to be wafted back into centuries long gone by; the wind was howling and driving large snowflakes against our faces, and on this occasion I learnt the word érgo ^gr for rígo ^gr, ‘I shiver,’ a specimen of Andriote patois which I shall never forget.

‘Amen, Amen, Adam!’ were the words I caught as I entered the church and took up my quarters in a stall (stasídion ^gr) which had no seat, only room for the elbows, and which are represented in some parts of Greece by crutches, on which the infirm support themselves during the lengthy services, for sitting is not allowed.

The church of the monastery of Panáchrantos is a beautiful one, and looked especially well with plenty of candles and oil lamps. The tempelon, or screen, had a sort of dado of rich Rhodian tiles let into the woodwork, and above were six large silver eikons of St. Michael, St. John the Baptist, &c., with all the mysteries of their lives embossed in silver, which were set in richly carved wood, and along the top ran twelve little arched compartments for pictures of the twelve apostles. I had plenty of time for observing all these things as the service went on, and not until it was nearly half over was I conscious of great fatigue and numbness of limb. ‘How can these monks,’ I thought, ‘for ever be chanting their offices and their hours?’ a tedious liturgy followed by a still more tedious life of some saint or hermit, and endless monotone hymns, which jarred horribly on my ears. Then, again, everything is said and sung in an almost inaudible tone by the priests; you strain your ears, but fail to catch many consecutive words; for they wish to keep up the idea of mediation between God and man.

The most terrible things end at last, and at eight o’clock my matins at Panáchrantos were over. I had gone to them voluntarily, so could not ask for pity. I felt very sorry for myself nevertheless, and the chilling effects of Panáchrantos a few days later made themselves unpleasantly felt. I even felt relieved when I found that by no manner of means could we wash ourselves that morning; there is a time when cold water may be repugnant even to an Englishman.

By attending the service I think I went up greatly in the estimation of Gregory, for he was now quite eager to show us over his treasury and to provide us with what food he could before starting.

‘Ah!’ said he, ‘you should come here at Easter or on our feast day, August 15, when we walk in procession round the walls of our monastery, with banners and the silver eikons. It is lovely here in summer — no heat and perpetual balmy breezes. A monk’s life is always peaceful and happy.’

Panáchrantos is a fairly old monastic establishment, though the date of its foundation is uncertain; we, at all events, know that it was old enough to be repaired in 1608. It owes allegiance directly to the Patriarch of Constantinople, and not to the Bishop of Andros and Keos, and hence it is called a stavropígion ^gr, and for this honour it pays annually to the Patriarch an oke of wax.

The silver in their treasury is very fine: a silver arm and hand beautifully embossed has been made to accommodate a morsel of the bone of St. Marina’s arm and finger. Quantities of jewelled crosses and filagree objects for relics; a silver mitre, to contain a portion of the skull of a saint; lamps, &c.: and all these things huddled together in terrible disorder in a room, the window of which had lately been blown in by the north wind, and which, being on the outer wall, would form an excellent opening for an athletic thief. The glory of Panáchrantos is fast departing: the library has been sold, or destroyed by the damp; most of the two hundred cells are empty and falling into ruins, for now there are only thirty monks left. Conscription and education are rapidly striking a deathblow to the monastic institutions in the kingdom of modern Hellas.

Just above the monastery there is a curious pointed rock, to the summit of which nobody knows how to climb. On the top are evident traces of a wall; probably, as Superior Gregory suggested, this was the former home of some hermit, which has been rendered inaccessible by the falling away of a portion of the cliff.

In a storm of sleet, and with a biting north wind behind us, we set out from our somewhat-dreary halting-place on our way across the mountains which lie at the back of Panáchrantos, and divide the vale of Andros from the parallel vale of Korthí. To our left we passed one of those ruined Venetian fortresses on the summit of a rock, covered, as usual, with the ruins of towers, houses, and cisterns of the Latin epoch; and there is the usual saga concerning it about a bloody slaughter which once took place here between Venetians and Turks.

It was delightful to get down into the valley again, into a more temperate climate; and the vale of Korthí, though greatly inferior to that of Andros, was genial and pretty. Not long ago a storm of sand invaded the valley; mulberry trees and cypresses stand quaintly out of sandhills which resemble the dunes of Holland; and the only effectual check to this invasion of sand seems to have been a bulwark of cypresses, behind which the gardens and towers of the Korthiotes have been protected from the destruction which has fallen on the fields outside.

Before entering the village of Korthí you pass a whole row of towers: this spot is called Kampana because the rich family of that name once owned most, if not all, of these towers. They are gaunt, imposing-looking edifices, buried in trees and surrounded by well-stocked gardens, for the Kampana seem to have been one of the wealthiest of the archon families of Andros, and they have still extensive property in the island, called, curiously enough, a feud (féouda ^gr); a singular transplantation of a truly Western word on to Hellenic soil; and the chief families of Andros — Kampana, Kaïres, and Delia Grammatica — though Greek to the backbone now, have a distinctly Latin origin. Another Latin influence in Andros is likewise curious: a baby, before it is christened, as we have seen in other islands, is called ‘Dragon’ or ‘Iron’; here in Andros it is called ‘Paganos,’ or ‘Pagan.’