sense of inventive gusto and expression—­so artistic.  I know not whether it was more strange to find a building of such merit in a corner of a barbarous isle, or to see a building so antique still bright with novelty.  The architect, a French lay brother, still alive and well, and meditating fresh foundations, must have surely drawn his descent from a master-builder in the age of the cathedrals; and it was in looking on the church of Hatiheu that I seemed to perceive the secret charm of mediaeval sculpture; that combination of the childish courage of the amateur, attempting all things, like the schoolboy on his slate, with the manly perseverance of the artist who does not know when he is conquered.

I had always afterwards a strong wish to meet the architect, Brother Michel; and one day, when I was talking with the Resident in Tai-o-hae (the chief port of the island), there were shown in to us an old, worn, purblind, ascetic-looking priest, and a lay brother, a type of all that is most sound in France, with a broad, clever, honest, humorous countenance, an eye very large and bright, and a strong and healthy body inclining to obesity.  But that his blouse was black and his face shaven clean, you might pick such a man to-day, toiling cheerfully in his own patch of vines, from half a dozen provinces of France; and yet he had always for me a haunting resemblance to an old kind friend of my boyhood, whom I name in case any of my readers should share with me that memory—­ Dr. Paul, of the West Kirk.  Almost at the first word I was sure it was my architect, and in a moment we were deep in a discussion of Hatiheu church.  Brother Michel spoke always of his labours with a twinkle of humour, underlying which it was possible to spy a serious pride, and the change from one to another was often very human and diverting.  ‘Et vos gargouilles moyen-age,’ cried I; ‘comme elles sont originates!’ ’N’est-ce pas?  Elles sont bien droles!’ he said, smiling broadly; and the next moment, with a sudden gravity:  ’Cependant il y en a une qui a une patte de casse; il faut que je voie cela.’  I asked if he had any model—­a point we much discussed.  ‘Non,’ said he simply; ‘c’est une eglise ideale.’  The relievo was his favourite performance, and very justly so.  The angels at the door, he owned, he would like to destroy and replace.  ’Ils n’ont pas de vie, ils manquent de vie.  Vous devriez voir mon eglise a la Dominique; j’ai la une Vierge qui est vraiment gentille.’  ‘Ah,’ I cried, ’they told me you had said you would never build another church, and I wrote in my journal I could not believe it.’  ‘Oui, j’aimerais bien en fairs une autre,’ he confessed, and smiled at the confession.  An artist will understand how much I was attracted by this conversation.  There is no bond so near as a community in that unaffected interest and slightly shame-faced pride which mark the intelligent man enamoured of an art.  He sees the limitations of his aim, the defects of his practice; he smiles to be so employed upon the shores of death, yet sees in his own devotion something worthy.  Artists, if they had the same sense of humour with the Augurs, would smile like them on meeting, but the smile would not be scornful.