nquered.

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
originales!_" "_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 faire 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 shamefaced 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