The last was almost a purely ecclesiastical dispatch:  as I generally first take off my cap to the towers and turrets of a cathedral.  Now then for THE STRANGER! ... for it would be cruel to prolong the agony of expectation.  Mr. Lewis having occupied himself, almost exclusively, with his pencil during the whole morning, I persuaded him to accompany me to St. Loup.  After dinner we set out upon our expedition.  It had rained in the interim, and every tree was charged with moisture as we passed them ... their blossoms exhaling sweets of the most pungent fragrance.  The road ran in a straight line from the west front of the cathedral, which, on turning round, as we saw it irradiated by partial glimpses of sunshine, between masses of dark clouds, assumed a very imposing and venerable aspect.  I should tell you, however, that the obliging Monsieur ——­ came himself to the Hotel de Luxembourg, to conduct us to his humble abode:  for “humble” it is in every sense of the word.  About two-thirds of the way thither, we passed the little church of St. Loup:  a perfect Gothic toy of the XIIth century—­with the prettiest, best-proportioned tower that can be imagined.[141] It has a few slight clustered columns at the four angles, but its height and breadth are truly pigmy.  The stone is of a whitish grey.  We did not enter; and with difficulty could trace our way to examine the exterior through the high grass of the church yard, yet laid with the heavy rain.  What a gem would the pencil of BLORE make of this tiny, ancient, interesting edifice!  At length we struck off, down a lane slippery with moisture—­when, opening a large swinging gate—­“here (exclaimed our guide)—­lived and died my father, and here his son hopes to live and die also.  Gentlemen, yonder is my hermitage.”  It was a retirement of the most secluded kind:  absolutely surrounded by trees, shrubs, hay-stacks, and corn-stacks—­for Monsieur ——­ hath a fancy for farming as well as for reading.  The stair-case, though constructed of good hard Norman stone, was much worn in the middle from the frequent tread of half a century.  It was also fatiguingly steep, but luckily it was short.  We followed our guide to the left, where, passing through one boudoir-like apartment, strewn with books and papers, and hung with a parcel of mean ornaments called pictures, we entered a second—­of which portions of the wainscoat were taken away, to shew the books which were deposited behind.  Row after row, and pile upon pile, struck my wondering eye.  Anon, a closet was opened—­and there again they were stowed, “thick and threefold.”  A few small busts, and fractured vases, were meant to grace a table in the centre of the room.  Of the books, it is but justice to say that rarity had been sacrificed to utility.  There were some excellent, choice, critical works; a good deal of Latin; some Greek, and a sprinkle of Hebrew—­for Monsieur ——­ is both a general and a sound scholar.  On pointing to Houbigant’s