Here am I lying, I Elizabeth, born of an illustrious and ancient family, wife to Morgan, I, daughter of Marnix, a name not unknown in the world, which, in spite of time, will always remain.  There is virtue enough in having pleased one husband, which his so precious love testifies.

The tomb of Antony van Leeuwenhoek, the inventor of the microscope, is also to be seen in the church.  “As everybody, O Wanderer,” the epitaph concludes, “has respect for old age and wonderful parts, tread this spot with respect; here grey science lies buried with Leeuwenhoek.”

Each of the little guide-books, which are given to every purchaser of a ticket to enter the churches, is prefaced by four “Remarks,” of which I quote the third and fourth:—­

3.  Visitors are requested not to bestow gifts on the sexton or his assistants, as the former would lose his situation, if he accepted; he is responsible for his assistants.

4.  The sexton or his assistants will treat the visitors with the greatest politeness.

I am not certain about the truth of either of these clauses, particularly the last.  Let me explain.

The sexton of the Old Church hurried me past these tombs with some impatience.  I should naturally have taken my time, but his attitude of haste made it imperative to do so.  Sextons must not be in a hurry.  After a while I found out why he chafed:  he wanted to smoke.  He fumbled his pipe and scraped his boots upon the stones.  I studied the monuments with a scrutiny that grew more and more minute and elaborate; and soon his matches were in his hand.  I wanted to tell him that if I were the only obstacle he might smoke to his heart’s content, but it seemed to be more amusing to watch and wait.  My return to the tomb of the ingenious constructor of the microscope settled the question.  Probably no one had ever spent more than half a minute on poor Leeuwenhoek before; and when I turned round again the pipe was alight.  The sexton also was a changed man:  before, he had been taciturn, contemptuous; now he was communicative, gay.  He told me that the organist was blind—­but none the less a fine player; he led me briskly to the carved pulpit and pointed out, with some exaltation, the figure of Satan with his legs bound.  The cincture seemed to give him a sense of security.

In several ways he made it impossible for me to avoid disregarding Clause 3 in the little guide-books; but I feel quite sure that he has not in consequence lost his situation.

Delft’s greatest painter was Johannes Vermeer, known as Vermeer of Delft, of whom I shall have much to say both at the Hague and Amsterdam.  He was born at Delft in 1632, he died there in 1675; and of him but little more is known.  It has been said that he studied under Karel Fabritius (also of Delft), but if this is so the term of pupil-age must have been very brief, for Fabritius did not reach Delft (from Rembrandt’s studio) until 1652, when Vermeer