and Francois Ravelingen, who entered Plantin’s office as proof-reader in 1564, and assisted Arias Montanus in revising the sheets of the Polyglot Bible, is said to have been a great Greek and Oriental scholar, and crowned a career of honourable toil, like Hogarth’s Industrious Apprentice, by marrying his master’s eldest daughter, Marguerite, in 1565.  The room in which these scholars worked remains much in its old condition, with the table at which they sat, and some of their portraits on the wall.  Everything here, in short, is interesting:  the press-room, which was used almost continuously and practically without change—­two of the antiquated presses of Plantin’s own time remain—­for nearly three centuries; the Great and Little Libraries, with their splendid collection of books; the archive room, with its long series of business accounts and ledgers; the private livingrooms of the Moretus family; and last, but not least, the modest little shop, where books still repose upon the shelves, which looks as though the salesman might return at any moment to his place behind the counter.  England has certainly nothing like it, though London had till recently in Crosby Hall a great merchant’s house of the fifteenth century, though stripped of all internal fittings and propriety.  Luckily this last has been re-erected at Chelsea, though robbed by the change of site of half its authenticity and value.

I have chosen to dwell on this strange museum at length that seems disproportionate, not merely because of its unique character, but because it seems to me full of lessons and reproach for an age that has subordinated honest workmanship to cheap and shoddy productiveness, and has sacrificed the workman to machinery.  Certainly no one who visits Antwerp can afford to overlook it; but probably most people will first bend their steps towards the more popular shrine of the great cathedral.  Here I confess myself utter heretic:  to call this church, as I have seen it called, “one of the grandest in Europe,” seems to me pure Philistinism—­the cult of the merely big and obvious, to the disregard of delicacy and beauty.  Big it is assuredly, and superficially astonishing; but anything more barn-like architecturally, or spiritually unexalting, I can hardly call to memory.  Outside it lacks entirely all shadow of homogeneity; the absence of a central tower, felt perhaps even in the great cathedrals of Picardy and the Ile de France, just as it is felt in Westminster and in Beverley Minster, is here actually accentuated by the hideous little cupola—­I hardly know how properly to call it—­that squats, as though in derision, above the crossing; whilst even the natural meeting and intersection at this point of high roofs, which in itself would rise to dignity, is wantonly neglected to make way for this monstrosity.  The church, in fact, looks, when viewed externally, more like four separate churches than one; and when we step inside, with all the best will in the world to make