One can be in Rotterdam, or in whatever town one’s travels really begin, but a very short time without discovering that the Dutch unit—­the florin—­is a very unsatisfactory servant.  The dearness of Holland strikes one continually, but it does so with peculiar force if one has crossed the frontier from Belgium, where the unit is a franc.  It is too much to say that a sovereign in Holland is worth only twelve shillings:  the case is not quite so extreme as that; but a sovereign in Belgium is, for all practical purposes, worth twenty-five shillings, and the contrast after reaching Dutch soil is very striking.  One has to recollect that the spidery letter “f,” which in those friendly little restaurants in the Rue Hareng at Brussels had stood for a franc, now symbolises that far more serious item the florin; and f. 1.50, which used to be a trifle of one and threepence, is now half a crown.

Even in our own country, where we know something about the cost of things, we are continually conscious of the fallacy embodied in the statement that a sovereign is equal to twenty shillings.  We know that in theory that is so; but we know also that it is so only as long as the sovereign remains unchanged.  Change it and it is worth next to nothing—­half a sovereign and a little loose silver.  But in Holland the disparity is even more pathetic.  To change a sovereign there strikes one as the most ridiculous business transaction of one’s life.

Certain things in Holland are dear beyond all understanding.  At The Hague, for example, we drank Eau d’Evian, a very popular bottled water for which in any French restaurant one expects to pay a few pence; and when the bill arrived this simple fluid cut such a dashing figure in it that at first I could not recognise it at all.  When I put the matter to the landlord, he explained that the duty made it impossible for him to charge less than f. 1.50 (or half a crown) a bottle; but I am told that his excuse was too fanciful.  None the less, half a crown was the charge, and apparently no one objects to pay it.  The Dutch, on pleasure or eating bent, are prepared to pay anything.  One would expect to get a reasonable claret for such a figure; but not in Holland.  Wine is good there, but it is not cheap.  Only in one hotel—­and that in the unspoiled north, at Groningen—­did I see wine placed automatically upon the table, as in France.

Rotterdam must have changed for the worse under modern conditions; for it is no longer as it was in Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s day.  From Rotterdam in 1716 she sent the Countess of Mar a pretty account of the city:  “All the streets are paved with broad stones, and before the meanest artificers’ doors seats of various coloured marbles, and so neatly kept that, I will assure you, I walked all over the town yesterday, incognita, in my slippers, without receiving one spot of dirt; and you may see the Dutch maids washing the pavement of the street with more application than ours do our bed-chambers.  The town seems so full of people, with such busy faces, all in motion, that I can hardly fancy that it is not some celebrated fair; but I see it is every day the same.