Never come into Holland. If Lord Grey solicits you to do so, let him solicit in vain. The roads all paved—inns dirty, and dearer than the dearest in England—country frightful beyond all belief; no trees but willows—no fuel but turf; all the people uglier than ——.
I have had a slight fit of the gout, a warning which shall bring me back sooner than I intended; because it is a question put to me by my constitution, “What business has such an ancient gentleman as you to be making tours, and to be putting yourself out of your ordinary method of living?” I have patched myself up for the present, and am going tomorrow to Amsterdam; I hope to be at Brussels on my way back (either home or to the Rhine, as I feel myself) on Wednesday, the 17th. I find about one quarter of the things worth seeing which are said to be so. For instance, at the Hague (whence I write) there is nothing which need detain an Englishman (who has seen everything in his own country) three hours, and I was advised to stay there three days. The best thing in Holland is the bread—the worst thing the water. A Dutch baker (brood-bakker) would make his fortune in London.
Madame Falk has lately had a paralytic stroke, but is recovered. Falk is ill, I believe, with the gout, and could not see me.
My journey will confirm me in the immense superiority of
England over the rest of the world; and
| 402 | MEMOIR OF THE REV. SYDNEY SMITH. |
