Ladies’ Edinburgh Magazine > Volume 5

A t Home and A broad. 265
usual, my sister went to the kitchen to try if she could
explain to the cook how to make extract of beef. The second
cook, a ' brave Beige,' in white cap and apron, said he knew
aU about it, as M. le dodeur often made it for his patients ;
and sure enough in due time, there was sent into my room
more than a pint of first-rate meat extract, made of beef,
chicken, and veal, so strong that a spoonful diluted was
enough for a meal. And mark this, ye hotelkeepers of
England, who charge extra for a basin of watery beef-tea,
this never appeared in the hill ! On returning from my even¬
ing walk on the digue, I used often to find one corner of
the surgery illuminated by a brilliant lamp, whilst the rest
of the room remained in deep shadow. The light that
flickered on the phials and gallipots arranged on neat shelves
above the table, and on a glass case of weird-looking
surgical bandages, fell in a broad stream on the doctor's
sturdy shoulders and honest old head, as he bent over his
bills and prescriptions. What a picture ! A Teniers in its
homely strength and quaint background, with something
Ptembrandt-like in the deep contrast of its light and shadow !
Mademoiselle, the doctor's daughter, arranged all house¬
hold matters, inspiring the whole staff of foreign waiters
and Belgian women with her own spirit of activity,
common sense, and kind thoughtfulness. Mr. Trollope met
with something like that in the Tyrol, but Mademoiselle has
none of Madame Trolimanns' masterful spirit,—in fact, so
far as it is in her power, she not only wishes to see her
guests happy, but that they should be so in their own
way. The chef is the doctor's son, a handsome, intelligent
young fellow, who, at the end of what I hope proved a very
successful season, was to proceed to Anvers to study art. I
shall not easily forget the picture he himself made in his
beautiful kitchen, turning with ready politeness from the
interesting occupation of saut^ing potatoes, to give me
important information about 'cuivres repousses,' and the
address of his friend, an antiquary at Bruges, where I saw
an exquisite specimen of this art as now revived. There is
something noble in this ascent to the temple of art through
the paths of honest labour and independent exertion. Such
a man does not need condescending patrons or professional
critics to bring him into notice. No; sufficient for him is
' the cunning of his own right hand,' sustained by the
buoyant hopefulness that comes of lofty aspiration, wedded
to lowly duty. Let us wish success to the painter-cook of
Blankenberghe and to all such as he !