to the
right, as if going to Wavre, and enter the forest by an earth road,
where you'll neither meet waggons nor postillions nor even a ''pike.'
Your coachman will say, 'Where to?' Reply, 'Boitsfort'--which, for
safety, pronounce 'Boshfort'--and lie back and enjoy yourself. About
six miles of a delightful drive, all through forest, will bring you to
a small village beside a little lake surrounded by hills, not mountains,
but still waving and broken in outline, and shaded with wood. The
red-tiled roofs, the pointed gables, the green jalousies, and the
background of dark foliage will all remind you of one of Berghem's
pictures; and if a lazy Fleming or so are seen lounging over the little
parapet next the water, they 'll not injure the effect. Passing over the
little bridge, you arrive in front of a long, low, two-storeyed house,
perforated by an arched doorway leading into the court; over the door is
an inscription, which at once denotes the object of the establishment,
and you read, 'Monsieur Dubos fait noces et festins.' Not that the
worthy individual officiates in any capacity resembling the famed Vulcan
of the North: as far be it from him to invade the prerogative of others
as for any to rival him in his own peculiar walk. No; Monsieur D.'s
functions are limited to those delicate devices which are deemed the
suitable diet of newly-married couples--those _petits plats_ which are,
like the orange-flower, only to be employed on great occasions. And as
such he is unrivalled; for notwithstanding the simple and unpretending
exterior, this little rural tavern can boast the most perfect cook and
the best-stored cellar. Here may be found the earliest turkey of the
year, with a dowry of truffles; here, the first peas of spring, the
newest strawberries and the richest cream, iced champagne and grapy
Hermitage, Steinberger and Johannisberg, are all at your orders. You
may dine in the long salon, _en cabinet_; in the garden, or in the
summer-house over the lake, where the carp is flapping his tail in the
clear water, the twin-brother of him at table. The garden beneath sends
up its delicious odours from beds of every brilliant hue; the sheep are
moving homeward along the distant hills to the tinkle of the faint bell;
the plash of an oar disturbs the calm water as the fisherman skims
along the lake, and the subdued murmurs of the little village all come
floating in the air--pleasant sounds, and full of home thoughts. Well,
well! to