Traditional Uses of Sandalwood/Santalum album

Traditional Uses of Sandalwood/Santalum album


Pharmacographia Indica ...
By William Dymock, C. J. H. Warden, David Hooper



The vegetable materia medica of western India
By William Dymock


The pharmacology of the newer materia medica

A new family herbal: or, Popular account of the natures and properties of ...
By Robert John Thornton



NEW REMEDIES
By EDWIN M. HALE



The national dispensatory: Containing the natural history, chemistry ...
By Alfred Stillé, John Michael Maisch



Wood craft: a journal of woodworking, with which is ..., Volumes 18-19

The Pharmacist, Volume 8

Scent of Travel by Alice Morse Earle from Stage-coach and tavern days

The foot-farer, trudging along the outskirts of the village, is often shut out by close stone or board barriers from any sight of the flowering country gardens, the luxuriance of whose blossoming is promised by the heads of the tall hollyhocks that bend over and nod pleasantly to him; but the traveller on the coach could see into these old gardens, could feast his eyes on all the glorious tangle of larkspur and phlox, of tiger lilies and candytuft, of snowballs and lilacs, of marigolds and asters, each season outdoing the other in brilliant bloom.

And what odors were wafted out from those
gardens! What sweetness came from the lilacs and deutzias and syringas; from clove-pinks and spice bush and honeysuckles; how weird was the anise-like scent of the fraxinella or dittany; and how often all were stifled by the box, breathing, says Holmes, the fragrance of eternity! The great botanist Linnaeus grouped the odors of plants and flowers into classes, of which three were pleasing perfumes. To these he gave the titles the aromatic, the fragrant, the ambrosial — our stagecoach traveller had them all three.

From the fields came the scent of flowering buckwheat and mellifluous clover, and later of newmown hay, sometimes varied by the tonic breath of the salt hay on the sea marshes. The orchards wafted the perfumes from apple blossoms, and from the pure blooms of cherry and plum and pear; in the woods the beautiful wild cherries equalled their domestic sisters.

How sweet, how healthful, were the cool depths of the pine woods, how clean the hemlock, spruce,fir, pine, and juniper, and how sweet and balsamic their united perfume. And from the woods and roadsides such varied sweetness! The faint hint of perfume from the hidden arbutus in early spring, and the violet; the azalea truly ambrosial with its pure honey-smell; the intense cloying clethra with the strange odor of its bruised foliage; the meadowsweet; the strong perfume of the barberry; and freshest, purest, best of all, the bayberry throwing off balm from every leaf and berry. Even in the late autumn the scent of the dying brakes and ferns were as beloved by the country-lover as the fresh smell of the upturned earth in the spring after the farmer's plough, or the scent of burning brush.

Fruit odors came too to the happy traveller, the faint scent of strawberries, the wild strawberry the most spicy of all, and later of the dying strawberry leaves; even the strong and pungent onions are far from offensive in the open air; while the rich fruity smell of great heaps of ripe apples in the orchards is carried farther by the acid vapors from the cider mills, which tempt the driver to stop and let all taste new apple-juice.

In the days of the stage-coach we had on our summer journeys all these delights, the scents of the wood, the field, the garden; we had the genial sunlight, the fresh air of mountain, plain, and sea; and all the wild and beautiful sights which made the proper time for travel — the summer—truly joyful. Now we may enjoy a place when we get there, but we have a poor substitute for the coach for the actual travelling — a dirty railway car heated almost to tinder by the sun, with close foul air (and the better the car the fouler and closer the air) filled, if we try to have fresh air, with black smoke and cinders; clattering and noisy ever, with occasional louder-shrieking whistles and bells, and sometimes a horrible tunnel — it has but one redeeming quality, its speed, for thereby the journey is shortened.

Fragrant Quote for November 30th, 2011 from From a New England hillside, notes from Underledge By William Potts

Fragrant Quote for November 30th, 2011 from From a New England hillside, notes from Underledge By William Potts

I started to explore the woodland road wherein darkness overtook me last week. Passing through the village street, the fragrance of the late apples carried me back at once to the great show at Chicago. You cannot help remembering, if you were not so unfortunate as to have missed it, that the most refreshing experience at the Fair was a walk through the fruit-lined passages of the Horticultural Building, the delicious odour of the ripe fruit appealing more directly to your sense of bien-etre than their magnificent size or gorgeous colour. It is well known, by the way, that the sense of smell awakens the memory and recalls the past through association of ideas more promptly than any other.

Old Indian Story Concerning the Fragrance of Sandalwood

Sandalwood Pavilion


The Fragrance of Sandalwood and How it Saved a Brahmin

The Last Dream of the Old Oak Tree-Hans Christian Andersen

The Last Dream of the Old Oak Tree-Hans Christian Andersen

Fragrant Quote for November 29th from By moorland and sea ... By Francis Arnold Knight

Fragrant Quote for November 29th from By moorland and sea ... By Francis Arnold Knight

ON the northern slope of Exmoor, among corn lands whose rich red melts every spring-time into tenderest tones of green, with white walls and old brown gables showing here and there among green elms and blossoming orchards, there stands a little hamlet, in the eyes of one of its few tenants 'the sweetest village in the world.' He would be hard to please who should think otherwise while sitting, on some bright day of early summer, on the lawn of the old manor - house, under a noble bay - tree ■ covered on every twig with creamy blossoms, whose faint scent is all but lost in the sweet breath of apple blooms from the great orchard near, and in the lavish perfume of the lilac that lends its rare fragrance to the summer air. It is the last house in the hamlet. It stands, as it has stood for centuries, high up under a green belt of woodland that fringes all the moor. Above the dark ranks of firs, the green clouds of feathery larches that crown the lower spurs show the vast brown expanse that farther on grows into the great mass of Dunkery. It is a beautiful spot.

The Geography of Roses

The Geography of Roses

Scent of Bayberry-From an island outpost By Mary Ella Waller

Scent of Bayberry-From an island outpost By Mary Ella Waller

The bayberry, also, has its struggle for existence.

I know a spot on the coast of Penobscot Bay, near Camden, where I have walked along paths that the bayberry overarched. The leaves were long, glossy, rich in aromatic scent — a fragrance that creates in me a wild longing for the sea whenever I catch something akin to its pungency from slowly ascending incense in an inland church or cathedral. '.,

Here the bayberry is a lowly, humble thing. Beaten down by wind, sustained only on sandy soil, it nevertheless makes its own way in time and reaches the height of two or, at most, three feet. Like the pines it is misshapen; it has turned and twisted in vain endeavor to aspire to a greater height. And look at its berries, as if they were contemporary with the cave men! They are wrinkled as if with the passing of the ages, and hoar as if with the frosts of aeons. They are positively uncanny at times. But when a bayberry branch, loaded with its irregular swarms of little, wrinkled, gray berries, the size of allspice, is laid on the hearth and lighted — ah, then they are no longer uncanny in our eyes! They crisp and exude and sizzle as they burn with flame of wax and flash of leaf! Their fragrance rises into the nostrils, and all the concentrated essence of the lowly moorland plant life seems to ascend as in incense from the home hearth.

7

Last Christmas evening I made a bayberry fire, feeding the first large branch on the hearth with another and yet another — and far away in the West there were three lovers of these moors who, with a precious tiny branch, did the same for two households. In the west of the Empire State there was still another hearth from which a little branch of that same bayberry sent its incense-smoke up chimney. And one there was, a lover of the moorland in all its moods and tenses, but without a home hearth on which to burn so much as one wee, wizened, waxen, gray berry — who, nevertheless, enjoyed the flaming hearth fire in spirit. And who shall say that that enjoyment yields less than does the material?

Fragrant Quote for November 28th from Boulder reveries By Willis Stanley Blatchley

Fragrant Quote for November 28th from Boulder reveries By Willis Stanley Blatchley

This morn the heavens wept. Their tears, in the form of rain, fell steadily
for hours and kept me from the trysting place— the spot where nature and I meet and commune, each with the other—the boulder nook on the sloping woodland hillside. This afternoon, therefore, I have come forth to a clump of sugar maples within sight of my usual resting place and am now leaning my back against the straight and sturdy bole of one of them.

The odor of earth, earthy, how it attracts me, rising as it does from the mold in these oak and maple woods. The rain of the morning has set it free. It takes me back to the first warm days of March and April—days of the great awakening—when the thawing soil with its cover of mold yields its penetrating odor. O earth mold, what entrancing odors canst thou emit when the frost king first leaves thy mellowed surface! It is that of earth divine. Pent up for years that aroma has been, but on such days it rises free and subtile to the nostrils of man. It is no wonder that the fragrance of many a flower is distilled by nature from the odors of such mold.

A Study of Children's Interest in Flowers by Alice Thayer

A Study of Children's Interest in Flowers by Alice Thayer

Fragrant Quote for November 27th, 2011 from New walks in old ways: in which relationship with certain humble folk of the ... By Alvin Howard Sander

Fragrant Quote for November 27thth, 2011 from New walks in old ways: in which relationship with certain humble folk of the ... By Alvin Howard Sander

The evening paper comes, but suddenly I have lost my interest in the market page. I should much rather study the coloring of that royal purple Clematis. The mail arrives, consisting mainly of brokers' advertisements of new bond issues by corporations in distress, and unpaid bills; but can't you see the beauty of the lightning playing yonder in that "thunder head?" Now the blessed rain is streaming from the cloud as it approaches fast flying from the west! I know of a promissory note, too, that has to be taken care of somehow during the next three weeks, but, dearly beloved, just scent the infinitely delicate fragrance that the dashing shower has started from the Sweetbriar rose I planted now near twenty years ago! There was a real promise to pay on the part of that tiny rootlet when I set it there one May-time of the days, "lang syne," and here am I collecting all the interest many times compounded! Here am I so overjoyed at freedom once again regained that I am straightway asking you to sit with me beneath the greenwood tree; just child enough in spirit to want to tell you all about it; just guileless enough to imagine that everybody else is as interested in all I see about me as I am myself! Well, you are not compelled to follow just because I am obliged to write.

Jasmine and Cherokee Roses by Withrop Packard

Jasmine and Cherokee Roses by Withrop Packard

Fragrant Quote for November 26th, 2011 from A Labrador spring By Charles Wendell Townsend

A Labrador spring
By Charles Wendell Townsend

To sleep out under the stars in cool, pure air, free from mosquitoes or flies of any sort, to breathe in the fragrance of the balsam and the sea, to be gently rocked by the subdued ocean waves in protected harbours, to be lulled to sleep by the lapping of the water against the boat's sides, by the calls of the spotted sandpiper and the evening hymn of the robin, to awake to the song of the fox sparrow and the whitethroat on the shores, and the love-cooing of the eider on the water, — this was indeed good and productive of heart's content.

The Gaelic names of plants (Scottish, Irish and Manx) By John Cameron

The Gaelic names of plants (Scottish, Irish and Manx)
By John Cameron

Fragrant Quotation for December 24th, 2011 from Field and forest friends: a boy's world and how he discovered it By Clarence Hawkes

With the coming of the sunbeams the scent of the pine needles was quickened into life, and a dozen wonderful fragrances stirred into being upon the puffs of the fresh morning breeze. All nature seemed new and vital, revived and quickened by the sparkling dewdrops that trembled in the chalice of each wild flower and which gemmed the most obnoxious weed as well.

Field and forest friends: a boy's world and how he discovered it
By Clarence Hawkes

Medieval Islamic Perfumery



Islam and Tibet: Interactions Along the Musk Routes
By Anna Akasoy, Charles Burnett, Ronit Yoeli-Tlalim


Early Arabic pharmacology: An introduction based on ancient and medieval sources
By Martin Levey



Medieval Islamic Civilization: L-Z, index
By Josef W. Meri, Jere L. Bacharach


Labour in the medieval Islamic world
By Maya Shatzmiller


Food in medieval times
By Melitta Weiss Adamson


Annals of the caliphs' kitchens: Ibn Sayyār al-Warrāq's tenth-century ...
By al-Muẓaffar ibn Naṣr Ibn Sayyār al-Warrāq, Nawal Nasrallah


Sweet Invention: A History of Dessert
By Michael Krondl



Practical materia medica of the medieval eastern Mediterranean according to ...
By Efraim Lev, Zohar Amar


Beauty Imagined: A History of the Global Beauty Industry
By Geoffrey Jones

Fragrant Quote for November 25th from A literary pilgrim in England By Edward Thomas

Fragrance Quote November 29th, 2011 from A literary pilgrim in England By Edward Thomas

Cowper had been happy in the country before he came to Olney. He used to stay at Southampton. He walked in the neighbourhood of Lymington. He bathed at Weymouth. Above all, he walked with his cousin, Lady Hesketh, when she was still Harriet Cowper; and he particularly remembered walking to Netley Abbey, and scrambling over hedges in every direction. Years later, when he was past fifty, she reminded him of some incident connected with the fragrance on a certain common near Southampton.

"My nostrils," he wrote from Olney on December 6, 1785, "have hardly been regaled with those wild odours from that day to the present. We have no such here. If there ever were any such in this county, the enclosures have long since destroyed them; but we have a scent in the fields about Olney that to me is equally agreeable, and which, even after attentive examination, I have never been able to account for. It proceeds, so far as I can find, neither from herb, nor tree, nor shrub: I should suppose, therefore, it is from the soil. It is exactly the scent of amber when it has been rubbed hard, only more potent. I have never observed it except in hot weather, or in places where the sun shines powerfully, and from which the air is excluded. . . ."

The Witch Hazel Bloom by Charles Goodrich Whiting

The Witch Hazel Bloom by Charles Goodrich Whiting

Franz Abt by Eugene Field

Franz Abt by Eugene Field

When the Wild Grape Blossoms By Augusta Larned

When the Wild Grape Blossoms By Augusta Larned

Fragrant Quotation for November 24th, 2011 The Beanfield by John Clare

Fragrant Quotation for November 24th, 2011 The Beanfield by John Clare

THE BEANFIELD

A Beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet
As Araby, or groves of orange flowers,
Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet,
How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours!
When seething night is left upon the flowers,
And when morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field,
The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers,
And sweet the fragrance which the union yields
To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields.

In the Moon of Falling Leaves By Mrs. Martha McCulloch Williams

In the Moon of Falling Leaves By Mrs. Martha McCulloch Williams

Collecting Bir Tar

Collecting Bir Tar

Fragrant Quote for November 23rd from Around an old homestead: a book of memories By Paul Griswold Huston

Each variety of wood, too, like each flower, has its own delicate and separate scent when burning, as the freshly cut logs have also when lying in the woods. It is no wonder that the perfume of the smoke is so delightful, formed, as it is, from all the influences of the woods, and the air, and the flowers and grass, absorbed and floated away now in beautiful wreaths. The aroma of the vapor from a wood fire is filled with all
sorts of romance and poetic suggestion. When I see smoke issuing from a chimney, and can smell the fragrance from a wood fire, I always feel that I really am once more in the country. It is a perfume which one finds only there. It has the genuine flavor of the woods and meadows.
Whitman speaks of his enjoyment of this feature of the country upon one of his rambles near the Hudson ("Prose Works:" "Days at J. B's.—Turf Fires Spring Songs"):
"As I go along the roads I like to see the farmers' fires in patches, burning the dry brush, turf, debris. How the smoke crawls along, flat to the ground, slanting, slowly rising, reaching away, and at last dissipating! I like its acrid smell—whiffs just reaching me—welcomer than French perfume."
The smoke, therefore, as it comes rolling and puffing in clouds and fumes from the flue, and vanishes into nothingness finally in thin feathery shreds and whitish films, is always a symbol of home and has a human interest. Do you recall Thoreau's poem upon smoke, and what he says of it, in "Walden"—
"When the villagers were lighting their fires beyond the horizon, I too gave notice to the various wild inhabitants of Walden vale, by a smoky streamer from my chimney, that I was awake.—"Light-winged Smoke, Icarian bird,

Melting thy pinions in thy upward flight,
Lark without song, the messenger of dawn,
Circling above the hamlets as thy nest;
Or else, departing dream, and shadowy form
Of midnight vision, gathering up thy skirts;
By night star-veiling, and by day
Darkening the light and blotting out the sun;
Go thou my incense upward from this hearth,
And ask the gods to pardon this clear flame."

A Winter Vagary by William Potts

A Winter Vagary by William Potts

Perceiving Smell

Perceiving Smell

Wild Strawberries by Walter Prichard Eaton


Wild strawberries

Wild Strawberries by Walter Prichard Eaton

Fragrance Quote November 22nd, 2011 from Dumb foxglove: and other stories By Annie Trumbull Slosson

Fragrance Quote November 22nd, 2011 from Dumb foxglove: and other stories By Annie Trumbull Slosson

Perhaps to you there are no mysteries in the wild flowers. They are so simple, so fair, seen at a glance, passed by, or gathered and thrown aside. But to us there were such strange puzzles there. In the spring, when the little linnaea crept over the ground and lifted its pink bells on slender hair-like stems, there came to us from it always the same fragrance, a subtle perfume we could not define. We were sure no other blossom, no other thing on earth, held that odor; and yet it brought us memories, was linked with something we could not recall; it was full of association, but with what? Where had we ever before breathed that aroma of spice, of sweetness, that it should bring us that strange feeling—half sadness, half joy, a memory so like a hope?

And the colors of the flowers—they surely held a meaning if we could but catch it. The speedwell's gentle blue, the bear-plum's pale yellow, the buttercup's polished gold, the aster's lavender and mauve and purple, the cardinal-flower's vivid red, the crimson pink of the wild rose — we knew them all, and almost understood them. One touch, one word, to help us, and the whole world of color would fall into harmony. I think my little girl understood these flower tints better than I did; perhaps because she did not hear or speak as others hear and speak her eyes saw more than most, and she would hold a brightly tinted blossom and gaze into its blue or pink or yellow with such deep content in her strange eyes that I felt she was learning much of the meaning it held.

Fragrance of Apple Wood by CHARLES HOWARD SHINN

FRAGRANCE OF APPLE WOOD.

For The Public.

The old man sat by his fireplace in the mountains, watching with joy and remembrance the swift upward leap of the flames through the pitchpine splinters to the dry apple boughs and the great apple-tree back-log from one of the pioneer Baldwins in the "old orchard," as the neighborhood called the few rows of worn-out trees by the creek planted almost a century before by the old man's father. It was a glorious back-log, more than eighteen inches through and four feet long.

He held his hands out to the warmth and watched the .fire biting into the lesser apple boughs; he took the bellows and blew underneath. "Pretty soon the old tree will begin to tell me stories," he said, breathing in the outward swing of the air from the chimney. Suddenly he caught what he was waiting for—that delicious fragrance of old apple wood as it burns and gives forth its last gift to the world of living folk.

"When I rake out the coals in the morning," the old man said to himself, "this whole room will smell of apples—of May times and of Octobers."

One of the boys came in and hastily opened the outside door. "Grandsire," he remarked, "I don't suppose you can help it, but you always get this room full of ashes and smoke." The old man looked at him quizzically and tolerantly.

"Young fellow," he answered, "brace up a minute and tell me if you don't smell the apple-wood burning. Come close and sniff at it."

"Nothing whatever," said the city-bred grandson who was "home" on a visit. "Just wood smoke, and all sorts of wood are alike, on a fire." Then he went out, leaving the cheerful old man alone with his memories and smiling to himself over the joke.

"It certainly pays to arrive at eighty years," he reflected. "That boy of thirty, speaking physically, can see, hear, taste and smell better than I can. Nevertheless he has not yet attained to the full use of any of his senses. It will come in time, of course; some day he'll be able to bring back old sounds, old scenes, old deeds, the rustle of corn blades, the falling leaves, the faint impact of the snow flakes, the roses and lilies in the gardens that are no more in existence here, but which have become immortal."

He sat by his fire, thinking of the old orchard, the row of Baldwins, the two Westfield Seek-noFarther trees, the Boxbury Eussets, the Northern Spy, the Greenings and Sweetings and cider crabs which he used to prune and cultivate sixty years before. He struck into the burning backlog with the old branding iron from a cattle ranch which he liked to use for a poker, and as some coals fell off, they revealed several large, rusty cut nails driven in a circle. He laughed softly. "Guess those are the ones I put into you, old friend Baldwin, when I was about eight years old. Father told me that it hurt the tree and might spoil an axe or saw later." He tapped the coals with gentle insistence; the apple-wood fragrance crept out.

One of the elder women of the family came in —a busy, cheerful housewife and mother. "I declare," she said, "this room seems to smell so pleasantly. What have you been doing to it, Father?"

"It's just the old Baldwin apple tree," he declared. "Sit down here on this low bench; blow the fire a little, and see what you get." She did so, and caught the apple scent from the heart of the log.

"Why," she declared, "it's really so; I've heard that some people save all the apple-tree wood for just this, but I'd thought it nonsense."

"Daughter," he told her, "there's usually something behind the old tales. It isn't merely an old man's notion. No two kinds of wood burn alike. There's days for pine, days for oak, days for alder and ash, days for cones and bark, days for the sweet-smelling oils of cedar and juniper. This is the last of the old apple-tree logs until another orchard is past its bearing seasons. Bring in the children, Margaret; let them get acquainted with the old tree, and hear its history."

They came in, girls and boys, and sat in front of the apple-wood fire, were delighted with its faint spicy breath and listened eagerly to the talk. Said the ancient of days: "Father came into these mountains over a hundred years ago. He planted apple seeds on a little bench land by the creek, and wrote to friends in New England for scions with which to graft his seedlings. There was no nursery then in all these mountains, and few orchards. We children were so proud of our trees as we grew up. Gardens were scarce, and in their season, sister carried apple blossoms to decorate the little log church, and she wore them to school. All those old buildings and our first old log-house home are gone now. Then, you must know, sister passed away—she was but eighteen years old, the best and sweetest girl in America—and the neighbors came for twenty miles to the funeral, bringing flowers from every garden. But on her breast she wore apple-blossoms that I gathered from one of the old Baldwin trees—perhaps from this very one that is on the fire now."

He came back from the land of memories and looked upon their sober faces. "Children," he told them, "that old flat needs to go in clover and be plowed under for a few years. Then you can plant another orchard there, of more modern sorts, and when those young trees are worn out, your children will have apple wood to burn."

CHARLES HOWARD SHINN.

Fragrance in the writings of Zane Grey

Fragrance

Every once in a while a little breath of wind would bring a fragrance of cedar and pinon, and a sweet hint of pine and sage.

Suddenly the fragrance of blossom was overwhelmed by the stronger fragrance of smoke from a wood fire.

The smells, too, were the sweet, stinging ones of spring, warm and pleasant — the odor of the clean, fresh earth cutting its way through that thick, strong fragrance of pine, the smell of logs rotting in the sun, and of fresh new grass and flowers along a brook of snow-water.

The air was hot, and its odor was that of dry pine and spruce fragrance penetrated by brimstone from the lightning.

The borderman came forward and stood in front of her. Somehow he appeared changed. The long, black rifle, the dull glinting weapons made her shudder. Wilder and more untamable he looked than ever. The very silence of the forest clung to him; the fragrance of this grassy plains came faintly from his buckskin garments.

And mingled with the dry scent of dust was the sweet fragrance of new-mown hay.

Joe had a pleasurable sense of her nearness, and there was a delight in the fragrance of her hair as it waved against his cheek ; but just then love was not uppermost in his mind.

The smell of wood-smoke and odorous steam from pots and the fragrance of spruce mingled together, keen, sweet, appetizing. Then he ate his simple meal hungrily, with the content of the man who had fared worse.

The water ran with low, swift rush; there were bees humming round the autumn flowers and a fragrance of wood- smoke wafted down from the camp; over all lay the dreaming quietness of the season and the wild.

The whipping wind with its pine-scented fragrance, warm as the breath of summer, was intoxicating as wine.

Thin clouds of smoke were then blowing across the fields and the wind that carried them was laden with an odor of burning wheat. To Kurt it seemed to be the fragrance of baking bread.

The air was full of the fragrance of blossoms and the melody of birds.

For an hour I worked. I sweat and panted and burned in the hot sun; and I enjoyed it. The sea was beautiful. A strong, salty fragrance, wet and sweet, floated on the breeze. Catalina showed clear and bright, with its colored cliffs and yellow slides and dark ravines. Clemente Island rose a dark, long, barren, lonely land to the southeast. The clouds in the west were like trade-wind clouds, white, regular, with level base-line.

Venters sought his own bed of fragrant boughs; and as he lay back, somehow grateful for the comfort and safety, the night seemed to steal away from him, and he sank softly into intangible space and rest and slumber.

"I smell smoke," he said, sniffing at the fragrant air.



In the night he awoke, and seeing a bright star, which only accentuated the darkness, and smelling the fragrant hay, and hearing a strange sound, he did not realize where he was, and a chill terror crept over him.

The air was keen, with a suspicion of frost in it, and fragrant with pine and hemlock.

Kurt missed the sweet fragrance of wheat. What odor there was seemed to be like that of burning weeds.



The dead silence of the valley, the dry fragrance, the dreaming walls, the advent of night low down, when up on the ramparts the last red rays of the sun lingered, the strange loneliness — these were sweet and comforting to him.

Once up on the wide, windy slope the reach and color and fragrance seemed to call to Slone irresistibly, and he fell to trailing these tracks just for the love of a skill long unused. Half a mile out the road turned toward Durango. But the Creeches did not continue on that road. They entered the sage. Instantly Slone became curious.

As we climbed out once more, this time into an open, beautiful pine forest, with little patches of green thicket, I seemed to have been drugged by the fragrance and the color and the beauty of the wild.

They were high, a mass of big-leafed vines, flowering and fragrant, above which towered the jungle giants.


Fragrant

This morning we got an early start. We rode for hours through a beautiful shady forest, where a fragrant breeze in our faces made riding pleasant. Large oaks and patches of sumach appeared on the rocky slopes. We descended a good deal in this morning's travel, and the air grew appreciably warmer. The smell of pine was thick and fragrant; the sound of wind was sweet and soughing. Everywhere pine needles dropped, shining in the sunlight like thin slants of rain.

The morning after Betty's return was a perfect spring morning—the first in that month of May-days. The sun shone bright and warm; the mayflowers blossomed; the trailing arbutus scented the air; everywhere the grass and the leaves looked fresh and green; swallows flitted in and out of the barn door; the blue-birds twittered; a meadow-lark caroled forth his pure melody, and the busy hum of bees came from the fragrant apple-blossoms.

But she saw clearly enough to crawl into the pine thicket, through the clutching, dry twigs, over the mats of fragrant needles to the covert where she had once spied upon Jean Isbel.

The evening wore away no more tediously to the borderman, than to those young frontiersmen who were whispering tender or playful words to their partners. Time and patience were the same to Jonathan Zane. He lay hidden under the fragrant lilacs, his eyes, accustomed to the dark from long practice, losing no movement of the guests. Finally it became evident that the party was at an end. One couple took the initiative, and said good night to their hostess.

How many youths, his brother among them, lay under the fragrant pine-needle carpet of the forest, in their last earthly sleep!

He followed her down a winding trail—down and down till the green plain rose to blot out the scrawled wall of rock, down into a verdant canon where a brook made swift music over stones, where the air was sultry and hot, laden with the fragrant breath of flower and leaf. This was a canon of summer, and it bloomed.

That west wind was fresh, cool, fragrant, and it carried a sweet, strange burden of far-off things — tidings of life in other climes, of sunshine asleep on other walls — of other places where reigned peace.

When he again unclosed his eyes the room was sunny, and cool with a fragrant breeze that blew through the open door.

Presently he led the horse out of the willows into the open and up a low- swelling, long slope of fragrant sage.

The sunrise was fresh, beautiful; the morning was windy, fragrant; the sunset was rosy, glorious; the twilight was sad, changing; and night seemed infinitely sweet with its stars and silence and sleep.

The warm breeze came down in puffs from the crags; it rustled in the cedars and blew fragrant whiffs of camp-fire smoke into his face; and presently it bore a low, prolonged whistle.

The cool air, fragrant with pine and spruce and some subtle nameless tang, sweet and tonic, made Madeline stand erect and breathe slowly and deeply.

The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the hunters finished the meal. Then the campfire had burned low. One of the three dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire. Quickly it flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry cedar. The night wind had risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, and it blew the fragrant wood-smoke into the faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired tc move.

She lay down to rest and think. It was really very pleasant here. There were birds nesting in the chinks; a ground-squirrel ran along one of the logs and chirped at her; through an opening near her face she saw a wild rose-bush and the green slope of the gulch; a soft, warm, fragrant breeze blew in, stirring her hair. How strange that there could be beautiful and pleasant things here in this robber den; that time was the same here as elsewhere; that the sun shone and the sky gleamed blue.

The spot was green, fragrant, shady, bright with flowers, musical with murmuring water.

The dawn streamed in bright and sweetly fragrant. The wheat-fields seemed a rosy gold, and all that open slope called to her thrillingly of the beauty of the world and the happiness of youth.

I trailed the swift, murmuring stream to its source on the dark green slope where there opened up a big hole bordered by water-cress, long grass, and fragrant mint.


Venters sought his own bed of fragrant boughs; and as he lay back, somehow grateful for the comfort and safety, the night seemed to steal away from him, and he sank softly into intangible space and rest and slumber.

"I smell smoke," he said, sniffing at the fragrant air.


The sky was now turning from gray to blue; stars had begun to lighten the earlier blackness; and from the wide flat sweep before him blew a cool wind, fragrant with the breath of sage.


They were high, a mass of big-leafed vines, flowering and fragrant, above which towered the jungle giants.

In the night he awoke, and seeing a bright star, which only accentuated the darkness, and smelling the fragrant hay, and hearing a strange sound, he did not realize where he was, and a chill terror crept over him.

The air was keen, with a suspicion of frost in it, and fragrant with pine and hemlock

So, in conclusion, let me repeat that if you are a fisherman of any degree, and if you aspire to some wonderful experiences with the great and vanishing game fish of the Pacific, and if you would love to associate with these adventures some dazzling white hot days, and unforgetable cool nights where your eyelids get glued with sleep, and the fragrant salt breath of the sea, its music and motion and color and mystery and beauty—then go to Avalon before it is too late.

It's dusty and hot there. Come. Ill take you where it's nice and cool." "Thank you. I'll be glad to." She led him to a green, fragrant nook, where a bench with cushions stood half -hidden under heavy foliage.

The day passed lazily, with all of us resting on the warm, fragrant pine-needle beds, or mending a rent in a coat, or working on some camp task impossible of commission on exciting days.

He rode with Mescal behind the flock; he hunted hour by hour, crawling over the fragrant brown mats of cedar, through the sage and juniper, up the grassy slopes.

It was with ever-increasing pleasure that Madeline walked through acres of ground once bare, now green and bright and fragrant.

The spot was green, fragrant, shady, bright with flowers, musical with murmuring water.

And then she hid her face in the fragrant thickness that seemed to force a whisper from her.

The breeze brought fragrant smell of fresh-cut alfalfa and the rustling song of the wheat.

Kurt had felt this when, as a boy, he had begged to be allowed to try his hand; he liked the shifty cloud of fragrant chaff, now and then blinding and choking him; and he liked the steady, rhythmic tramp of hoofs and the roaring whir of the great complicated machine.

Here were hard, smooth roads, and Anderson sped his car miles and miles through a country that was a verdant fragrant bower, and across bright, shady streams and by white little hamlets.

Smell

The smells, too, were the sweet, stinging ones of spring, warm and pleasant — the odor of the clean, fresh earth cutting its way through that thick, strong fragrance of pine, the smell of logs rotting in the sun, and of fresh new grass and flowers along a brook of snow-water.

The morning air was cool, and dry as toast; the smell of pitch-pine choked my nostrils.

Thereupon Jean proceeded with the utmost stealth, absolutely certain that he would miss no sound, movement, sign, or anything unnatural to the wild peace of the canon. And his first sense to register something was his keen smell.

I was tired out, but the red-embered camp-fire, the cool air, the smell of wood-smoke, and the white stars kept me awake awhile.

About noon the following day, the horses whinnied, and the mules roused out of their tardy gait. " They smell water," said Emmett. And despite the heat, and the sand in my nostrils, I smelled it, too.

A blast as from a furnace smote Hare from this open break in the wall. The air was dust-laden, and carried besides the smell of dust and the warm breath of desert growths, a dank odor that was unpleasant.

The tents of the workers, some new and white, others soiled and ragged, stretched everywhere; large tents belched smoke and resounded with the ring of hammers on anvil; soldiers stood on guard; men, red-shirted and blue-shirted, swarmed as thick as ants; in a wide hollow a long line of horses, in double row, heads together, pulled hay from a rack as long as the line, and they pulled and snorted and bit at one another; a strong smell of hay and burning wood mingled with the odor of hot coffee and steaming beans; fires blazed on all sides; under another huge tent, or many tents without walls, stretched wooden tables and benches; on the scant sage and rocks and brush, and everywhere upon the tents, lay in a myriad of colors and varieties the lately washed clothes of the toilers; and through the wide street of the camp clattered teams and swearing teamsters, dragging plows with clanking chains and huge scoops turned upside down.

The air was thick, oppressive, rank with the smell of cattle and of burning hide. Madeline began to sicken. She choked with dust, was almost stifled by the odor.

Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage. Remounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrant wind in his face.

If Wetzel and Joe were far distant from the cave, as was often the case, they made camp in the open woods, and it was here that Joe's contentment was fullest. Twilight shades stealing down over the camp-fire; the cheery glow of red embers; the crackling of dry stocks; the sweet smell of wood smoke, all had for the lad a subtle, potent charm.

The sun was yet high, and a dazzling white light enveloped valleys and peaks. He felt that the wonderful sunshine was the dominant feature of that arid region. It was like white gold. It had burned its color in a face he knew. It was going to warm his blood and brown his skin. A hot, languid breeze, so dry that he felt his lips shrink with its contact, came from the desert; and it seemed to smell of wide-open, untainted places where sand blew and strange, pungent plants gave a bitter-sweet tang to the air.

A fragrant, dry, wheaty smell, mingled with dust, came on the soft summer breeze, and a faint silken rustle.

Pipes ran in all directions; huge tanks loomed up everywhere; puffs of smoke marked the pumping-engines sheltered in little huts; the ground was black and oily, and the smell of oil overpowering

The waves broke over the end of the canoe, splashing me in the face so I could taste and smell the salt.

When he climbed the dirty dark stairway up to the second floor, a throng of memories returned with the sensations of creaky steps, musty smell, and dim light.

Now I have come back to these walled valleys — to the smell of pinon, to the flowers in the nooks, to the wind on the heights, to the silence and loneliness and beauty.

When such thoughts came he went back to pure sensations, the great, bold peaks looming dark, the winding, level road-bed, the smoky desert-land, reflecting heat, the completed track and gangs of moving men like bright ants in the sunlight, and the exhaust of the engines, the old song, "Drill, ye terriers, drill!" the ring and crash and thud and scrape of labor, the whistle of the seeping sand on the wind, the feel of the heavy sledge that he could wield as a toy, the throb of pulse, the smell of dust and sweat, the sense of his being there, his action, his solidarity, his physical brawn—once more manhood.

She could smell the fragrance of apples, of new-mown hay, and she could hear the low murmur of running water.

Then he lay prone, gasping and choking, almost blind, but sensitive to the rain of gravel and debris, the fearful cries of terrified men, taste of smoke and dust, and the rank smell of exploded gasolene

In fact I loved the smell and color of wood- smoke, in spite of the fact that it made my eyes smart.

Incense

There was smoky haze in the valleys, a fleecy cloud resting over the peaks, a sailing eagle in the blue sky, silence that was the unbroken silence of the wild heights, and a soft wind laden with incense of pine.


Perfume

Lucy gazed before her under the pines. It was a beautiful forest, with trees standing far apart, yet not so far but that their foliage intermingled. A dry fragrance, thick as a heavy perfume, blew into her face. She could not help but think of fire—how it would race through here, and that recalled Joel Creech's horrible threat. Lucy shuddered and put away the memory.

A fragrant perfume was wafted upward to him.

The cold air bore a sweet perfume — whether of flowers or fruit Dick could riot tell.

Madeline looked abroad over these lands and likened the change in them and those who lived by them to the change in her heart. It may have been fancy, but the sun seemed to be brighter, the sky bluer, the wind sweeter, j Certain it was that the deep green of grass and garden was not fancy, nor the white and pink of blossom, nor the blaze and perfume of flower, nor the sheen of lake and the fluttering of new-born leaves.

The air was close, warm, and sweet with perfume of flowers

odor


Odor of pine needles mingled with the other dry smells that made the wind pleasant to Jean.

A blue smoke curling lazily from the stone chimney of his cabin, showed that Sam had made the kitchen fire, and a little later a rich, savory odor gave pleasing evidence that his wife was cooking breakfast.

She was almost breathless when she reached Colonel Zane's house, and hesitated on the step before entering. Summoning her courage she. pushed open the door. The first thing that struck her after the bright light was the pungent odor of strong liniment.

Thick-driving belts of smoke traveled by on the wind, and with it came a strong, pungent odor of burning wood.

A faint old musty odor penetrated his nostrils.

The dawn was fresh and cool, with sweet odor of sage on the air; the jays were squalling their annoyance at this early disturber of their grove; the east was rosy above the black range and soon glowed with gold and then changed to fire.

The breeze carried a dry odor of sand and grass.

And on the puffs of smoke that blew toward her came the sweet, pungent odor of burning cedar.

Fragrance Quote November 21st 2011 from Life in Prairie Land By Eliza W. Farnham

Life in Prairie Land
By Eliza W. Farnham

About three miles from our village is an orchard, which has been cultivated these many years by the widow of the original proprietor. It is the only one in the vicinity, and the old lady's name is therefore well known. And though no two words could be more unlike in orthography and sound than her own name and that of the fruit she sold, yet to me the former was always synonymous with apples. You could not hear or speak it without having your mouth water for the delicious fruit with which it thus became associated. The old lady was much patronized by our villagers and the settlers on adjacent farms. She lived quite neatly in a half-framed house, which you had to circumvent in order to enter it, there being three doors in the rear, but none on the roadward-side. (I avoid saying front, to be exact in the use of words.) The grounds contiguous to the house had at certain seasons of the year rare beauty and richness. A stream of some magnitude swept in a crescent form around the orchard-clad hill, on which it stood. Across the road this hill sloped downward to the stream in a smooth green lawn, dotted with trees. On either hand from the house and skirting the bank of the stream in front of it, was a dense grove of the peach, the apple, and wild-crab apple-trees. About the first of June these were in full bloom, and no perfume of Araby could excel their sweetness, no floral display, their beauty. As you approached the spot after sunset, when the light dews just moistened the blooming boughs, and the evening winds swept over them, the whole air was laden with their fragrance; and when you gained the summit of the hill and looked down upon the nodding clusters of blossoms, set, as it were, in the tender green of the forest trees towering above them, nothing could be conceived more beautiful. Many a pleasant twilight ride have we enjoyed, lingering through the paths of this blossoming wilderness, inhaling its delicious odors, and gazing on its unequaled beauty. I remember one evening, when the sounds of bells seemed coming up from the grove below our path to greet us : they advanced slowly ; and we almost stopped in admiration of the gorgeous sunset above and the wealth of the foliage lavished around. Presently the sounds became more distinct, and a large Pennsylvania wagon with a top of snowy whiteness emerged from the green wood. It was an emigrant family —a group of the happiest faces and the cleanest persons one often finds among them. This was a favorite camping ground,—and we lingered watching them till their supper fires shone in the advancing darkness, and then reluctantly turned our horses' heads homeward. How I envied those people !—to lie down there, bathed in the calm, pure air of a June night, the dropping petals strewing their place of rest, the clear brooklet murmuring to their sleep ; who could submit patiently to imprisonment within four walls, as dull then as if nature were not doing her best in grove, plain, and sky to induce us to leave them!

Fragrant Quote for December 3rd, 2011 from A Boyhood Alongshore by Frank Tooker

Fragrant Quote for December 3rd, 2011 from A Boyhood Alongshore by Frank Tooker

The scent of the sea and the smells of the shipyards as they come up to me in the memory of far-off summer mornings! Many names and faces have grown dim, but these are as keen and clear as when a boy I breathed them in with delight as I took the steep road from my father's house and came speedily to the seats of romance.

These scents were the genii loci, the tutelary presences that guarded the mysteries that set us apart from the more prosaic world. We caught the scent of the sea first, which lay at the very foot of the street. There we turned sharply to the right, where one branch of the road led down to an old wharf, and the other passed on to the shipyards. At the junction stood a bucket-and-chain well, where we always stopped to drink. In front of the well lay a marine railway, where in retrospection I always see a team of horses plodding round and round before the bar of the windlass that almost imperceptibly drew a dingy hull from the water, I catch the swish of the brooms of men who stand under her as she slowly emerges, scrubbing away the barnacles and ocean slime. Everywhere about us in this region the earth was carpeted with chips, some darkened with age and dropping away into a woody dust, but some bright and freshly cut, still redolent with the odor of their special woods. We caught the odor of tar from long stretches of standing rigging, the pungent scent of coils of hempen cordage, the smell of tar and fresh paint. About us sounded the slurring chip-chip of adzes trimming the timbers along the chalked lines, the slow, loud clang of sledge-hammers driving home the iron bolts, the mellow ring of calkers' irons
and mallets echoing on the hollow decks, the thundering fall of a great piece of timber as the cant-hooks tumbled it down from the piled logs. We watched the slow rising of the great shears, and the stepping of masts. It was all a preparation for adventure in which we never lost interest.

The Odor of Red Clover by W. S. Blatchley

The Odor of Red Clover by W. S. Blatchley

Fragrant Quote for November 20th, 2011 from Alice Lorraine: a tale of the South Downs By Richard Doddridge Blackmore

Fragrant Quote for November 20th, 2011 from Alice Lorraine: a tale of the South Downs By Richard Doddridge Blackmore

The last glance of sunset was being reflected under the eaves of twilight when these two came to their home and comfort in the bay of the quiet land. From the foot of the steep white cliff,the green sward spread itself with a gentle slope, and breaks of roughness here and there, until it met the depth of corn-land, where the feathering bloom appeared—for the summer was a hot one— reared upon its jointed stalk, and softened into a silver-gray by the level touch of evening. The little powdered stars of wheat bloom could not now be seen, of course; neither the quivering of the awns, nor that hovering radiance, which in the hot day moves among them. Still the scent was on the air, the delicate fragrance of the wheat, only caught by waiting for it, when the hour is genial.

Fragrance Quote November 19th, 2011-Mountains of California by John Muir

Fragrance Quote November 19th, 2011-Mountains of California by John Muir

I kept my lofty perch for hours, frequently closing my eyes to enjoy the music by itself, or to feast quietly on the delicious fragrance that was streaming past. The fragrance of the woods was less marked than that produced during warm rain, when so many balsamic buds and leaves are steeped like tea; but, from the chafing of resiny branches against each other, and the incessant attrition of myriads of needles, the gale was spiced to a very tonic degree. And besides the fragrance from these local sources there were traces of scents brought from afar. For this wind came first from the sea, rubbing against its fresh, briny waves, then distilled through the redwoods, threading rich ferny gulches, and spreading itself in broad undulating currents over many a flower-enameled ridge of the coast mountains, then across the golden plains, up the purple foot-hills, and into these piny woods with the varied incense gathered by the way.

Floral Clocks by Rebecca Rupp

Floral Clocks by Rebecca Rupp

Physiology of Olfaction by Donald Leopold

Physiology of Olfaction by Donald Leopold

Old Recipes for Eau de Cologne

Encyclopedia of practical receipts and processes: containing over 6400 receipts
By William Brisbane Dick


Perfumes and their preparation: Containing complete directions for making ...
By George William Askinson


Practical hand-book of toilet preparations and their uses: Also recipes for ...
By Joseph A. Begy


From Good Housekeeping

A cyclopaedia of practical receipts
By Arnold James Cooley

Old Recipes for Jockey Club Perfume

Old Recipes for Jockey Club Perfume

Practical hand-book of toilet preparations and their uses:
By Joseph A. Begy



Perfumes and cosmetics
By George William Askinson


Yearbook of pharmacy: comprising abstracts of papers relating to pharmacy ...


Godey's magazine, Volume 56
edited by Louis Antoine Godey, Sarah Josepha Buell Hale



Perfumery and kindred arts: A comprehensive treatise on perfumery
By Richard S. Cristiani

Fragrance Quote for November 18th, 2011 from Eliza Cook's journal, Volume 2 edited by Eliza Cook

Fragrance Quote for November 18th, 2011 from Eliza Cook's journal, Volume 2 edited by Eliza Cook

The golden blossom of the furze and the broom render the aspect of the moorland extremely brilliant. The furze or gorse (Ulex Europ&us,) is a very valuable plant to the cottager. The furze is an evergreen, and its flowers last from May till summer is ended; and even during sharp frost it often bravely puts forth a few blossoms, to cheer the landscape. The furze is used to a great extent for hedges, and for fuel; it is often gathered from the heath, and stacked up at the cottage door during winter. It is very plentiful in Devonshire, and large quantities were formerly cultivated there for fuel and for the feeding of cattle. Cows are particularly fond of the young tops; at Birmingham there are several large dairy establishments in which gorse is used as an article of food. There is a small steam engine attached to each, by which the gorse is crushed to a pulp, and in that state is given to the cows, which soon become extremely fond of it. We have seen a thriving flock of goats which were fed entirely on furze, and we have been informed that plough horses may be kept in good condition upon it. It is highly useful to the birds, who soon clear away its numerous pods, and the bees get a good store of honey from its fragrant flowers. The summer wind comes from the wide moor laden with the refreshing fragrance of this plant, and many a weary traveller has been soothed and comforted thereby. And notwithstanding the riches of the conservatory, and the wonders of foreign climes, the furze is still one of the most beautiful of flowers; and breathing as it does, on the wide moorland, or on the bonny hedgerows the true language of home, and adding by its beauty to the scenery of happy England, it must be ever mingled with the most holy aspirations of the soul; and in its sweet and rugged simplicity fitted to become a hallowed blessing for the heart.

Fragrance Quote November 18th, 2011 from The land of little rain By Mary Hunter Austin

The land of little rain
By Mary Hunter Austin

Out West, the west of the mesas and the unpatented hills, there is more sky than any place in the world. It does not sit flatly on the rim of earth, but begins somewhere out in the space in which the earth is poised, hollows more, and is full of clean winey winds. There are some odors, too, that get into the blood. There is the spring smell of sage that is the warning that sap is beginning to work in a soil that looks to have none of the juices of life in it; it is the sort of smell that sets one thinking what a long furrow the plough would turn up here, the sort of smell that is the beginning of new leafage, is best at the plant's best, and leaves a pungent trail where wild cattle crop. There is the smell of sage at sundown, burning sage from campoodies and sheep camps, that travels on the thin blue wraiths of smoke; the kind of smell that gets into the hair and garments, is not much liked except upon long acquaintance, and every Paiute and shepherd smells of it indubitably. There is the palpable smell of the bitter dust that comes up from the alkali flats at the end of the dry seasons, and the smell of rain from the wide-mouthed canons. And last the smell of the salt grass country, which is the beginning of other things that are the end of the mesa trail.

Fragrant Quote for November 17th from Ishbel Aberdeen

Have you ever caught the scent of the clover as you were whirled away by the train beyond the city on a summer's day and sped through the rich pasture lands? And do you remember how you stepped forth at the first halting-place to secure a sprig of the sweet, homely flower that had spoken to you so eloquently in its own language, and now you pressed it in your book? Does not its perfume remain with you till this day? And every now and then a fragrance is wafted to our inner senses as we read some simple story which is to us as a bream of the clover, bringing us a message of sweetness and beauty, and going straight to our hearts with the power that belongs to the secrets which lie hidden at our life's core. And this sweet prairie idyll is surely one of those fragrant messages which lays its hold on us as we pause for a moment in the midst of our fevered lives and anxious thoughts, and step across the threshold of that chamber where we must needs put our shoes from off our feet, for the place whereon we stand is holy ground. And as we press on again to life's duties, may we bear with us something of the precious perfume diffused by plants which are divine in their origin and which must be divine in their influence.
ISHBEL ABERDEEN

Wild Plants of Glasgow

Wild Plants of Glasgow

The Mimosa Road of Provence

The Mimosa Road of Provence

Slide Show and Map of Mimosa Road

Essence of Peppermint, a History of the Medicine and its Bottle

Essence of Peppermint,
a History of the Medicine
and its Bottle

Frangipani Perfume-Old recipes

Frangipani Perfume-Old recipes

Geranium harvest and distillation in Reunion Islands

Geranium harvest and distillation in Reunion Islands



Fragrant Quotation for November 16th,2011 from Edge of the Jungel by William Beebe

Fragrant Quotation for November 16th,2011 from Edge of the Jungel by William Beebe

All odor evaded me until I had recourse to my usual olfactory crutch, placing the flower in a vial in the sunlight. Delicate indeed was the fragrance which did not yield itself to a few minutes of this distillation. As I removed the cork there gently arose the scent of thyme, and of rose petals long pressed between the leaves of old, old books—a scent memorable of days ancient to us, which in past lives of sedges would count but a moment. In an instant it passed, drowned in the following smell of bruised stem. But I had surprised the odor of this age-old growth, as evanescent as the faint sound of the breeze sifting through the cluster of leafless stalks. I felt certain that Eryops, although living among horserushes and ancient sedges, never smelled or listened to them, and a glow of satisfaction came over me at the thought that perhaps I represented an advance on this funny old forebear of mine; but then I thought of the little bees, drawn from afar by the scent, and I returned to my usual sense of human futility, which is always dominant in the presence of insect activities.

A Stalk of Mignonette by Abram Linwood Urban

A Stalk of Mignonette by Abram Linwood Urban

Fragrance Quote November 15h, 2011 from Hetty's strange history By Helen Hunt Jackson

Hetty's strange history
By Helen Hunt Jackson

He entered St. Mary's as Hetty had done, just at sunset. It was a warm night in June; and, after his tea at the little inn, Dr. Eben sauntered out listlessly. The sound of merry voices in the Square repelled him; unlike Hetty, he shrank from strange faces: turning in the direction where it seemed stillest, he walked slowly towards the woods. He looked curiously at the little red chapel, and at Father Antoine's cottage, now literally embedded in flowers. Then he paused before Hetty's tiny house. A familiar fragrance arrested him; leaning on the paling he looked over into the garden, started, and said, under his breath: "How strange! How strange!" There were long straight beds of lavender and balm, growing together, as they used to grow in the old garden at "Gunn's." Both the balm and the lavender were in full blossom; and the two scents mingled and separated and mingled in the warm air, like the notes of two instruments unlike, yet in harmony. The strong lemon odor of the balm, was persistently present like the mastering chords of the violo and cello, and the fine and subtle fragrances from the myriad cells of the pale lavender floated above and below, now distant, now melting and disappearing, like a delicate melody. Dr. Eben was borne away from the present, out of himself. He thrust his hand through the palings, and gathered a crushed handful of the lavender blossoms: eagerly he inhaled their perfume. Drawers and chests at "Gunn's" had been thick strewn with lavender for half a century. All Hetty's clothes — Hetty herself — had been full of the exquisite fragrance. The sound of quick pattering steps roused him from his reverie. A bare-footed boy was driving a flock of goats past. The child stopped and gazed intently at the stranger.

The Odor of the Gods Christopher Bamford

The Odor of the Gods
Christopher Bamford

Sandalwood Australia

Fragrance Quote November 14th, 2011-Sir Edwin Arnold from India Revisited

Fragrance Quote November 14th, 2011-Sir Edwin Arnold from India Revisited

In the tosha-khana were numberless chests of teak bound with iron—containing the surplus funds of Ulwur in rupees and gold mohurs—elephant trappings, gilded saddles and bridles, dresses of honour, costly shawls, and the jewels of the Koyal Household. The glories of these latter were exhibited amid a crowd of proud and respectful Eajput guards and attendants. There was a diamond worth £ 10,000, and two emeralds of prodigious size, with Persian couplets carved upon their lucent green, which might have made any feminine breast glow with passionate desire, not to mention a rope of pearls, for which the seas of Ormuz and of Lanka must have been ransacked. The ToshaKhana also buys and stores perfumes; and the dark little treasure-chamber was sweet and subtle with all sorts of essences, laid up for State occasions and for the pleasuring of the zenana, in flasks, jars, and little leathern dubbas. Here was the Majmuah—"all the sweetnesses" and Rahat-i-Ruh—" comforts of the soul," with attar, the real rose-scent, a greenish yellow oil, of which a lakh of rose-blooms will only furnish 180 grains. With these, as the palace steward said, an appreciative person might "dimagh mu' altar hona "— "die of a rose, in aromatic pain," and truly those curious in the fine delights of fragrance should procure some of the oil of the Keora palm. It will give a new sensation to the nose.

In the Indian Woods by Sir Edwin Arnold



In the Indian Woods by Sir Edwin Arnold

Fragrance Quote November 13th, 2011-Louisa May Alcott: her life, letters, and journals By Louisa May Alcott

Fragrance Quote November 13th, 2011-Louisa May Alcott: her life, letters, and journals By Louisa May Alcott

Dear Papa, — Before we go on to fresh "chateaux and churches new," I must tell you about the sights here in this pleasant, clean, handsome old city. May has done the church for you, and I send a photograph to give some idea of it. The inside is very beautiful; and we go at sunset to see the red light make the gray walls lovely outside and the shadows steal from chapel to chapel inside, filling the great church with what is really "a dim religious gloom." We wandered about it the
other evening till moonrise, and it was very interesting to see the people scattered here and there at their prayers; some kneeling before Saint Martin's shrine, some in a flowery little nook dedicated to the infant Christ, and one, a dark corner with a single candle lighting up a fine picture of the Mater Dolorosa, where a widow all in her weeds sat alone, crying and praying. In another a sick old man sat, while his old wife knelt by him praying with all her might to Saint Gratien (the patron saint of the church) for her dear old invalid. Nuns and priests glided about, and it was all very poetical and fine, till I came to an imposing priest in a first class chapel who was taking snuff and gaping, instead of piously praying.

The File Dieu was yesterday, and I went out to see the procession. The streets were hung with old tapestry, and sheets covered with flowers. Crosses, crowns, and bouquets were suspended from house to house, and as the procession approached, women ran out and scattered green boughs and rose-leaves before the train. A fine band and a lot of red soldiers came first, then the different saints on banners, carried by girls, and followed by long trains of girls bearing the different emblems. Saint Agnes and her lamb was followed by a flock of pretty young children all in white, carrying tall white lilies that filled the air with their fragrance.

"Mary our Mother" was followed by orphans with black ribbons crossed on their breasts. Saint Martin led the charity boys in their gray suits, etc. The Host under a golden canopy was borne by priests in gorgeous rig, and every one knelt as it passed with censors swinging, candles burning, boys chanting, and flowers dropping from the windows. A pretty young lady ran out and set her baby in a pile of green leaves in the middle of the street before the Host, and it passed over the little thing who sat placidly staring at the show and admiring its blue shoes. I suppose it is a saved and sacred baby henceforth.

Fragrance Quote November 11th, 2011 from Mosses from an old manse By Nathaniel Hawthorne

Fragrance Quote November 11th, 2011 from Mosses from an old manse By Nathaniel Hawthorne

The winding course of the stream continually shut out the scene behind us, and revealed as calm and lovely a one before. We glided from depth to depth, and breathed new seclusion at every turn. The shy kingfisher flew from the withered branch close at hand, to another at a distance, uttering a shrill cry of anger or alarm. Ducks—that had been floating there since the preceding eve—were startled at our approach, and skimmed along the glassy river, breaking its dark surface with a bright streak. The pickerel leaped from among the lily-pads. The turtle, sunning itself upon a rock, or at the root of a tree, slid suddenly into the water with a plunge. The painted Indian, who paddled his canoe along the Assabeth three hundred years ago, could hardly have seen a wilder gentleness displayed upon its banks, and reflected in its bosom, than we did.

Nor could the same Indian have prepared his noontide meal with more simplicity. We drew up our skifF at some point where the over-arching shade formed a natural bower, and there kindled a fire with the pine-cones and decayed branches that lay strewn plentifully around. Soon the smoke ascended among the trees, impregnated with a savory incense, not heavy, dull, and surfeiting, like the steam of cookery within doors, but sprightly and piquant. The smell of our feast was akin to the woodland odors with which it mingled; there was no sacrilege committed by our intrusion there; the sacred solitude was hospitable, and granted us free leave to cook and eat, in the recess that was at once our kitchen and banqueting hall. It is strange what humble offices may be performed, in a beautiful scene, without destroying its poetry. Our fire, red gleaming among the trees, and we beside it, busied with culinary rites and spreading out our meal on a moss-grown log, all seemed in unison with the river gliding by, and the foliage rustling over us. And, what was strangest, neither did our mirth seem to disturb the propriety of the solemn woods; although the hobgoblins of the old wilderness, and the will-of-the-wisps that glimmered in the marshy places, might have come trooping to share our table-talk, and have added their shrill laughter to our merriment. It was the very spot in which to utter the extremest nonsense, or the profoundest wisdom—or that ethereal product of the mind which partakes of both, and may become one or the other, in correspondence with the faith and insight of the auditor.

Fragrance in the Writings of John Muir-

John Muir Wikipedia

from My Boyhood and Youth and A Thousand Mile Walk to the Gulf

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My first Summer in the Sierra

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Travels in Alaska

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Our National Parks

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Life and Letters of John Muir

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