perfumes favoured by royal and distinguished personages


perfumes favoured by royal and distinguished personages

The roots and evolution of perfumery

The roots and evolution of perfumery

Dyes, Cosmetics and Perfumes

A bowl of lip rouge, a mirror in a case and a packet of face powder

Feast of Roses

Anton Seder Roses

Feast of Roses

Fragrant Quote for May 25th, 2012-Longfellow

Frühling im Dorf. Signiert und datiert

Fragrant Quote for May 25th, 2012-Longfellow

In all climates Spring is beautiful. In the South it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside himself. The birds begin to sing;—they utter a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an answer in the silent woods Those green-coated musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the neighbouring marshes. They, too, belong to the orchestra of Nature; whose vast is again opened, though the doors have been so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery hung with snow and frost, like cobwebs. This is the prelude, which announces the rising of the broad green curtain. Already the grass shoots forth. The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the veins of the earth; the sap through the veins of the plants and trees; and the blood through the veins of man. What a thrill of delight in spring-time! What a joy in being and moving! Men are at work in gardens; and in the air there is an odor of the fresh earth. The leaf-buds begin to swell and blush. The white blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs like snow-flakes; and ere long our nextdoor neighbours will be completely hidden from us by the dense green foliage. The May-flowers open their soft blue eyes. Children are let loose in the fields and gardens. They hold butter-cups under each others' chins, to see if they love butter. And the little girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of dandelions; pull out the yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the down from the leafless stalk, to find out if their mothers want them at home.

And at night so cloudless and so still. Not a voice of living thing,—not a whisper of leaf or waving bough,—not a breath of wind,—not a sound upon the earth nor in the air! And overhead bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like the inverted bell of some blue flower, sprinkled with golden dust, and breathing fragrance. Or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and rain; but clouds that melt and fall in showers. One does not wish to sleep: but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain.

Fragrant Quote for May 24th, 2012 from IN SCHOOL—A PERFUME by Emily Peake

Kórnik - Arboretum - lilacs


I close my eyes, and the lilac's perfume
Has borne me away from this crowded room

... Under northern skies where the flowers are late
And this plumy branch for the June must wait.

A farm-house stands from the road aloof,
With the mountain-ash against its roof.

There's a bridge in front that crosses a brook
Where the spotted trout hides away from the hook;

And a winding road, with a double ridge
Of grass, comes down the hill to the bridge.

Close by the door twin lilac-trees
Breathe a sweet good-morning to every breeze;

A group of children with happy look
Are lingering here with basket and book.

Why do they wait? There's one little creature
Wants a lilac-flower to give to the teacher;

She must have the very highest one
That no one can reach—and what's to be done?

For the longest arm comes short of the prize
That bends and beckons before her eyes;

But she saw papa coming up through the clover,
A strong, tall man; see! he lifts her over

The heads of the group that around him stand,
And she breaks the branch with her chubby hand.

What was 1 saying?—I open my eyes;
Why, I am the teacher supposed to be wise;

One instant ago 't was a six year-old
Who smelled of the lilac, and my father's hold

Was strong around me; the years and death
Were swept away by the lilac's breath.

Fragrance Quote for May 22nd, 2012-Forest and stream, Volume 67 By William A. Bruette

Between The Cedars on The North Fork Sauk River Trail, Mount Baker, National Forest , 1936.

Fragrance Quote for May 22nd, 2012-Forest and stream, Volume 67
By William A. Bruette

Is there anything quite like this feeling? The exhilarating mountain air, the cool fragrance of the pines, together with your own vigor and freshness after a night's sleep in the open, make you feel so exuberant that it is impossible not to start off at a fast pace—so fast, that after a few moments you are forc...ed to stop, tired and breathless, wondering as you do why you can never learn to be moderate at the outset. Then follow hours of a certain monotony, and yet every moment is different. It is hard to express the charm you feel as you tramp on and on, with the little trail ever stretching ahead, curving and disappearing in yonder thicket, now taking you through dense timber of immense cedar trees draped and festooned with gray bearded moss, until it all seems like a mystical fairy-land, now coming on a clear, rushing stream, where invaribly you stop, bend the rim of your hat and scoop up a drink or pause to pick the huckleberries, still glistening with the dew. Occasionally the guide indicates that you may rest if you wish, and although you may not feel particularly tired, you take off your pack, and with a feeling of joy, throw yourself down on the thick carpet of needles, burying your face in them, while you drink in the warm fragrance, or lying on your back and looking, up through the dark green branches to the blue of the sky, where the white, fleecy clouds are sailing past. It seems scarcely a moment until you must be off again—but what a moment it was!

Fragrant Quote for May 23rd, 2012-The Works of Mary Russell Mitford

Fragrant Quote for May 23rd, 2012-The Works of Mary Russell Mitford

But here we are, in the smooth grassy ride, on the top of a steep turfy slope descending to the river, crowned with enormous firs and limes of equal growth, looking across the winding waters into a sweet peaceful landscape of quiet meadows, shut in by distant woods. What a fragrance is in the air from the balmy fir-trees and the ...blossomed limes! What an intensity of odour! And what a murmur of bees in the lime-trees! What a coil those little winged creatures make over our heads! And what a pleasant sound it is! —the pleasantest of busy sounds, that which comes associated with all that is good and beautiful—industry and forecast, and sunshine and flowers. Surely these lime-trees might .store a hundred hives; the very odour is of a honied richness, cloying, satiating.

Fragrant Quote for May 21st, 2012 from Atlantic monthly, Volume 111

Fragrant Quote for May 21st, 2012 from Atlantic monthly, Volume 111

The furze, on the other hand, is the idol of your heaths and copses. This plant, of course, is not without its thorn. But its smooth and tender stem, its frail and fragrant yellow blossoms, — those soft, wee shells of amber, — the profusion and the symmetry of its bushes, the delicacy of its tone of mystery, all tend to emphasize... its attractive and inviting charms. A furze-bush in full bloom is the crowning glory of your heaths and copses, thickly overgrown. In the wadis below one seldom meets with the furze; it only abounds on the hill-tops, among gray cliffs and crannied rocks and boulders, where even the ferns and poppies feel at home. And a little rest on one of these smooth, fern-spread rock-couches, under the cool and shady arbor of furzebushes, in their delicate fragrance of mystery, is ineffable delight to a pilgrim soul. Here, indeed, is a happy image of Transcendentalism. Here is Emerson for me, — a furze-bush in full bloom.

Preparation of Rose Water

Rose Water Vessel India

Preparation of Rose Water

Rose of Damascus in India

Alexandre Defaux: The Bazaar, 1856 Image Credit

Rose of Damascus in India

Rose Oil or Otto of Roses

Rose Oil or Otto of Roses

Lilies and violets, or, Thoughts in prose and verse, on the true graces of ... By Rosalie Bell

Lilies and violets, or, Thoughts in prose and verse, on the true graces of ...
By Rosalie Bell

"WHAT a pity," said a little boy to his father, as they walked through the garden, " that the rose, after blooming, does not produce fruit and thus return a thank-offering in Summer, for the lovely season of its Spring-life. Now, it is called the flower of innocence and joy; then, it would be also the... emblem of gratitude."

The father answered: "Does it not offer all its loveliness to beautify the Spring; and, for the dew and light which it receives from above, does it not fill the air with its delicate fragrance ? Thus, like gratitude, bestowing a charm unseen, which enhances every other good. Created for the Spring, it dies with the Spring; but its withered leaves retain a' portion of its sweet fragrance; so in the heart of innocence does gratitude abide, after the kind deed, which called forth, is forgotten in our breasts."

Advent of Summer The living age, Volume 229 By Eliakim Littell, Robert S. Littell


Advent of Summer
The living age, Volume 229
By Eliakim Littell, Robert S. Littell

In the bright warm hours the smell of summer ascends from the grass. You cannot describe it except as the scent of rising sap. Break off a reed spike or a branching fern, and you will recognize this more readily. Not only to the eye comes the greeting of summer. The melodious flowing of the wind past the quivering ...tree-tops overhead, and in an undertone among the moving leaves of the lower branches is the first sign of its presence. When you climb the stile and stand knee-deep in the bracken, the perfume of the sap confirms the assurance of the breeze.

But if a third sign were wanting, the songs of the chaffinches, warblers and wrens, following each other without interruption, would more than suffice.
In the clear atmosphere everything is intensely bright or deeply shadowed. Light green beech-plumes, sparkling where the sunbeams glance, hang down over the dark masses of the background—almost too startling a contrast for the eye, so accustomed to gray days or a blending, rose-tinged mist , No summer day is without its own especial charm. By noon the shadows are foreshortened, and the canvas is taken indoors, else the sketch must be rearranged with the altered position of the sun. The painter comes again at a suitable hour next morning. The shadows are of the exact length, the sun flecks dance among the leaves, but the atmosphere is not the same, the colors are different, and the effects he had sought to grasp had slipped forever beyond his reach. The same swallows come to the barn year by year; the same warblers to the copse. The same angle marks the image on the dial; the same honied fragrance floats across the dewy path. But something is inevitably different; one chord or other has ceased to vibrate, and a varying note is heard in the symphony of summer.

In the early morning the presence of summer is most wonderfully felt and seen. The busy city toiler—whose only day of rest is the seventh, and whose chief delight on that day is to rest in bed till noon—seldom realizes the meaning of summer. When he reaches the woodlands, the fragrance has already gone from the warm south wind—dropped through it, scattered deep in the grass, or carried away into the dwellings of the bees. The reed clump's sap, ascending into the air, breaks forth on the breath of summer. But the richest scents are exhaled when a myriad flowers unfold to the morning, each throwing open its painted doors that butterflies and bees may partake of the honey which, throughout the night, was being prepared for them within the nectary. The wind passes by, fanning insect wings cause a fine dust to stir within the blossoms, and the pollen grains are swept away to mingle with the wine cup of the bee.

Methods for Obtaining the Odours of Plants


Methods for Obtaining the Odours of Plants

On the Power and Importance of Perfumes

"The Genuine / Murray & Lanman / Florida Water / The richest of all / Perfumes

On the Power and Importance of Perfumes

In a Poets Garden

The Poet's Garden

In a Poets Garden

The Specials for organic Neroli, Myrrh CO2 and Benzoin absolute will end at the end of the Month

The Specials for organic Neroli, Myrrh CO2 and Benzoin absolute will end at the end of the Month

The listed specials for May are 30% off the regular price posted on the internet. No paperwork like gc/ms, msds, coa etc accompany the essences. Just the essences will be sent.

Special prices apply only to the specific quantities listed. Please remember that all orders must meet our $100 wholesale minimum.

Neroli (Citrus aurantium var. amara) essential oil / Tunisia, organic-1 ounce-$133

Myrrh (Commiphora myrrha) CO2 select extract / Ethiopia, organic-4 ounces-$91

Benzoin, Siam (Styrax tokinensis) Absolute in 50% absolute in 50% perfumers alcohol / Laos-4 ounces-$31.50

There are absolutely no returns on the specials. If you unsure if you want to buy a larger quantity then order a sample first. Prices for samples are posted on the internet.

Fragrant Quote for May 20th, 2012 from THE SONG OF PHAECIA By ANDREW LANG.


The languid sunset, mother of roses,
Lingers a light on the magic seas,
... The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses,
Heavy with odor, and loose to the breeze.

The red rose clouds, without law or leader,
Gather and float in the airy plain;
The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar,
The cedar scatters his scent to the main.

The strange flowers' perfume turns to singing,
Heard afar over moonlit seas:
The Siren's song, grown faint in winging,
Falls in scent on the cedar trees.

As waifs, blown out of the sunset, flying,
Purple and rosy and gray, the birds
Brighten the air with their wings; their crying
Wakens a moment the weary herds.

Butterflies flit from the fairy garden,
Living blossoms of flying flowers;
Never the nights with winter harden,
Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours.

Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden,
Gleam in the green, and droop and fall;
Blossom and bud and flower unfolden
Swing and cling to the garden wall.

Deep in the woods as twilight darkens,
Glades are red with the scented fire;
Far in the dells the white maid hearkens
Song and sigh of the heart's desire.

Fragrance Quote for May 19th, 2012-from Follow Your Nose by David Grayson

Fragrance Quote for May 19th, 2012-from Follow Your Nose by David Grayson

It was a big and golden morning, and Sunday to boot, and I walked down the lane to the lower edge of the field, where the wood and the marsh’ be in. The sun was just coming up over the hills and all the air was fresh and clear and cool. High in the heavens a few fleecy clouds were drifting, and the air was just enough astir... to waken the hemlocks into faint and sleepy exchanges of confidence.

It seemed to me that morning that the world was never before so high, so airy, so golden. All filled to the brim with the essence of sunshine and spring morning—so that one’s spirit dissolved in it, became a part of it. Such a morning! Such a morning.

From that place and just as I was I set off across the open land.

It was the time of all times for good odors—soon after sunrise——before the heat of the day had drawn off the rich distillations of the night.

In that keen moment I caught, drifting, a faint but wild fragrance upon the air,and veered northward full into the way of the wind. I could not at first tell what this particular odor was, nor separate it from the general good odor of the earth; but I followed it intently across the moor-like open land. Once thought I had lost it entirely, or that the faint northern airs had shifted, but I soon caught it clearly again, and just as I was saying to myself, "I've got it, I’ve got it!”—for it is a great pleasure to identify a friendly odor in the fields—I saw, near the bank of the brook, among ferns and raspberry bushes, a thom-apple tree in full bloom.
“So there you are!” I said.

I hastened toward it, now in the full current and glory of its fragrance. The sun, looking over the taller trees to the east, had crowned the top of it with gold, so that it was beautiful to see; and it was full of honey bees as excited as I.

Fragrance Quote for May, 15th, 2012 East coast scenery: rambles through towns and villages; nutting ... By William James Tate

Midsummer Eve

Fragrance Quote for May, 15th, 2012
East coast scenery: rambles through towns and villages; nutting ...
By William James Tate

But this beautiful Midsummer evening, when everything is so sweet and fresh, there is no suggestion of the later summer and autumn.. The thrush is singing his vespers on yonder elm, the blackbird fluting in the distance, and the skylark singing over the green corn. All, t...oo, is calm and peaceful. The holiday people have not penetrated here; we are almost alone with the wild-roses and honeysuckle and birds. Here and there we pass an old-fashioned farmhouse with its barns and stack-yard and outbuildings, or catch a glimpse of one in the distance across the fields. Let us halt for a moment. They are cutting the grass. How sweet and refreshing is the smell mingled as it is with the scent of the wild-roses, honeysuckle, and clover! The sun sinks down in glory. It will be fine again to-morrow, and as the evening star peeps out we retrace our steps and pass through the little village, under "the dreaming garden trees," and so on, through more green corn and forests of scarlet poppies to our home near this old-fashioned farmhouse embowered in trees, and in the sight of the sea, deep violet and lavender in the twilight.

Fragrant Quote for May 13th, 2012- Prose writings of Bayard Taylor ... By Bayard Taylor

Fragrant Quote for May 13th, 2012-
Prose writings of Bayard Taylor ...
By Bayard Taylor
To me, there is no delight of the senses quite equal to that of inhaling the fragrance of the wild California herb— the "yerba buena" of the Spaniards, the "tar weed" of the Pikes. It is a whitish, woolly plant, resembling life everlasting, and exudes, when mature, a thick aromatic gum. For leagues on leagues ...the air is flavored with it— a rich, powerful, balsamic smell, almost a taste, which seems to dilate the lungs like mild ether. To inhale such an air is perfect ecstasy. It does not cloy, like other odors; but strengthens with a richer tonic than the breath of budding pines. If Life had a characteristic scent, this would be it: that a man should die while breathing it, seems incredible. A lady with weak nerves informed me that it made her sick -—but some persons "die of a rose, in aromatic pain." To me, it stirs the blood like a trumpet, and makes the loftiest inspiration easy. I write poems, I paint pictures, I carve statues, I create history. If I should live to be old, and feel my faculties failing, I shall go back to restore the sensations of youth in that wonderful air.

Fragrant Quote for May 12, 2012-The Country of the Pointed Firs By Sarah Orne Jewett

Fir Trees in the Snow Image Credit

Fragrant Quote for May 12, 2012-The Country of the Pointed Firs
By Sarah Orne Jewett

The early morning breeze was still blowing, and the warm, sunshiny air was of some ethereal northern sort, with a cool freshness as if it came over new-fallen snow. The world was filled with a fragrance of fir balsam and the faintest flavor of seaweed from the ledges, bare and brown at low tide in the little harbor. It was so still and so early that the village was but half awake. I could hear no voices but those of the birds, small and great, — the constant song sparrows, the clink of a yellow - hammer over in the woods, and the far conversation of some deliberate crows.

Fragrant Quote for May 10th, 2012 from a Summers End on the Itchen by W. B. Hudson

Tilia/Linden Flower Image Credit

Fragrant Quote for May 10th, 2012 from a Summers End on the Itchen by W. B. Hudson

During the very hot days that followed it was pleasure enough to sit In the shade of the limes most of the day; there was coolness, silence, melody, fragrance; and, always before me, the sight of that moist green valley, which made one cool simply to look at it, and never wholly lost its novelty. The grass and herb...age grow so luxuriantly in the water-meadows that the cows grazing there were half hidden in their depths; and the green was tinged with the purple of seeding grasses, and red of dock and sorrel, and creamy white of meadow-sweet. The channels of the swift, many channelled river were fringed with the livelier green of sedges and reed-mace and darkest green of bulrushes, tipped with brown, and restful gray of reeds, not yet in flower.

The old limes were now in their fullest bloom; and the hotter the day the greater the fragrance, this flower, unlike the woodbine and sweet-briar, needing no dew nor rain to bring out its deliciousness. To me, sitting there, it was at the same time a bath and atmosphere of sweetness, but something more than that to all the honey-eating insects in the neighborhood. Their murmur was loud all day till dark, and from the lower branches that touched the grass with leaf and flower to their very tops the trees were peopled with tens and with hundreds of thousands of bees. Where they all came from was a mystery; somewhere there should be a great harvest of honey and wax as a result of all this noise and activity. It was a soothing noise, according with an idle man's mood in the July weather; and it harmonized with, forming so to speak, an appropriate background to, the various distinct and individual sounds of bird life.

Fragrance Quote for May 11th, 2012 from TOM TIDDLER’S GROUND 1 BY ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH

Spring is definitely here image credit

Fragrance Quote for May 11th, 2012 from TOM TIDDLER’S GROUND 1

The sunshine, falling warm on the wet flowers, drew from them the rarest fragrance. (They were trumpet dafl'odils, as has been said, and nine out of ten of us would have called them odorless; but little Jan, it was to be discovered, had a sense of smell keen, almost, as a wild animal's.) Their fragrance mingled... with the wafted brine of the sea; and between them, what with the breeze and the myriad heads of gold it set nodding, and the spirit of youth dancing inside of him. they flooded the child’s soul with happiness— a happiness so poignant that once, straightening himself up in a pause of the picking, he felt his eyes brim with tears through which the daffodils danced in a mist.

Fragrant Quote for May 9th, 2012 THE WALL-FLOWER.

Wallflowers Image Credit

Fragrant Quote for May 9th, 2012


When the eve-star uplifts her silver torch,
... And in the twilight, wakeful bats flit by,
Pleasant it is, by open door or porch,
To meet the blossomed wall-flower's fragrant sigh:
As from green forest-boughs the summer shower
Sweeps fitful music, that vibrates and dies
In the same instant, so that cottage flower
Calls to my heart a thousand memories,
And back to olden times my spirit bears;
Shadowy reminiscences of spring—
The spring of childhood's half-forgotten years,
Like dew, round that familiar fragrance cling,
The hovering fragrance on the night-air cast,
Like a sigh breathed out from the speechless past.


Fragrant Quote for May 8th, 2012 THE WATERS SPEAK By Walter B. Wolfe.

The Time Of The Lilacs Image Credit

Fragrant Quote for May 8th, 2012


By Walter B. Wolfe.
This evening the river whispered
To the great stone pier shrouded in shadows
Of oncoming night, the secrets of the ages:
This evening, as the ripples washed on the strand
And murmured to the grey stone their song,
The ineffable refrain of lost aeons
Surging to the sea—

And the fragrance of fresh lilacs
By the river bank, was borne past me
By the cool wind of evening
Fluting in mellow overtones
A prelude to the solemn chanting of the waves—

And I, lying in the cool lush grass
Along the riverside
Heard the waves, and felt the wind of evening
About me, and the fragrance of fresh lilacs.
And I knew the song and the murmuring of the waves
That whispered to the great stone pier—

And the harmony of the scented night wind—
I felt the urge, I knew the burden of the symphony,
The refrain of lost aeons winding to Eternity—
"Light, more Light!"

Fragrance Quote for May 7th, 2012-In old Ceylon By Reginald John Farrer

Frangipani/Temple Flower Image Credit

Fragrance Quote for May 7th, 2012-In old Ceylon
By Reginald John Farrer

In and out amid the multitudes go the sellers of flowers, and the air is heavy with the cool, sharp fragrance of the temple-flower. Five-cleft is the corolla of the temple flower, of creamy texture, and of a creamy colour that deepens insensibly to rich yellow at the centre; and its scent is of the same texture, of the same ...colour as the flower—a thick, waxy-sweet scent, creamy, dense, and primrose. It haunts all the shrines of Lanka with its pungent, uplifting ecstasy, and never any little vihara or dagaba shall you find that has not its gnarled and ancient tree of plumeria(frangipani), bossy and twisted and contorted in growth, with corrugated bark of pure silver and leafless twigs, thick and stumpy as a sausage, crowned by clusters of those divine flowers, ready always for offering at the shrine.

May Specials from White Lotus

The Specials for organic Neroli, Myrrh CO2 and Benzoin absolute will end at the end of the Month

The listed specials for May are 30% off the regular price posted on the internet. No paperwork like gc/ms, msds, coa etc accompany the essences. Just the essences will be sent.

Special prices apply only to the specific quantities listed. Please remember that all orders must meet our $100 wholesale minimum.

Neroli (Citrus aurantium var. amara) essential oil / Tunisia, organic-1 ounce-$133

Myrrh (Commiphora myrrha) CO2 select extract / Ethiopia, organic-4 ounces-$91

Benzoin, Siam (Styrax tokinensis) Absolute in 50% absolute in 50% perfumers alcohol / Laos-4 ounces-$31.50

There are absolutely no returns on the specials. If you unsure if you want to buy a larger quantity then order a sample first. Prices for samples are posted on the internet.

Fragrant Quote for May 6th , 2012 from The Sweet Earth by John Galsworthy

Early Flowering heather, Wadsworth Moor. Image credit

Fragrant Quote for May 6th, 2012-The Sweet Earth by John Galsworthy

The Sweet Earth by John Galsworthy
I went out into the wind— the first southwest wind after many days of easterly drought. All the morning it had rained, but now the gray sky was torn; the sun shone, and long white clouds were driven over pools of blue, or piled up into heavenly mountains. The land of moor and valley, the hills and fields and woods gleamed in the sunlight, or were shadowed dark by the drifting clouds. Moss on the top of the old gray walls was wet, but warm to the touch; the birds—daws, pigeons, hawks—flung themselves at the wind. And the scent! Every frond of the bracken, each sprig of the furze and the heather, all the soughing boughs of young pine-tree and oak, and the grass, gray-powdered with rain, were exhaling their fragrance, so that each breath drawn was a draft of wild perfume.

And in one's heart rose an ecstasy of love for this wind-sweetened earth, for the sun, and the clouds, the rain, and the wind, the trees and the flowering plants, for the streams and the rocks—a passion for this earth which breeds us all, and into which we reabsorb, as untutored, wild, and natural as the love of life in the merest dumb thing that knows nothing of ideals, of Country, realms, and policies, nothing of War.

Ruh Khus(Vetiveria zizaniodes)

Ruh Khus(Vetiveria zizaniodes)

Ruh Khus(Vetiveria zizanidoes) distilled from roots of wild harvest plants growing in North India. It is emerald green in color due to the fact that it is distilled in copper vessels in the traditional way. The wild roots are now rarely distilled due to low yield and the labor intensive distillation technique.
The olfactory properties of Ruh Khus need to be evaluated for each separate batch that one smells. The wild harvested roots dispay a wide range of odors depending on where they are harvested, the age of the roots, etc. The range of subtle olfactory properties displayed by Ruh Khus is much greater than in cultivated vetiver. It may include rose like notes, saffron notes, etc intermingled with the deep, earthy, mossy, rooty aromas characteristic of vetiver.

The current batch of Ruh Khus which I just received is emerald green in color displaying an elegant earthy-mossy-rooty bouquet with a soft, sweet, spicy, roseaceous undertone. The Ruh has excellent tenacity. It is a unique and lovely Ruh Khus.

The Philosophers Stone-Hans Christian Andersen

Persian Kermanshah 'Tree of Life Image Credit

The Philosophers Stone-Hans Christian Andersen

California Daffodils -San Francisco Chronicle-1900

Spring Daffodils Barn Field Image Credit

California Daffodils -San Francisco Chronicle-1900

The Lady of the Daffodils lives in Haywards. Her father is a painter and she herself sang in opera, and now the artistic feeling that first manifested itself in color and then in sound comes out in form and fragrance, and every one who buys an early daffodil in San Francisco and breathes in its faintly perfumed breath may fancy that he has received in another form the sweetness of Ivy Wandesford's songs—for Mrs. Wandesford Kersey is the Lady of the Daffodils. She grows them by the ton, she counts them by the hundred thousand, she sorts them with fingers that contain a supplementary sense, throwing the perfect ones of proper size to one side and the defective ones of unsymmetrical development to another, like the sheep and goats in the Biblical prophecy —only Mrs. Kersey is very tender with the goats. Them she plants again in the soft brown velvet of the sloping hillside and gives them another chance to grow into strength and beauty, and after a twelvemonth these bulbs that were weighed in her fingers and found wanting are full and globe-shaped and fit to send East to blossom in green and gold.

Eight years ago Mrs. Kersey, who lives with her parents, found that here the daffodils were the best and earliest in all the countryside. The discovery was accidental. There was, behind the house, up the path where the grape-vine and the white fig from the Azores grow, a hillside whose gentle slope stretched in a peculiarly inviting way to the sun. This was the place where the daffodils grew. Something in the golden hearts of the daffodils appealed to the singer, who straightway bought the bulb-lore of the Dutch" and began to study. For eight years, with unwearied application, she devoted herself to books on bulbs, until she mastered the daffodil branch, so difficult and complicated a thing is the growing of lilies—. those lilies of the field, which, of all flowers, seem to grow most by themselves, without human interference, with no cutting or pruning or transplanting. On the nourishment and care of bulbs an entire literature has been built, and Mrs. Kersey, with the painstaking zeal of the specialist, has confined herself to one branch, hence her success. She admits that she is only an amateur in the matter of hyacinths, of tulips, out on daffodils she is an authority. She is only just beginning to see beyond the rim of her daffodil beds. She has begun the cultivation of the yellow Spanish iris and of the large and interesting narcissus family, but the children of Narcissus are banished from the carefully fenced precincts where the daffodils grow, and the best that they can do in the spring is to peep between the pickets at the sheets of yellow, where thousands of favored daffodils are carefully sheltered.

The daffodil garden is on a sloping brown hillside. Just now part of the hill is resting under a coverlid of brown weeds. Under the weeds sleep thousands of daffodils, each parent bulb surrounded by its young family. In the spring all these bulbs will wake up, and by January the whole hillside will be like the field of the cloth of gold. The fragrance of the place may be inhaled for a mile, and people passing on the road—unromantic people hurrying to market—vaguely turn their faces toward the house that plays hideand-seek in the trees and wonder what that breath of spring means in the winter time. The daffodil garden is divided into sections by pear trees. Instead of impoverishing the soil they seem to improve it, and the rows of trees serve to separate varieties. But the pear trees have something more to do than to act as rows of gendarmes separating one handsome flower family from an envious neighbor. Sometimes in the spring there comes a week of sudden sunshine, hot, penetrating, and under the searching rays the daffodils shrink and the beautiful petals of beaten gold are transformed into a mummy's dry and crackling skin. The daffodils, shade-loving and moisturecraving, shrink into themselves and all the beautiful cups go brown. The flower is literally cooked on its juicy and pipe-like stem. The friendly and protecting arms oPthe pear trees, bare of leaves at that season, are utilized as tent-poles, and from them bolts of cheesecloth are spread over the field of the cloth of gold to protect it from a sun which must envy its beautiful color and seek to draw it to himself.

From three to five weeks before anybody else's daffodils are ready to burst their slender, boatlike shells, Mrs. Kersey's flowers are showing a faint line of yellow against the green, and therein lies her success. It is the early flower that catches the market. In time for the Christmas trade her daffodils are in the shops, and their golden tissue shines at many a Christmas dinner and lights the dark corners in many a wintry room. When clouds hang low and skies are glowering, her daffodils shed a radiance which seems like the sun himself. For at least a month she has a monopoly of the market. Five of the leading city florists are supplied by her, and their clamor is ever for more, more. Prices are good, and the little buds

cannot come out fast enough to suit the demand. Even the daffodils forced under glass do not blossom as quickly or as freely as these openair flowers on the warm hillside which they find so congenial. Suddenly the floodgates are opened. Everybody else's bulbs start ablooming and the market is flooded. Prices go down, the flowerboys hawk daffodils on the street and the golden age of the daffodil is over. When the blossoms are sold at a cent apiece Mrs. Kersey no longer bothers about cut flowers, but devotes herself to her bulbs, which is the main business of the year. She has many orders from the East, for they find it cheaper there to buy new bulbs than to plant the old bulbs after forcing. A daffodil bulb, like everything that has been forced, must rest some time, and the Eastern growers find that it takes years for the life and health to come back to the exhausted bulbs which have been hurried into early blooming by their persuasive furnaces and glass roofs.

The chatelaine of the daffodils is exceedingly careful of the diet of her pets, for they must be fed, like anything else. They are very light eaters, with dainty appetites. Manures are for heavy feeders, and daffodils will not grow in manured grounds until some grosser flower has first been put in to take the superabundant nourishment from the soil. Fertilizers are used by Mrs. Kersey and what they are she would refuse to tell you, if you were ill-bred enough to ask, for this is her own secret, part of the lore which she has learned from those Dutch tomes over which she has been poring early and late for years.

It is by no means all play on the daffodil farm. The heavy work is done by a gardener, assisted by a scraper and two horses. The gardener does some of the planting, but all of the work is under the close personal supervision of the mistress. The daffodils, blooming, resting, waking, sleeping, are scarcely out of her sight for a single day.. The blossoming host she watches herself, for the whole wealth of the year lies garnered there. She knows the bulbs so well that she can tell most of the varieties without knowing which row of pear trees sheltered them. Each season brings its own labor. On the first of September Mrs. Kersey begins her planting. Then comes the time for tending the narcissus, of which several varieties are grown. In August the garden is full of exquisite dahlias, which go to the florists for decorating. There are great crimson and white ones, their heads almost too heavy for their slender throats. But these are only side issues, as are the sturdy gilly-flowers and the dragon-snappers—the daffodil's the queen of this garden and the rose is only a secondary thing.
The mistress's heart is fixed on a daffodil which is advertised in one of the magazines devoted to the flower—a creature with a long Latin name which does not fit a flower half as well as it would fit a steam plow or a threshing machine. This particular daffodil is a giant and the bulbs only cost $60 apiece. They are transported at the owner's'risk, and if the bulb be barren the loss is the buyer's. But if it should bloom—that is a possibility which the lover of daffodils cannot contemplate without a prickling in the hair. There is something about flower-growing which makes the dweller among flowers more human, more gentle, more worth living with.

The last sentence contains a truth which has been felt for may years. Sir Walter Scott knew it, when in drawing the character of Rose Bradwardine. whom Waverley found more "worth living with" than the majestic Flora Maclvor, he added the delicate touch that she was a lover of flowers. The hero of the novel found the major domo of TullyV'eolan "just amusing himself in the meantime with dressing Miss Rose's flower-bed," and on ascending to her boudoir saw that the gallery before her window was "crowded with flowers of different kinds, which she had taken under her special protection." We must, however, leave the reader to discover the truth of the statement in his or her own daily life.

Perditas Simple Cupboard by Richard Le Gillienne

"Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose" Image Credit

Perditas Simple Cupboard by Richard Le Gillienne

Fragrant Quote for May 2nd, 2012 The Shuttle By Frances Hodgson Burnett

Robin on Fencepost

Fragrant Quote for May 2nd, 2012
The Shuttle
By Frances Hodgson Burnett

A bird was perched upon a swaying branch of a slim young sapling near the fence-supported hedge which bounded the park, and Mount Dunstan had stopped to look at it and listen. A soft shower had fallen, and after its passing, the sun coming through the light clouds, there had broken forth again in the trees brief trills and c...alls and fluting of bird notes. The sward and ferns glittered fresh green under the raindrops, the young leaves on trees and hedge seemed visibly to uncurl, the uncovered earth looked richly dark and moist, and sent forth the fragrance from its deeps, which, rising to a man's nostrils, stirs and thrills him because it is the scent of life's self. The bird upon the sapling was a robin, the tiny round body perched upon his delicate legs, plump and bright plumaged for mating. He touched his warm red breast with his beak, fluffed out and shook his feathers, and, swelling his throat, poured forth his small, entranced song. It was a gay, brief, jaunty thing, but pure, joyous, gallant, liquid melody. There was dainty bravado in it, saucy demand and allurement. It was addressed to some invisible hearer of the tender sex, and wheresoever she might be hidden—whether in great branch or low thicket or hedge —there was hinted no doubt in her small wooer's note that she would hear it and in due time respond. Mount Dunstan, listening, even laughed at its confident music. The tiny thing uttering its Call of the World—jubilant in the surety of answer! Having flung it forth, he paused a moment and waited, his small head turned sideways, his big, round, dew-bright black eye roguishly attentive. Then with more swelling of the throat he trilled and rippled gayly anew, undisturbed and undoubting, but with a trifle of insistence. Then he listened, tried again two or three times, with brave chirps and exultant little roulades. "Here am I, the bright-breasted, the liquid-eyed, the slender-legged, the joyous and conquering! Listen to me —listen to me. Listen and answer in the call of God's world." It was the joy and triumphant faith in the tiny note of the tiny thing—Life as he himself was, though Life whose mystery his man's hand could have crushed—which, while he laughed, set Mount Dunstan thinking. Spring warmth and spring scents and spring notes set a man's being in tune with infinite things.


'Apple Blossom Time' by George Inness
William Cullen Bryant

Come, let us plant the apple-tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mould with kindly care,
And press it o'er them tenderly,
As, round the sleeping infant's feet,
We softly fold the cradle-sheet;
So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;
We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May-wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard-row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,
While children come, with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when, above this apple-tree,
The winter stars are quivering bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,
And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine
And golden orange of the line,
The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree
Winds and our flag of stripe and star
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood's careless day,
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.
The years shall come and pass,
but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,
In the boughs of the apple-tree. .

And time shall waste this apple-tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?

What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this little apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:
"A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times;
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes,
On planting the apple-tree."

William Cullen Bryant

Fragrant Quote for May 3rd, 2012-Lavender by Robert Blight


Fragrant Quote for May 3rd, 2012-Lavender by Robert Blight

"There are few more delightful scenes than a field of lavender, with the morning sun lighting up the ever-changing colors of the swaying stems. As fleecy clouds move across the sky the blue mauve of the field takes a darker tinge, and then as the sun's brilliant light plays again without hindrance on the great patch of scent-laden flowers, the hue becomes almost a Cambridge blue. But only for a moment; the variations are ceaseless. The color of a lavender field has baffled the brush of many an artist, and none that we can recall has ever been able to catch these wondrous shifting tints with anything like truth...."

Fragrant Quote for May 4th, 2012 Life and sport on the Pacific slope By Horace Annesley Vachell

Cockscomb cottonwood

Life and sport on the Pacific slope
By Horace Annesley Vachell

I have been tempted to dwell only upon memories that grow brighter and more fragrant as the years roll by. How often, after a hot summer's day, I have watched the brown foothills, as the purple shadows were stealing across them. It is then that the breeze from the ocean stirs the tremulous leaves of the cotton-woods; it is then that the cattle wind slowly across their pastures, leaving the canons and gulches where they have lain during the sultry hours; it is then that a golden haze envelops all things: a glamour as of the world unseen, a mirage so fair to the eye, so cunningly interwoven with fact and fancy, that the realities of life, no matter what they may be, seem to melt away into the gathering shadows.

And after the sun has set, the air is filled with enchanting odours, — the odours of a land that the Lord has blessed, the scent of herbs innumerable, the balmy fragrance of the pines, the perfume of the wild flowers, a pot-pourri of essences distilled by night alone.


AN IDYL UNDER THE TERROR or Dream of Spring Perfume

THERE is no hope, Leon, but I have obtained this clemency from the judge—that M. Felix and myself go to our deaths in the same tumbril."

"A strange wedding - coach, mademoiselle, for you, who should have had a grand marriage in the church at Grasse. I wish we were all safely back there! If monsieur your father had not been deceived by the idea that he was serving his country, and not the will of butchers, when he came as deputy to Paris, he might have been alive now, peacefully distilling his perfumes."

The young woman closed her eyes for a moment to shut out the dark prison walls, the groups of weeping people, the faces dazed with terror, or sullen in the last indifference of those soon to be hurried to their graves.

"How beautiful the gardens of Grasse must be now! I dream of roses every night, Leon; fields and fields of them, but they are all crimson—not a white rose in the whole of France! They are all dved deep with blood."

"You have feverish fancies, mademoiselle, the effect of this poisoned prison air, no doubt."

"I have the fancies of those about to die. Listen, Leon, and I will tell you one of them —it is to go to my death in the dress I should have worn to my wedding, that I may give greater comfort and courage to M. Felix, and show these tyrants that I am not afraid. I've heard that the queen went grandly to the scaffold. Though I am only the daughter of a perfumer of Grasse, I, too, can go there smiling. Why should I not smile? My betrothed goes with me. We shall take our love where none can ever come between us!"

Leon Colette regarded the daughter of his old employer with pitying admiration, though he scarcely understood her exalted mood. When he had heard the sentence of death pronounced upon her that morning he had turned faint and ill, scarcely able to make his way through the mob of spectators to the freer air of the corridors outside. A passion of sorrow had shaken him, intensified by the hopelessness of his longing to aid Mile. Fougeret against these dark authorities, who were about to take her young life as carelessly as one picked a blossom in the fields of Grasse.

He was not afraid, but he was helpless. With Paris running rivers of blood, what could a poor workman do, beyond seeking permission to see the daughter of his old master and attend her, as a page might, until her death?

"Have you the gala dress to wear in the tumbril, mademoiselle?" he inquired.

"I have the gown with me that I prepared for my wedding; but to don it is not all of my fancy. There's a certain perfume, one of my father's creations, that M. Felix loves because its sweetness was all about me on the day when he first met me. It is the famous 'Dream of Spring '—but I have none of it here."

"The ' Dream of Spring ' is the loveliest odor of them all, mademoiselle. Monsieur your father guarded the secret of its formula most jealously."

"He confided it to me before his death, believing, poor man, that I should return to Grasse, and with the aid of M. Felix open the works again, call the men to our service, and continue to manufacture this perfume which made-—and then, alas, unmade—our fortunes."

Leon's eyes glistened with the light of happy memories. When his devotion to hi; master had brought him to Paris, he had left a sweetheart in Grasse to whom he had always promised, as her wedding gift, a vial of the costly "Dream of Spring." He thought now of Berthe and of the coveted perfume. Through the reeking air of this .dismal prison he could almost perceive, in imagination, its delicate, exquisite fragrance, like the soul of myriad flowers. Its very name brought to his vision the blossom-ladened fields of Grasse, the gay spring sunshine, the dark laboratories where great baskets of roses, violets, and orange-blossoms yielded their precious essences to the distiller.

That old town of southern France held its artists, ravishers of sweetness who vied with one another in commingling the scents of Araby with the breath of May gardens: but, of them all, Gabriel Fougeret, the father of Mile. Jeanne, had been most successful. Queen Marie Antoinette herself had had a hundred vials of the "Dream of Spring" sent to her yearly, and the court had been quick to follow her example. It was, indeed, the fact of her patronage of the honest perfumer that had led finally to his execution as a "suspected" deputy, since the taint of kings and queens was supposed to extend to all who had in any way served them.

"Ah, mademoiselle, it is small wonder that you wish to wear again that most delicious perfume as a tribute to M. Ducote, even as you go—alas, poor children!—to your untimely deaths."

"This is the service I beg of you, Leon. A week will elapse before our sentence is carried out. Search Paris. I know that many of the shops of the perfumers are closed, but I shall give you the addresses of as many of my father's old customers as I can remember. Among their stock you may, by chance, find the ' Dream.' Buy me a vial and bring it to me."

"I shall scour Paris to find it, mademoiselle—but if I do not find it, would there be time—"

"No, the process is too intricate, and in this city of blood and stones where are the flowers from which to steal the essences? But whether you find it or whether you do not, this shall be the reward of your faithfulness to my father and myself—you shall have the formula of the ' Dream of Spring.' After my death, sell these rings which I shall give you, make your way back to Grasse, marry Berthe, and carry on my father's business, which the possession of this formula will enable you to do."

Leon seized her hand and kissed it.

"Heaven who takes you so young and lovely to its bosom, mademoiselle, will grant you grace for this kindness! Xow I go. If

I am fortunate enough to find the 'Dream of Spring,' I shall bring it concealed on my person, lest they suspect poison. These wolves are jealous of death itself!"

"Will you have trouble in gaining admission to the prison again?"

"I have a friend among the jailers, mademoiselle, to whom I once did a good turn. He owes me the chance to see you, and he has promised to pay the debt handsomely, pitying, as he does, your youth and helplessness. Now, farewell! I shall bring you the ' Dream' if there is a vial of it in Paris, but the search may require several days."

"I shall not expect you until the week is almost over."


Leon Colette, workman from Grasse, citizen of the republic, whose ragged clothes, stained hands, and sunburnt face were a better proclamation of his republican tendencies than volumes of rhetoric, or the eloquence of the most zealous Montagnard—Leon Colette came nearer to real enjoyment during his hours of search for the perfume than he had since the old days in Grasse, when his greatest trouble had been a lover's quarrel with Berthe, or the fear of spilling a drop of attar of roses in the distillery.

Though at first he found no trace of the "Dream of Spring"—that perfume of an exiled or guillotined nobility—he improved each occasion of inquiry to make friends with the shopkeeper, who, dicl he but know it, was conversing with a man, Colette reflected proudly, soon to possess the very formula of the famous scent he asked for; perhaps to deal in grand fashion, as had poor M. Fougeret, with these self-satisfied Parisian tradesmen.

Colette enjoyed all the pleasures of incognito, as well as the delight — possible only in its fulness to a born perfumer—of being allowed to sniff certain delicate vials, to compare the mignonette of M. Latour with the mignonette of M. Rod; to have his neckerchief sprinkled with a few drops of gardenia, as if he had been a prince—the working man was coming to his own at last, in this Paris under the Terror!

At one place he even had a most delectable stopper wet with amber presented to his nostrils. In another, a woman gave him a tiny bottle of stephanotis, because he reminded her of a favorite son. After each of these entertainments in hospitable shops, he would go out again into the troubled streets feeling compunction that he could enjoy anything when poor Mile. Jeanne was awaiting her death in the horrible prison.

On the fifth day of his search he found himself in an obscure shop near the desecrated cathedral of Our Lady. The owner, an old man, deaf, it would seem, to the roar of that bloodthirsty world outside his spattered windows, fumbled long among his stores, and finally brought out the vial of iridescent glass with the gilded stopper and the rosy seal bearing the initials of the queen—one of the vials that Colette knew so well, having packed many of them in pads of straw for transport to Paris. The old man held it to the light.

"'Tis a perfume of youth and love, of which, if they go on much longer with their killing, naught will be left to sweeten this city. I have odors more piercing, but none more gracious. This brings to mind the gardens of Versailles beneath spring moons, and the queen-lady at play there with hearts as gay as hers. Now they are cold!"

Colette, impatient to be gone with his prize, began to count out the money.

"You do not scruple to spend much for a toy, citizen—but times are changed! It is no longer bread they cry for, but the gauds and trinkets of the order they have destroyed. How many does La Guillotine —that all-powerful queen—claim to-day?"

"Forty-three, citizen! Should you ever come to Grasse, inquire for one Leon Colette. 'Twill be to your advantage."

"I take no journeys in these rough times, though that city of flowers must be indeed a pleasant one!"

Colette touched his cap—forgetting for a moment his citizen manners—and hurried away, going straight from the shop to the prison. The jailer was as good as his word, and after some formalities conducted him through the low, damp corridors to a long room in which Mile. Fougeret and many others awaited their last hour.

She came to meet Leon, looking more beautiful, he thought, in her sadness and resignation than he had ever seen her.

"Here is the 'Dream of Spring,' mademoiselle," he whispered, slipping it into her hand. "I believe I obtained the only vial left in Paris."

Her eyes filled with tears as she took the bottle, the fragrance of whose contents penetrated even through the seals.

"It brings all the old days back to me— all the blossom-scented springs we loved so much in a land I shall never see again. You have served me well, Leon. Here is the formula. Guard it jealously, for if the times ever again become quiet, it will make your fortune. You can stamp the seal with the monogram of the republic instead of an unfortunate queen's! And now, farewell. We must not talk too long together, for there are spies even among the prisoners. Say a prayer for myself and M. Felix on the day of our deaths. They have erased the name of God from the stones, but they cannot erase His name from the hearts of men!"

"Mademoiselle, I shall run beside the tumbril all the way. I shall go with vou to the scaffold."

She gave him her hand in silence, and he kissed it. Then he left her wondering if on the fatal morning she would still have the courage to deck herself as for a bridal.


When it dawned, Leon was already at the prison, fearing lest the authorities might change the hour set for the last grim journey. The May morning was cloudless, but only the ineffable blue of the sky bore witness to the vernal season. In the streets lurked the chill of death, made visible on the wan and frightened faces of the passers-by. The city was held in a paralysis of fear as in the icy bands of winter.

At last the carts were drawn to the front of the prison gates, and, after some delay, the poor, herded procession appeared—an equality of young and old, rich and poor, matron and maid, noble and peasant. Some were weeping, others seemed rapt in prayer, others stoically indifferent.

Among them came Mile. Jeanne Fougeret and M. Felix Ducote, their hands tightly clasped, their faces lit with a solemn radiance, as if they were looking into the world beyond. He was dressed as became a bridegroom, and she wore a bridal gown of flowered silk. As Leon pressed close to them, he perceived the subtle sweetness of the "Dream of Spring." Like floral incense it diffused itself through the soft May air and surrounded Mile. Fougeret with its fragrance. When she mounted the tumbril, she caught sight of Leon, and smiled her greeting to him. • The death journey was long and tedious, for, owing to the interest attached to several of the day's victims, crowds had gathered along the narrow streets that led to the guillotine. Leon had no trouble in keeping abreast of the tumbril, and within speaking distance of Mile. Fougeret, whose youth, beauty, and air of indomitable courage attracted all eyes and brought forth many inquiries from the bystanders.

At last the tumbril was drawn up before the steps leading to the guillotine. Even the fresh spring air seemed to have withdrawn itself from this place of blood, of terror, of mortality unattended by compassion. The reek and odor of the charnelhouse infected the very stones, the wet wood —wet with no purifying rains—the trampled straw, all the horrid symbols of butchery. Yet so abnormal had the times become that around this spot of destruction was gathered a circle of human beings, whose strange laughter and cackle of expectation suggested the gaiety of devils.

Near the steps of the scaffold, and a little apart from the throng, stood in somber silence two men, both of whom Leon at once recognized. One was M. Faure, the judge who had pronounced sentence upon Jeanne Fougeret and Felix Ducote; the other was M. Detaille, a citizen of Grasse.

The dreadful march to the guillotine was now begun. Leon, turning his back, and clapping his hands to his ears, that he might not hear the whir of the great knife as it descended, fixed his gaze upon the doomed couple, who now clung to each other in a last embrace. He heard her whisper:

"Let me go first. I cannot see you die!"

With a last kiss she broke from him and, pale as marble, descended from the cart. As she did so, she passed close to M. Detaille, who had drawn nearer and was looking at her intently. She was already mounting the steps of the guillotine, when, as M. Detaille whispered a word in the ear of the judge, that dignitary called upon her to stop.

Again the two men whispered together. The judge at first seemed reluctant to grant some favor for which M. Detaille was asking, but at last he turned to the waiting girl and requested her to descend the steps, as they wished to talk with her.

Felix Ducote, wondering at this delay at the very foot of the scaffold, but hoping nothing from it, drew near his betrothed, prepared for some last refinement of cruelty. Leon, unobserved, crept up behind them like a watchful animal.

The judge addressed Jeanne.

"You smell as sweet as a May morning, little citizeness!"

"Say, rather, sweet as those lilies of France upon which you trample," she replied quietly.

"Oh, ho! You have a bold temper! We trampled the lilies of France because the stench of their decay was poisoning the free air of France. Lilies grown in kings' gardens smell of tyranny."

To this she made no answer. M. Faure continued:

"Citizen Detaille, of Grasse, wishes a word with you before you are kissed by La Guillotine. As he is a friend of mine, I am granting him this favor."

"I have the honor to know Citizen Detaille—a worthy rival of my honored father."

Detaille took a step forward, his keen, commercial, but not unkindly face lit with an interest unrelated, it would seem, to the sanguinary drama he was witnessing.

"Citizeness, I perceive about you the fragrance of the 'Dream of Spring,' that most perfect creation of your father's, whose secret formula, so jealously guarded, I doubt not dies with you."

Jeanne made no reply.

"Answer, citizeness!" the judge commanded.

"Many things perish on this scaffold, monsieur, besides human lives. Old customs perish, old laws, old loves, old secrets."

"That is no answer," the judge cried out.

"What do you wish me to say?"

"I command you to tell Citizen Detaille, who as a perfumer of the republic has the right to know, if you possess the formula of the perfume which clings about you. That is, indeed, the only legacy that you can leave to your country. It is but fitting .that a perfume which ministered to the luxury of tyrants should now be enjoyed by the citizens of the republic."

"All the perfumers of Grasse envied my father the ' Dream of Spring,' " she replied proudly. "But I cannot leave the secret of its composition either to Citizen Detaille or to the republic, because it is no longer in my possession."

There was a sound of heavy breathing behind them, as of some one in sharp struggle with himself. Suddenly Leon Colette stepped forward.

"Citizens, it is I who possess that glorious formula, the last legacy to me of my master's daughter. I possess it, I, Leon Colotte, free citizen of France, and son of the republic."

He spoke proudly and confidently, like a man prepared to dictate his terms. The judge-looked him over.

"Then there is no occasion to detain these young people longer from their wedding visit to La Guillotine. It is but a matter of bargaining with this fellow.''

"I deal with him, then—many thanks!"

"Stop, Citizen Ducote!" Leon cried. "Stop, Citizeness Fougeret, and hear my terms to these good citizens. It is not for gold that I shall sell this formula. The motto of the republic is justice. I have a right to name my price. If they reject it, I have also the right to keep my treasure— to retain the ' Dream of Spring.' I appeal to you, judge, is this not so?"

"You are acting within your rights. Name your price."

"The lives of Citizeness Fougeret and of Citizen Ducote."


The judge and Detaille looked at each other.

"A word with you apart," Detaille said, laying his hand upon the judge's arm.

Ducote turned to Leon.

"You bargain nobly! Heaven preserve us to show our gratitude!"

The parley lasted some minutes. At last the two men returned, and the judge addressed Jeanne.

"If the price be paid—if you and this young citizen are allowed to return to Grasse, will you promise never to engage in the manufacture of perfumes, and particularly of this perfume whose formula you might remember?"

Ducote answered for her.

"Honor makes such a promise scarcely necessary, citizen; but you need not fear. I have a rose-farm to which to conduct Jeanne Fougeret when the republic shall have united us. We shall spend our days cultivating roses for the manufacturers."

Jeanne seized Leon's hand and drew him forward.

"But I, too, wish to make a condition, Citizen Detaille, for the benefit of this brave man who has given up a fortune to save our lives. It is that you make him the head of your works in Grasse, and give him an interest in the sales of the 'Dream of Spring.' You will find him a most skilled workman—my father taught him many secrets — and a most faithful man, as this day's event testifies."

Detaille pondered a moment.

"Citizeness, the ' Dream of Spring ' persuades me to accept your condition. Let us hope that from this sweetness may come recovered strength in all our lives." He turned to Ducote, and, addressing him, continued: "It is by the revised calendar of the republic the delicious month of Floreal. The fields around our native town are all a-blush with roses, and the air is ladened with the scent of orange-blossoms. Lead your citizeness back to her old home. My wife leaves Paris this very afternoon for Grasse, and will be glad to take Mile. Jeanne under her protection — Citizeness Jeanne, I should say, but my tongue slips easily into the old forms."

Colette tossed his cap in the air.

"And now back to Berthe!" he cried.

Felix drew Jeanne to him.

"The flowers of Grasse are waiting for you," he whispered. "We will pick white roses for the bride's bouquet!"

Smell of Flowers by Edmund Chandler

Smell of Flowers by Edmund Chandler

The Scent of Jasmine by Livingstone B. Morse

Branch of Flowering White Jasmine

The Scent of Jasmine by Livingstone B. Morse

Fragrant Quote for May 1st, 2012 from On the edge of the world By Edmund Candler


Fragrant Quote for May 1st, 2012 from On the edge of the world
By Edmund Candler

We rode the two next stages from Sopor, still in the hot valley, through grassy lanes, between avenues of poplar, willow, and mulberry, fragrant with the sweet earthy smell of the rise. There were little bubbling water-channels on either side, which meant a double border of flowers; by the edge of the road a line of homely English wayside herbs, agrimony, succory, vervain, mullein, bird'sfoot trefoil; and on the banks of the streamlet familiar marsh-plants, water plantain, arrowhead, willow-herb, forget-me-not, loosestrife. But the most beautiful thing we saw was the starry chains of light blue succory spread over the maze of intersecting bunds between the rice-fields, like a web of stringed turquoises. Every now and then we came to villages embowered in groves of walnut and elm and chenar, apple-orchards and clumps of hawthorn. Masses of briar in seed and faded irises spread over the humble graveyards told us that the valley must have been even more beautiful in spring. Then the road would lead up to a stony ghat, and the lush water-flowers would give place to the dianthus, white and pink, and the deep blue salvia.

When the marches were not too long we halted for two or three hours in the middle of the day. I packed " L'Immortel " and " Cosmopolis " in the tiffin basket for the first half of the journey. There is a double zest in a book with a scene remote from one's surroundings, especially when one's surroundings fit one's mood. At Bunji I read "Under the Greenwood Tree." Longden's yakdhan was heavy with literature. By different rills and streams he digested four volumes of Economic History.

When we left the shade of the grass lanes the heat was intense. The only relief was a subconscious one in the babble of the network of watercourses which spread everywhere, feeding the ricefields and turning little mills like rabbit-hutches laid across the stream, from which some old Semitic crone or naked little wide-eyed girl would peep at us curiously and salaam. We reached the foot of the mountains at a village called Marhamma. The walnut trees here were the largest I have seen. The grass under them was starred with balsam and larkspur and a white umbelliferous plant like sheep's parsley. Looking up through the leaves we saw the blue hills we were circumventing, and down the path the white and grey of the willows and poplars and the vivid green of the young seedling rice. We pitched our tents on a narrow plot between the graves of the village fathers and the house of an aged mullah who prayed and intoned all the while we were there, now playing the imam to a group of reverent elders, now the instructor of. equally reverent, but more abstracted youth.

These pastoral scenes have an indescribable charm to one on the road to or from the snows. If one hears more of the beauty of Kashmir than of other parts of the Himalayas, it is because the pastoral bent is as strong in most wanderers as the love of wild scenery, and no one can resist the blend of the two. The moods play upon one alternately— Pan's flute and the alpenhorn calling one up to the echoes of the moraine; the shade of a fruit-tree by a rippling stream and the cloud-shadows racing over a mountain-tarn where the tall gentian and primula peep out of their crevice in the rock.