Nose in Prose and Poetry

The Literary Digest - Volume 40 - Page 1088

The craniad: or, Spurzheim illustrated, a poem 

The Family Library of British Poetry

Titan: A Monthly Magazine... - Volume 1 - Page 411

The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction

The American museum or repository of ancient and modern ...

Putnam's Monthly Magazine of American Literature, Science

Harper's Magazine - Volume 17 - Page 377








Scent of Books and Books Shops

The ensemble of his library was alone worthy to kindle all his fire. How tint blended with tint, the rich brown calf with the chaste lustre of the vellum back, the severity of _the dark russia, with the subdued warmth of the red morocco, the olden gleams of the lettering an tooling, the undefinable fragrance, ‘ like a steam of rich distilled perfumes,’ which pervades a. library fertile in russia bindings,....
Fraser's Magazine, Volume 59
 By James Anthony Froude, John Tulloch

How can we help entering into his enthusiasm for his old books, as he inhales “the fragrance of the stout pages, and caresses the tarnished tree-calf covers of these twenty-one worn volumes of Shakespeare’s Plays.” He says, “Spenser’s noble folio here on my desk has a singularly precious association connected with it, for it was bought immediately after I came from the stately funeral of Lord Tennyson. The linking of the two august poets in this way has meant an added joy in the perusal of my copy of Spenser ever since that day. * * * "‘ A few dollars will go a long way among London book-stalls. Little Eighteenth Century editions of The Spectator, and of Pope and Gray and Cowper, may often be picked up for sixpence a volume.
Friends' Intelligencer, Volume 68

RECENT publications of known  authors, strongly bound in serviceableable calf, are amongst the necessities of life, inasmuch as they contain food pure and simple; but stray volumes lovingly extracted from out-of-the-way nooks in old book-shops, and having special associations, are to be classed with the luxuries of existence; they have the fragrance of the East about them, and all the glorious mystery of summer-dreams.
The Bibliographer; a Journal of Book-lore, Volumes 5-6

In the good old days, when there was such a thing as genuine "society" in provincial towns and sleepy cathedral cities; the days when the country newspaper appeared only once a week, and it was a treat to be allowed to read a Times that was merely three days old; in the days, in short, when the electric telegraph was not, and even the steam-engine was but little understood, there was no town in Great Britain which did not possess a rendezvous for those who took an interest in literature and literary matters in the shape of a bookseller's shop. The booksellers of Edinburgh, Glasgow, York, Leeds, Manchester, and Birmingham were, in those halcyon days, the great patrons of our national letters and the source of inspiration on all things literary. The clergyman, the schoolmaster, the doctor, and any stray student who preferred the comparative quiet of the country to the bustle of the capital, foregathered in the shop of the local bookseller. There they enjoyed the pleasure so dear to the book-lover of turning over the uncut leaves of the new volumes to which the delicious fragrance of the press-room still clung. 
The Speaker, Volume 10

Old Books are best! I confess to that belief. Why else did I put aside the prim little Shakespeares in their fresh green leather in the showy Holborn shop, and buy the old Malone variorum edition of 1803 in Booksellers’ Row? Books associate themselves for us with the places where we bought them and the places where we read them. These old Shake— speares forever recall that yellow fog and that ancient stall on a certain December afternoon. The notes may not discuss the latest German theory of Hamlet’s mad— ness, but they are delightfully ample and leisurely, covering mostly the greater part of the page, and their obsolete wisdom is always vouched for by Malone, or Johnson, or Steevens, or T. VVarton, or other old-time editors. Hardly will you meet with such a world of quaint annotation, save in Dr. Fumess’ generous pages, where the droll, strange editors of the Eighteenth Century find so kindly a welcome. Old Books are best! I think it, as I inhale the fragrance of the stout pages and caress the tarnished tree-calf covers of these twenty-one worn volumes of S hahespeare’s Plays.
Book News: An Illustrated Magazine of Literature and Books ..., Volume 25

"the Smell Of My Old, Old Books."
"My garden aboundeth in pleasant nooks
And fragrance is over it all;
For sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall.
Here is a folio that's grim with age
And yellow and green with mold;
There's the breath of the sea on every page
And the hint of a stanch ship's hold.
And here is a treasure from France la belle
Exhalth a faint perfume
Of wedded lily and asphodel
In a garden of song abloom.
And this wee little book of Puritan mien
And rude, conspicuous print
Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen,
Or, may be, of peppermint.
In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell
Where the cherry daisy grows,
And where in meadow or woodland dwell
The buttercup and the rose.
But best beloved of books, I ween,
Are those which one perceives
Are hallowed by ashes dropped between
The yellow, well-thumbed leaves.
For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear,
Till the treasured book is read;
Aud the ashes betwixt the pages here
Tell us of one long dead.
But the gracious presence reappears
As we read the book again,
And the fragrance of precious, distant years
Filleth the hearts of men.
Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks
The posies that bloom for all;
Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall!"
 Meehans' Monthly: A Magazine of Horticulture, Botany, and ..., Volumes 6-7

Her first glance, however, showed nothing but books, seemingly packed solid. The curious smell of old leather and dusty. yellowed paper had mingled with it something foreign, which She sniffed vigorously—it seemed -to be a hint of warm spice and of sandalwood and the pungent odor of marline! Visionsof coral islands in the tranquil blue of the far Pacific, green palm-trees and vivid birds, the hot, tropic sun blazing on yellow sands rose in her imagination—it was a very satisfying smell, Joan decided, and one that promised interesting and romantic developments.
St. Nicholas, Volume 48
 By Mary Mapes Dodge

But still Ray was not satisfied. Oxford was still only superficially Oxford. The more he threw himself into every side of university life, the more societies he joined, the more dinners in which he participated, the more was he convinced that the true atmosphere of Oxford was completely missing. The only occasion on which he really felt he was at Oxford at all was on one afternoon soon after he had discussed The Oxford Mercury with Steele. After so much excitement, Ray felt that he needed rest, and he made his way slowly and somewhat disconsolately down to Parkin's. He had an excuse for going there, namely that he had to buy a copy of Maine's "Ancient Law," but that was not really the reason why he went. He went because he had, that afternoon, an irresistible desire for books, the feel of books, the smell of books. 
 By Beverley Nichols

 In an Old Bookshop by Mary Frances Sanford-1903
Here in the teeming city's heart
There is a place, where he who enters in
May shut away the tumult and the din
Of strife for bread, and bide awhile apart.
For here the master's of a might art,
With all their store of treasure, wait our will,
And in their presence, so benign and still,
Our clamourous cares grow silent and depart.
The fragrance of the past is everywhere: 
Sun burnt Morocco and the Orient
Have lent their treasures worthily to dress
Wisdom profound and fancies heavenly fair,
Garnered in bygone years from lives long spent
Yet living thus in all their loveliness.

Every morning, on our way to the galleys, we passed the little stronghold of culture.
We lived on the north side, where a free air came in from the lake. Starting from a zone that was one hundred per cent ozone, our long walk to the editorial dungeons led us through many city odors, some of which were curdled to the dignity of smells.
If we had been blindfolded and led along on familiar city trail, we could have called the corners and the landmarks because of the aromatic variations.
For instance, there was a German place just on the border of the residence district. A sweet-sour exhalation, of a happy flavor, used to come through the swinging doors and permeate the street until overcome by the smoky fumes of pitch from the new asphalt.
Further along, a suggestion of the soap works, plowing by invisible current through an alley, was pleasantly modified by the sharp, tangy odor spilled from a huge red building in which leaf tobacco was ground into a smoking mixture.
A mist of gentle decay hung over the sluggish river, but the first diagonal street to the south brought a quick assortment of most agreeable scents, all suggestive of the sunny tropics. Every doorway breathed of spices or coffee turning in a roaster. At the corner where the wagons were heaped full of bananas and the sidewalks were stacked to the awning with varieties of citrus, the redolence was heavy and almost cloying in its sweetness.
The neglected down-town pavements gave out a flat malarial vapor in the morning sun and a cold gust of rancid mud and mildew arose from the LaSallestreet tunnel.
Even the city hall had a character of its own. From the apertures we could get whiffs of dead tobacco smoke and a convincing proof that the crowd huddled inside should have been hung out for a thorough airing.
The odor banked in front of each cook shop was almost heavy enough to have form and color. We had to push through several of these strata before turning the corner to greet the delectable smell emerging from Frank's Place.
It was not a printing house smell. The latter is a rank composite of fresh ink and rag paper and lubricating oils.
Amateur smellers sometimes put all printed matter under one head in the list of factory sensations and do not distinguish between a book shop and a press room.
There is the same difference that an epicure would find between a green carcass still quivering on the ground and a gamey cut that had been hanging and mellowing for many days.
Also, there is a difference between a common ordinary book-store (with the volumes still sweating from the bindery) and a repository for old books.
Frank's place was incredibly packed from floor to ceiling with books old enough to command respect and with private histories augmenting their value.
And so, there was embanked, all about the premises, like a still incense, the gently, musty, dusty, old papery aroma of well-seasoned books. Air which is tinctured with this refined essence becomes a soft irritant to the nasal passages, like good snuff, inducing the visitor to sneeze once or twice before starting on his ramble along the shelves.
Frank's place was a few square feet of St. Paul's churchyard set down in Madison street.
McCutcheon and I would look in and see the dim aisles lined with stationary loungers, all reading fixedly and no one purchasing. We wondered if Frank found it profitable to conduct a free reading-room.
We would inhale deeply hoping that some bacilli of inspiration might still be floating in the dust from the rare old volumes, and then we would hurry on to the works and do our daily grind of stories of the street.

"If Imatra did not exist, then Valinkoski would be the most beautiful waterfall in Europe." A traveller wrote these lines on the fly-leaf of a faded vellum-bound sketch-book, in the last part of the eighteenth century. The book fell into my hands by chance in an old bookshop in Helsingfors. It had evidently been well taken care of and still had a faint aroma of some long-forgotten perfume clinging to the yellow pages. That perfume came again to my remembrance with the breath of some pungent herb that filled the forests around Imatra with an odd sharp sweetness, that I never noticed elsewhere during my travels in Finland. It may have been that a heavy rain-storm that morning had brought out the perfume more than usually. Whatever the cause, the air was delicious. I was undecided whether to go to Tainionkoski or Valinkoski that afternoon. Imatra divides them—from one it gathers the first breath of battle, and the other throws it a mirage of peace that it can never reach.
A Summer Tour in Finland
 By Sylvia Borgström MacDougall

Incense and Its Possibilities by George Niles Hoffman

Incense and Its Possibilities by George Niles Hoffman(click here to read article)

Fumigating Pastilles Recipes


A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Perfumery-1892

Perfumery - Page 292-1853

 Perfumes and Cosmetics: Their Preparation and Manufacture-1922

A practical Guide for the Perfumer-1868

Cassell's household guide - Page 5-1869

The Art of Perfumery-1867

The Era Formulary: 5000 Formulas for Druggists - Page 323-1893

Encyclopedia of Practical Receipts and Processes-1884








Equipment for a Perfumer's Laboratory

Ancient still for extraction of essential oils and perfumes

Equipment for a Perfumer's Laboratory-1877(click here for chapter)

The toilet and cosmetic arts in ancient and modern times by Arnold James Cooley-1866


The toilet and cosmetic arts in ancient and modern times(click here to read book) by Arnold James Cooley-1866

Incense/Pastille Recipes from older Perfumery Books

Older Recipes

Henley's twentieth century book of recipes, formulas

A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Perfumery-1892

Western Druggist - Volume 25 - Page 438

The New Standard Formulary:

A Supplement to the Pharmacopœia and Treatise on ... - Pag

The Art of Perfumery and the Methods of Obtaining -1891

Perfumery and Kindred Arts-1877

A Treatise on the Manufacture of Perfumes and Kindred-1877

A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Perfumery-1892

Perfumes and Their Preparation-1892

The British perfumer:-1822

The Toilet of Flora-1772












Fragrant Pillows

Pillows made of the tips of balsam fir are refreshing to lay one's head upon, breathing the air of the piney woods, and soothing one to sleep with its balmy perfume. Sweet clover also is used for filling pillows, as also is lavender. A friend of mine had a fragrant pillow which she always called her “olla podrida,” (miscellaneous collection) pillow. For the bulk of the filling fir tips were used, but mixed with it were sprays of every fragrant herb to be found, lavender, thyme, sage, Sassafras and bergamot. It made a curious medley but the odor was pleasing and no one could tell what it was until told. A hop pillow is not agreeable to every one, and perhaps cannot be recommended for its fragrance, but it is one of the best known remedies for sleeplessness and can be used for a long time without being renewed. Those of us who are blessed with a grate, where we can have an open fire at some seasons of the year, can save many small scraps which will produce a fragrance in our rooms. Small pieces of the branches of the wild cherry, tips of evergreen, cedar and juniper berries, plum, cherry and peach pits and the hard, woody stems of lavender. These latter are often made into small fagots, being plaited together with narrow strips of fancy paper. They have a charming appearance when made up in this way, and the fragrance is much stronger than one would suppose it could be from burning such dry sticks. Doubtless there are many other odorous things that might be used in the same way, and we can find them out by experimenting.
Vick's Illustrated Monthly Magazine, Volume 19-1895

In some sections of sunny Italy it is customary for a bride to make what is known as her fragrant pillow. Into this silken bag she puts the sweetest flowers. Year by year, as time flows on, she adds to them. And when, soon or late, she lies in her coffin, this fragrant pillow, wrought of flowers gathered through the bright and stormful years, is placed under her quiet head. And what is character—the soul's diploma—but life's perfumed pillow? More ethereal than ether, more elusive than odour, yet character is more powerful than radium, more pervasive than oxygen, more durable than the stars!
The Enchanted Universe: And Other Sermons
 By Frederick Franklin Shannon-1916
Charming souvenirs of rambles or outings are made by filling pillows with various sweet-scented flowers and leaves gathered and dried during the Summer. These will provide a delightful breath of the woods or country in the city flat or room that will amply pay for the slight trouble their preparation costs. The sweetest and daintiest of these cushions is the rose-pillow. It is a mistake commonly made to prepare the dried rose-leaves for a pillow the same as for a rose-jar. Instead of adding spices and what-not to obtain the real rose fragrance, get your druggist to mix three drops of oil or attar of roses with half an ounce of alcohol. Spray the rose-leaves with this before putting them in their thin cotton tick and add a few pinches of rose sachet. A genuine faint odor of roses will be exhaled in the room that will be a joy, if not forever, at least for many months. The oil of roses in alcohol will cost only a trifle, and will suffice for quite a large pillow. A wonderfully attractive rose-pillow cover recently made was of white linen lawn embroidered with wild roses. The pillow itself was covered with pale-green silk, over which the pink roses showed beautifully. The double ruffle of the lawn was lined with pink silk and caught in at the four corners with rosettes of narrow green ribbon. A pretty idea conceived by a girl graduate was to fill a pillow, made from the same material as her gown, with the dried roses of her graduation bouquets. At a June wedding the ring was borne in on a cushion made of the material of the bridal gown and filled with rose leaves saved from bouquets which the groom had sent the bride during their betrothal days. Another girl, whose taste shows a very decided trend to violets. has a charming orris-scented cushion filled with the dried bunches of those beautiful fragrant little blossoms, which
was sent her on the occasion of her début and her first ball. A pillow bound to induce dreams of the cool, fragrant woods is one whose filling is of fir needles and bits of cedar and hemlock. Make a plain cover of green denim, and in wood-brown silk embroider on it the words, “Give me of thy balm, O fir tree.” Another use for dried “needles” is to make a real Christmas pillow of them. Embroider the cover with wreaths of holly tied with red bow-knots, put a bright-red cord around it and you have a bit of Christmas cheer, with the “greens” inside and the holly outside, to send to the dear one who cannot be home for the holidays, or the friend who may live where holly and evergreen cannot be procured. For a cushion reminiscent of drowsy days in the meadows dry the fragrant sweet clover and fill the tick loosely with it. A cover made of cool gray linen, with red clover in natural colors and large bumble-bees hovering over, is pleasing and realistic, or a few straggling sprays of red clover and the words, “Sweet is the clover the wide world over,” will be effective. Similar pillows made from wild sweet peas, properly dried, give a sweet, spicy odor about the couch. A hop pillow has long been considered a sedative for tired nerves. Pongee silk in the natural color, with a straggling hopvine worked diagonally across, makes a serviceable and comfortable cover, or, as hops are supposed to have a somnolent effect and poppies produce sleep also, a touch of color may be given to the room by working on the pongee a bunch of scarlet poppies, being sure to have a few of the seed pods which produce the narcotic drug. Few of these pillows are naturally more ornamental than comfortable, but to a couch already possessed of a pile of downy cushions each is a happy addition. KATHERIVE E. MAXWELL.
The Delineator, Volume 54-1899


The Choice of Perfumes and Their Preparation by Ella Adelia Fletcher

The Choice of Perfumes and Their Preparation by Ella Adelia Fletcher(click here to read chapter from the Woman Beautiful)-1899

Scented FIr Balsam Pillows

A Fir Pillow for Baby
Probably many mothers have in their homes little pillows of fir-balsam. Let me suggest that Baby may enjoy a part of these pillows, and that the mothers will find this a helpful and healthful way of inducing long, restful naps. When our little daughter was about six weeks old I noticed her one day sniffing all around me, as if to discover the source of the fragrant odor. Suddenly she buried her little nose in the fir pillow on which it was resting, sniffed contentedly for a few minutes, then fell asleep. Several times after this I noticed her enjoying the odor; it brought comfort and sleepiness. We made a little pillow for her, filling it with the tender tips of the fir-balsam, and now she rests in her bassinet on a mattress of pine, hemlock, and fir, with the little pillow of balsam at her head. At night I take this same pillow to her crib, and she sleeps more sweetly than on her pillow of hair. She will go to sleep readily at her bed-time (six o'clock), and often does not
waken till midnight. When restless in her sleep a few sniffs of the pillow will often bring sound sleep again. G. M. C.
W. Box ford, Mass.
Babyhood: Devoted Exclusively to the Care of Infants and Young-1887

NOW that pillows made of the " spills " or foliage of the balsam fir tree, (abies balsamea) not only are considered fashionable, but highly beneficial in the treatment of many ailments, such as insomnia, nervousness, headache, catarrh, and lung diseases, etc., it may be well to know how best to prepare the green spills. The balsam fir or balm-of-gilead fir, from which is obtained the Canada balsam, should not be confounded with other species of the coniferse of like appearance—a mistake that is easily made, as the resinous perfume of the different spruce trees is almost as deliriously fragrant if not so lasting, or of so much value medicinally, as that of the balm fir. It is also rather difficult to distinguish the difference as to foliage, between the balm fir and the other spruce trees; the leaves of the former are in two rows on either side of the branchiate; those of the latter are scattered irregularly around the stems. The spills may be collected at any season.
In mid-summer, at ultra-fashionable Bar Harbor, and other Maine resorts, the modern belle, with an armful of fir branches is no unusual sight, while the fastidious beau may be seen, on a rainy or foggy afternoon, on the hotel or cottage piazza, smudging his delicate fingers with turpentine, as he helps some fair lady to "pull" fir balsam—" pulling parties" they are called 'way down in Maine. Again, in the autumn or winter, the "native" lad and lassie may be seen " lugging " home an evening's pulling of balm twigs, which, when nicely dried, will be sent to the city shops, or sold next summer to the "rusticator." The spills, and the entire tender green shoots at the ends of the twigs are plucked while fresh and crisp, from i in' stems; 'if they are allowed to dry on the branches much of their delicious fragrance is lost. They are spread to dry in a perfectly dry place. Care must be taken that no moisture collects on the balsam, as it would* ruin the delicate perfume. When the spills are thoroughly dried, they are ready for the pillow, which should be made of thin, stout material. The outside slip may be plain or ornamented, according to individual taste. tongee silk, linen, madras cloth, or any of the pretty stuffs now obtainable, may be used. A suitable decoration for a fir pillow is an emblematic motto, as: "Thy breath, Bweet balm, hath power to soothe the fevered brow." "I breathe the perfume of the pines." "The fragrance of the woods I bring," etc.
These mottoes may be embroidered in any suitable stitch. A very effective design fora pillow, is a branch of fir with several cones done in a dark green and brown chenille, on a lighter green or brown ground.—S. E. Booas, in Good Housekeeping.
Friends' Intelligencer United with the Friends' Journal, Volume 44-1887

She pulled a long branch of the balsam fir nearer as she spoke, and buried her nose in it. It was the first week in September, and she and Brie were sitting in the hill grove.
"I love this smell so," she said. "It is delicious. It makes me dream.
Brie broke off a bough.
"I shall hang it over your bed," she said, "and you will smell it all night.',
So the fir bough hung upon the wall until it gradually yellowed, and the needles began to drop.
"Why, they are as sweet as ever—sweeter." declared Brie, smelling a handful which she had swept from the floor. Then an idea came into her head.
She gathered a great fagot of the branches, and laid them to dry in the sun on the floor of a little used piazza. When partly dry.she stripped off the needles, stuffed with them a square cotton bag, and made for that a cover of soft sage-green silk, with an odd shot pattern over it. It was a piece of what had been her great grandmothers wedding gown.
 Do'you realize the situation, reader? Brie had made the first of all the many balsam pillows. It was meant for a good-bye gift to Miss Morgan.
"Your cushion is the joy of my life," wrote that lady to her a month after she went home. "Every one who sees it, falls in love with it. Half a dozen people have asked me how they could get one like it. And Brie, this has gi ven me an idea. Why should you not make them for sale? I will send you some pretty silk for the covers, and you might cross-stitch a little motto if you liked. I copy some for you. Two people have given me orders already. They will pay four dollars apiece if you like to try."
This suggestion was the small wedge of the new industry. Brie lost no time in making the the pillows, grandmother's gown fortunately holding out for their covers. Then came pretty red silk from Miss Morgan, with yellow fioselle for the mottos, and more orders. Brie worked busily that winter, for her balsam pillows had to be made in spare moments when other work permitted. The grove on the hill was her unfailing treasure of supply. The thick-set twigs bent them to her will; the upper branches seemed to her to rustle as with satisfaction at the aid they were giving. In the spring the old trees renewed their foliage with vigorous will, as if resolved not to balk her in her purpose,
The fir grove paid Beuben's wages that winter. Miss Morgan came back the following June, and by that time balsam pillows were established as articles of commerce, and Brie had a magnificent offer from a recently established Decorative Art Society for a supply of needles, at three dollars per pound, It was hard, dirty work to prepare such a quantity but she did not mind that.
As I said, this was some years since. Brie no longer fives in her old home. Her mother died the third year after Miss Morgan came to them, the farm is sold and Brie is married. She lives now on a ranch in Colorado, but she has never forgotten the fir grove, and the memory of it is a help often in the desponding moments that come at times to all lives.
"I could not be worse off than I was then," she says to herself. "There seemed no help or hope anywhere. I felt as if God didn't care and didn't hear my prayer, and yet, all the time, there was dear Miss Morgan coming to help us, and there were the trees, great beautiful things, nodding their heads, and trying to show me what could be made out of them. No, I never will be faithless again; nor let myself doubt, however dark things may look, but remember my balsam pillows, and trust in God.
The Eastern Star, Volume 2-1889

The Bringing of the Balsam
JOSEPH LEE, President, War Camp Community Service
Some are born in the woods, some go to the woods on their vacation, and some have the woods brought to them.
This last experience comes in balsam fir pillows from one’s friends.
To put your head on balsam fir is to dream of moose and moonlight on the lake. To go into a room where there is a scent of balsam is to know the little pointed spruces are outside the window and feel the happy fatigue of a day on the mountain or along the brook.
Many in the community have earned a vacation, and if they cannot take one, we must bring it to them.
So tell your lucky friends in the land of Heart’s desire to bring the woods back with them to your community club.
Recreation, Volume 14-1920

I generally established my headquarters near long-needled pines, cedars, tamaracks, hemlocks, balsam firs and other trees whose neighborhoods are apt to be dry; and in my selection of balsam-fir halting-places, I had a double object in view. While keeping a faithful watch on my birds I was able to gather large supplies of the tender, fragrant tips for cushions and pillows. (The newest growth, distinguishable always by its strongly contrasting light green, is the only one available for the purpose.) One can fancy how, afterwards, in shut-in days when a heavy mantle of snow lay over all the woodland paths and weighed down even the strongest of the great branches, my balsam pillow spoke to me of forest calm and harmony, of song and color and fragrance and of all the dear delights that had been mine in the gathering. But far better than this, these pillows of fragrant balsam often found their way to rooms where suffering reigned; rooms to whose inmates forest voices could come only through such channels as these. I remember particularly, in one instance where the windows were darkened and neither sun nor stars had appeared to the sufferer for many days, the touching gratitude of the recipient when I presented her with one of my balsam-fir pillows. Yet I had only given her of my abundance, my forest wealth! If you have never made the experiment of thus sharing your summer joys with one Who, through illness or some other hindering agency, has been deprived of them, I can assure you that it is a thousand-fold paying investment.
Mr. Chupes and Miss Jenny: the life story of two robins
 By Mrs. Effie Molt Bignell-1901
IT is probably on account of the interesting psychological fact of the curious association of the sense of smell with the memory of former experiences that the Balsam Fir holds a unique position among the evergreens in the minds of most people who have lived for a time in the region where it grows. The delightful odor of the leaves is sure to recall to these fortunate ones, experiences of outings in the forests or of balsam pillows carried to village or city homes. The odor certainly is one of the most refreshing fragrances in Nature's pharmacy, and it seems fitting that the tree should also furnish, through the unique reservoirs that stand out on the bark of the trunk and larger branches, an abundant supply of one of the most potent medicines for the ills of throat and lungs. This clear balsam is often used as medicine directly from the tree in the regions where it grows. It is also largely used in preserving microscopic preparations and for various other purposes. 
Our Trees, how to Know Them
 By Clarence Moores Weed-1918
Fashion is such a curious dame in the influence she exercises upon the actions of women. Those who know the tonic and soothing virtue of balsam-fir pillows still use them, though it is more than a decade since the craze for them was an epidemic which swept over the entire land, spreading rapidly in whole villages and towns. It may be said to have started the couch-cushion cult; but it disappeared itself as quickly as it came, and it is rare that one finds the refreshing spicy cushions now. They need renewing, of course, every two or three years; but there is no pleasanter work to do in the mountains than to prepare the filling for such a pillow, and no more acceptable cushion can be placed under an aching, throbbing head.
The Woman Beautiful By Ella Adelia Fletcher

Reciepts(Recipes) for Aromatic Distilled Waters

"Apparatus for distillation from the region of the solfatara of Pozzuoli"

Receipts(Recipes) for Aromatic Distilled Waters from A Treatise on the Manufacture and Distillation of Alcoholic Liquors(click here for chapter)-1871

Containing the Methods of Distilling Simple Waters

Containing the Methods of Distilling Simple Waters(click here to read chapter)
The Complete Distiller By Ambrose Cooper-1800

Smell of Flowers by Edmund Candler

Smell of Flowers by Edmund Candler(click here for article)

General History of the Volatile Oils by By Eduard Gildemeister, Friedrich Hoffmann

Alambic in einer mittelalterlichen Handschrift
General History of the Volatile Oils by By Eduard Gildemeister, Friedrich Hoffmann(click here to read article)

History of the Art of Distillation and of Distilling Apparatus By Oswald Schreiner

Alchemie & Destillation & Ofen

History of the Art of Distillation and of Distilling Apparatus  By Oswald Schreiner(click here to read book)-1901

history of the distillation of volatile oils during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries

Still Design Patent
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Perfumes from Every Saturday-1873

Perfumes from Every Saturday-1873

Perfume Sellers and Shops in Literature

So, when the eager Mozabite merchants called to her she did not heed them, and even the busy patter of the informing Batouch fell upon rather listless ears.
"I sha'n't stay here," she said to him. "But I'll buy some perfumes. Where can I get them?"
A thin youth, brooding above a wooden tray close by, held up in his delicate fingers a long bottle, sealed and furnished with a tiny label, but Batouch shook his head.
"For perfumes you must go to Ahmeda, under the arcade."
They crossed a sunlit space and stood before a dark room, sunk lightly below the level of the pathway in a deserted corner. Shadows congregated here, and in the gloom Domini saw a bent white figure hunched against the blackened wall, and heard an old voice murmuring like a drowsy bee. The perfume-seller was immersed in the Koran, his back to the buying world. Batouch was about to call upon him, when Domini checked the exclamation with a quick gesture. For the first time the mystery that coils like a great black serpent in the shining heart of the East startled and fascinated her, a mystery in which indifference and devotion mingle. The white figure swayed slowly to and fro, carrying the dull, humming voice with it, and now she seemed to hear a far-away fanaticism, the bourdon of a fatalism which she longed to understand. "Ahmeda!"
Batouch shouted. His voice came like a stone from a catapult. The merchant turned calmly and without haste, showing an aquiline face covered with wrinkles, tufted with white hairs, lit by eyes that shone with the cruel expressiveness of a falcon's. After a short colloquy in Arabic he raised himself from his haunches, and came to the front of the room, where there was a small wooden counter. He was smiling now with a grace that was almost feminine.
"What perfume does Madame desire?" he said in French.
Domini gazed at him as at a deep mystery, but with the searching directness characteristic of her, a fearlessness so absolute that it embarrassed many people.
"Please give me something that is of the East—not violets, not lilac."
"Amber," said Batouch.
The merchant, still smiling, reached up to a shelf, showing an arm like a brown twig, and took down a glass bottle covered with red and green lines. He removed the stopper, made Domini take off her glove, touched her bare hand with the stopper, then with his forefinger gently rubbed the drop of perfume which had settled on her skin till it was slightly red.
"Now, smell it," he commanded.
Domini obeyed. The perfume was faintly medicinal, but it filled her brain with exotic visions. She shut her eyes. Yes, that was a voice of Africa too. Oh! how far away she was from her old life and hollow days. The magic carpet had been spread indeed, and she had been wafted into a strange land where she had all to learn.
"Please give me some of that," she said.
The merchant poured the amber into a phial, where it lay like a thread in the glass, weighed it in a scales and demanded a price. Batouch began at once to argue with vehemence, but Domini stopped him.
"Pay him," she said, giving Batouch her purse.
The perfume-seller took the money with dignity, turned away, squatted upon his haunches against the blackened wall, and picked up the broad-leaved volume which lay upon the floor. He swayed gently and rhythmically to and fro. Then once more the voice of the drowsy bee hummed in the shadows. The worshipper and the Prophet stood before the feet of Allah.
The Garden of Allah
 By Robert Smythe Hichens-1905

THE Souk-el-Attarin, the Souk of Perfumes. No need to be told its name. The very air whispers it. Here are attar of roses, jasmine, amber, and many other concentrated essences which might make sweet all the vileness of earth. Before some of the shops stand sacks and baskets of dried leaves from aromatio shrubs and herbs, whole leaves and leaves ground to powder, incense for worshippers in the Mosque opposite, or henna with which the native beauties redden their hair and the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet. There is a profuse display of seven-branched candles and of the familiar long, stick-shaped bottles in which the perfumes of the East come West.
The perfume-seller is the aristocrat of the Tunis Souks. The Souk-el-Attarin commands the approach to all the other Souks. Its little cave-like shops are on an ampler scale, and have a more lavish display. They alone are furnished with cushioned divans on which customers may sit while selecting their purchases. There is a tradition that in the old days rich Arabs who wished to conceal their wealth from extortionate Beys used to hire a shop in this Souk in order to make a pretence of being poor tradesmen. An air of spacious leisure and condescending ease still pervades the place. Each little den is more like a shrine than a shop, and the proprietor is the officiating priest.
An Arab friend whom I met at Batna had recommended me to seek out Hadji Mohammed Tabet in his shop at No. 37, Souk-el-Attarin. He is a famous man in his craft, and he bears the title of Hadji by virtue of having made the pilgrimage to Mecca. He welcomes us with urbanity. He is fat and jolly and his smile is a cure for the doldrums. We sit round on cushions while he takes his place behind a little table like a magician about to begin his incantations. Coffee is ordered, thick, sweet, and fragrant. There is a touch of incense in the air. We are surrounded by bottles of exquisitely coloured liquids, and by glass jars full of rare gums, resins, aromatic woods and leaves, and tiny pastilles for burning. It recalls the chapter in Flaubert's great epic of the senses wherein Salambo ascends to the roof-terrace of her father's palace at Carthage to invoke the moon goddess, and long perfuming pans filled with nard, incense, cinnamomum, and myrrh are kindled by slaves.
And now the Perfume Wizard begins to practise his art upon the olfactory nerves and to run through the gamut of the sense of smell. His wares are not the ordinary scents dissolved in volatile spirit with which we are familiar, but concentrated quintessences the most delicate touch of which is sufficient to confer a lasting perfume. To use a drop is to squander with prodigality. Hadji Tabet withdraws a stopper from a crystal phial and gently passes it across a fur collar, or a muff, or the back of a glove, and the fragrance lasts for days.
First amber, sweet, ambrosial, exciting, the lure of the adventurer, the song of the endless quest, the double-distilled spirit of pine forests a geological epoch ago. Try it on a cigarette— just touch the paper with the stopper and inhale. Ah! Dizzy! Dizzy! A moment of vertigo. Did the room swim? A memory, swift and evanescent, of summer seas in the North, and golden sand, and birch trees like fountains of green spray. Did it last a moment or a million years? For this the Phoenicians, and their unknown precursors who have left their megalithic monuments on the shores of the Baltic, ventured forth in their frail boats beyond the pillars of Melcarth, whom the Greeks called Hercules. A wildlooking scarecrow, a holy beggar from the gates of the mosque, with uncombed hair and tattered rags, is whining at the door of the shop. Hadji Tabet gives him a coin.
Another stopper. It is jasmine, sweet with the sweetness of wild honey, the spirit of the woods, of the dryad among the reeds, and of the cool shadows and the noontide rest. Happy girlhood. Then orange blossom, tender, innocent, virginal—the breath of brides' adorning. Try this attar—roses, roses, rapture and languor, a call from the land of the lotus-eaters. No longer the sweet freshness of the woods, but the closeness of the alcove. And here are others, the scents of the harem, narcissus and lily of the valley, seductive and alluring, drugging the mind like a love-philtre, and musk for intrigue,
and the secret perfume that steals away men's senses.
The ragged fanatic has not departed with his coin. He has crept into the outer shop and is sitting on the floor, his eyes staring fiercely through his matted hair. He sniffs the air and his nostrils twitch. What can these delicate odours signify to such as he ?" Do not mind him," says Hadji Tabet. "He is quite harmless," tapping his head. "Allah has visited him and he is sacred. He loves some of my perfumes —not these, but incense and such like."
Another stopper. It is like an organ-player pulling out another stop in an oratorio of perfume. He releases the scents of the open air, the balsams which the sun distils from the forests of pine, and cypress, and cedar, and myrtle, and throws broadcast on the wind. It is the air the hunter breathes in Spring in the passes of the Aures Mountains, from which one can look out over the Desert far below, as over a sea of sand, or from the slopes of the Djurdjura, whence one can survey the broad blue expanse of the Mediterranean. When the Roman legionaries bivouacked after a day's march on the frontier, and stretched themselves at ease beside the fire, the spurting tendrils of smoke from the cedar-logs scented the night. It is the call of the wild, the lure of adventure. Women do not love these scents. They draw a man away from the soft delights of domesticity.
The sense of smell is the sense most closely associated with memory. It can recreate a vanished vision in the mind's eye. Its seat is nearest to the brain, and at the vibration of the olfactory nerves emotions glow again among the embers of the past and thoughts long buried come to the surface. Just as we may construct a drama of music or pictures, so we may construct a drama of perfumes, a drama of memories. The Perfume Wizard, like the Witch of Endor, can make a man read his own heart by calling up the past before him.
Hadji Tabet discourses on the qualities of his perfumes and the preferences of his clients. The ladies of the harem prefer rose, jasmine, narcissus, muguet (lily of the valley), and musk—musk especially, " because it makes itself felt a long way off." Amber is the scent for a man, a bold, adventurous man who fears nothing. The soldier is content with geranium, "because it is cheap." Parfum du Bey, a composite essence, is the royal scent, the perquisite of kings, the privilege of the wise, the rich, and the great, who are honoured by the Bey. For the priest, for the holy man, there is incense. And here is something in a buffalo horn, a blaok oily paste. A loathly odour of musk, so concentrated and powerful that it is nauseous, fills the little room. It is civet—the unguent exuded from the skin of the wild cat under torture, the perfume for Black Magic, a potent essence much sought after by the tribes of the Desert and the negresses of the South.
The holy beggar displays a most unholy interest in this horn of Satanic pomatum. He is whining and stretching out his talon-like hands for it. The Wizard speaks sharply to him in Arabic and he subsides again on the floor, muttering what sounds like imprecations.
What is he saying?" we ask, looking at him askance. "I do not know. It is not Arabic. He understands Arabic and he can recite long passages from the Koran. But he speaks some obscure native dialect. There are ancient tongues, older than the Roman, still spoken by tribes in the mountains and in the Desert beyond."
Again Hadji Tabet removes a stopper. Ah, it is not a perfume, it is a drug. It excites, it maddens, it compels. It is the voice of the Sirens. The beggar on the floor is telling his beads. No wonder Ulysses had his sailors bind him with ropes to the mast till he was past that danger.
A brasier of charcoal is produced and a small portion of dark-coloured resinous wood is placed upon the glowing ash. A column of smoke rises and spreads out from the roof, gradually filling the room. It is incantation—a magic rite. Through the reek the ample form of Hadji Tabet looms larger, like a Djinn rising from the earth. We are oppressed by a sense of danger, a terror of the unknown. The blood rushes to the head and sings in the ears. What is that? The beggar squatting on the floor is swaying his body violently to and fro, beating a weird rhythm on some instrument like a tom-tom. Was that a jangling of cymbals and a shrill screeching of stringed and wind instruments? The buzzing in our ears increases. It is like a telephone which has been cut off and in which the wire is still alive. Strange sounds can be heard coming out of limbo. Hark! The ecstatic cries of the priests gashing themselves with knives before the image of Moloeh, heated red
hot by the furnace within, the shrieks of the children as they pass into the flames, the wailing of the mothers, the murmur of the crowd. "Hear us, O Baal." We have had a glimpse into the dark places of the earth.
Another stick is flung upon the brasier and a different smoke arises. It is incense. It clears the mind. It calms and reassures. This is the perfume of adoration, supplication, aspiration. Let the world be shut out, and let us sink slowly into Nirvana. The holy one on the floor is reciting monotonously long passages from the Koran, or perhaps it is only the same sentence repeated over and over again. "There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet."
Hadji Tabet sits smiling placidly behind his table spraying something into the air. It is verbena, a clean scent, sharp, slightly acid, fresh, pungent, and reviving. It clears the brain of vapours and mists and mad fancies, and braces the nerves like a call to action. Have we been dreaming? It is time to make our purchases and go. The holy one's hand is outstretched. We pass him some small coins. He conceals them hurriedly in his rags without a word of thanks. Hadji Tabet offers him some morsels of incense. He grasps them eagerly, kisses the hand of the donor, and shambles off in the direction of the mosque.
Barbary: The Romance of the Nearest East--1921