Fragrance Quote November 15h, 2011-Travel, reminiscences and experiences By Emil Klopfer

Fragrance Quote November 15th, 2011-Travel, reminiscences and experiences By Emil Klopfer

In the early morning, when I galloped along driving the cattle before me, the dew still glistening on the grass, the earth giving forth that subtle, exquisite perfume that one only experiences at this hour; when the sun mounted in the east, sending its long, level rays of quivering gold across the landscape at its magic touch, sky, grass, trees, all ablaze with wonderful colors; when the chirps and whistles of innumerable birds came from the thickets and groves, as they cleared their little throats for their usual matin songs; when rabbits, coyotes and squirrels, startled by the hoof-beats of my horse, scurried away in every direction—then I felt that exquisite, that indescribable joy of life that comes to us only in youth, when our hearts and souls are clean and unsullied by the world. A sense of sincerest gratitude towards the Creator of our beautiful world surged through my heart at such moments, and I could not but pity all those of my fellow-creatures who were not capable of this enthusiastic delight in the sublimity and tenderly exquisite beauty of nature.File:A passagem do gado.jpghttps://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:A_passagem_do_gado.jpg

Fragrance in the Writings of Bayard Taylor

Fragrance in the Writings of Bayard Taylor

Take our survey New!
Eldorado, or, Adventures in the Path of Empire: Comprising a ..., Volume 2
By Bayard Taylor
The whole landscape was like a garden. For leagues around the town it was one constant alternation of field, grove and garden—the fields of the freshest green, the groves white with blossoms, and ringing with the songs of birds, and the gardens loading the air with delicious perfume. Stately haciendas were perched on the vernal slopes, and in the fields; on the roads and winding mule-paths of the hills we saw everywhere a gay and light-hearted people.

We could not stroll among the gardens or sit under the urns of the Alameda, but the towers and balconies were left us; the landscape, though faint and blurred by the filmy rain, was nearly as beautiful, and the perfume could not be washed out of the air. So passed the day, and with the night we
betook ourselves early to rest, for the Diligence was to leave at three o'clock on the morrow.

I drove him forward up ravines, buried in foliage and fragrant with blossoms; the golden globes of the oranges spangled the " embalmed darkness," as twilight settled on the mountains.

While the grooms were changing teams, we supplied ourselves with oranges, bananas, zapotes chicos and granaditas de China. The latter fruit is about the size of an egg, with a brittle shell of a bright scarlet colour, inside of which is a soft white sack. Breaking this open, the tender, fragrant pulp is revealed—the most dainty, exquisite thing that nature ever compounded. We also bought an armful of sugar-cane, which we hung on the umbrella hooks, and chopped up and chewed as thirst required.

The adjoining block is built on the same plan, and occupied entirely by shops of all kinds. Shielded alike from rain and sun, it is a favourite promenade, and always wears a gay and busy aspect. The intervals between the pillars, next the street, are filled with cases of toys, pictures, gilt images of saints, or gaudy slippers, sarapes and rebosas. Here the rancheros may be seen in abundance, buying ornaments for the next festivals. Vendors of fruit sit at the corners, their mats filled with fragrant and gleaming pyramids, and the long shelves of cool barley-water, and tepache, ranged in glasses of alternate white and purple, attract the thirsty idler.

After two leagues of this enchanting travel we came to Jalapa, a city of about twenty thousand inhabitants, on the slope of the hills, half-way between the sea and the tableland, overlooking the one and dominated by the other. The streets are as clean as a Dutch cottage; the one-story tiled houses, sparkling in the sun, are buried in gardens that rival the Hesperides. Two miles before reaching the town the odour of its orange-blossoms filled the air.

Prose writings of Bayard Taylor ...
By Bayard Taylor

This lake is a favorite resort in summer, and the place where the annual regattas are held. It is about a mile long, lying in a deep valley, the sides of which are covered with hay-fields. A stream from its further end falls in a succession of little cascades down a rocky ledge into the land-locked cove, around which the village of Quidi Vidi is built. We pursued our path over a sloping down covered with dwarf whortle-berries and wild roses of delicious perfume. The Kalmia latifolia grew in thick clumps, and its flowering period was not entirely past. After a walk of a mile we reached the village, which contains forty or fifty houses, built at the head and along the sides of an oval sheet of water, completely inclosed by the red rocks, and so silent and glassy that no one would ever suppose it communicated with the turbulent sea without.

The sweetness and splendor of that evening will never fade from my mind. It is laid away in the same portfolio with marvellous sunsets on the becalmed Pacific; with twilight's on the Venetian lagoons; and with the silence and mystery of the star-lit Desert. The glassy water, reduplicating the sunset, was as transparent as air, and the gentle breeze, created by the motion of the boat, was vital with that sweetest of all odors—the smell of blossoming grasses on the low and distant shores. Standing on the hurricane-deck, we seemed to be plowing through the crystal firmament, steering forth from the fading earth towards some unknown planet. So fair and beautiful seemed to me then the world into which I was embarking —so far behind me the shores of the boyish life I had left.

Cold is unknown, but the tropical heats are never oppressive. The air bewilders you with its fragrance, the trees and flowers charm you with their beauty. The island is a miniature Eden,

"Where falls not rain, or hail, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea."

The Walhalla was not visible, but some peasant women showed us a footpath leading up to a church on the hill. There were shrines on the way, and we were obliged to step carefully past several persons who were ascending on their knees. Behind the church, the path plunged into a wood of young oaks, redolent of moist autumnal fragrance. After half :, mile of gradual ascent, we issued from the trees upon a space of level ground, on which stood the Walhalla, looming grandly through the up-rolling mists.

Finally we found a man who offered us the identical carriage in which the Admiral had ridden that very morning, for four dollars; but on learning that we were Yankees, and did not consider the Admiral's seat a peculiar honor, he reduced his demand to three dollars. We had a pair of matched grays and a ruddy, red-whiskered coachman, and whirled out around the foot of the citadel in gallant style. A good macadamized road conducted us out of the town, where we came at once upon hay and grain fields. The grass had just been cut, and the air was full of its fragrance. Wheat and barley were in head, but had not yet begun to ripen. A drive of two miles, partly through thickets and patches of fir and larch trees, brought us to the head of the main arm of the inner harbor, which is completely landlocked. Surrounded by dark green hills, with not a vessel, and but two or three houses in sight, it resembled a lonely inland lake.

We remained five hours in order to take on some coal, which two schooners were discharging at the pier. I made use of the time to stroll over the island and visit its two lions—the Sugar Loaf and the Arched Rock. The road, after we had passed through the fort, led through woods of budding birch, and the fragrant arbor-vitae (thuya occidentalis), which turned the air into a resinous wine, as grateful to the lungs as Falernian to the palate.

The logs at last fell into heaps of red coal; Butt, who had climbed into the top of a tree, where he sat singing sea songs, descended and coiled himself around its foot; the other men lay on their backs and slept silently, and I too forgot Biurne and his Norsemen and slept among the fragrant boughs. The night passed away silently, and dawn came gray and misty, threatening rain, over the woods.

There were the same avenues of locusts, now in snowy and fragrant bloom ; the same heavy brick dwelling with its portly front door, rarely opened but on state occasions; the same bowers of honeysuckle, trellises of grapes, beds of peonies and crown-imperials, and the same scattered clusters of out-houses, backed by the rounded tops of the orchard trees. The season is nearly a month in advance of the valley of the Hudson; all forest trees—even the latest—are in their young foliage, the apple and pear blossoms are gone, and the corn is ready for its first harrowing.

The foliage of the forest on the summit of the cliffs completely intercepts the sky; brilliant mosses cover the moist walls, and fringes of giant fern spring from every crevice. Deep, cool, dark, and redolent of woodland aroma, it resembles a dell in fairyland, and the ferns and harebells were yet vibrating from the feet of the retreating elves, as we passed along. Fresh from the blazing Orient, where the three delights of life are shade, moisture, and verdure, I was enchanted with the successive beauties which our semi-subterranean path unfolded.

The picture of St. John
By Bayard Taylor

As when a harp-string in a silent room
At midnight snaps, with weird, melodious twang,
So suddenly, through inner, outer gloom
A sweet, sharp sound, vibrating slowly, rang
And sank to humming music; while a stream
Of gathering odor followed, as in dream
We braid the bliss of music and perfume, —
And pierced, I sat, with some divinest pang.

LVII.

And, as from sound and fragrance born, a glow
All rosy-golden, fair as Alpine snow
At sunset, grew, — mist-like at first, and dim,
But brightening, folding inwards, fold on fold,
Until my ravished vision could behold
Complete, each line of sunny-shining limb
And sainted head, soft-posed as I had drawn
My boy — my Angelo — my young St. John!

Lxix.

So here I missed those living wells, whence drew
The Masters, breathing Art's best atmosphere,
With fine and noble forms forever near; —
No shape of man, but something did imbue
With hints of beauty, on those sunny hills:
And, helped on every side, the Ideal grew
Direct from Nature, as the rose distils
From earth undying scent and heavenly hue.

Lxxix.

A jasmine garland hung above my bed,
Withered and dry: beneath, a picture hung, —
A shadowy likeness of the maid who flung
That crown of welcome. On my sleeping head
The glory of the vanished sunset fell,
And still the leaves reviving fragrance shed,
And dreams crept out of every jasmine-bell,
Inebriate with their fairy hydromel

The poems of Bayard Taylor
By Bayard Taylor

"Never till then had I beheld such bloom.
The west-wind sent its heralds of perfume
To bid us welcome, midway on the road.
Full in the sun the marble portal glowed
Like silver, but within the garden wall
No ray of sunshine found a place to fall,
So thick the crowning foliage of the trees,
Roofing the walks with twilight; and the air
Under their tops was greener than the seas,
And cool as they. The forms that wandered there
Resembled those who populate the floor
Of Ocean, and the royal lineage own
That gave a Princess unto Persia's throne.

All fruits the trees of this fair garden bore,
Whose balmy fragrance lured the tongue to taste
Their flavors: there bananas flung to waste
Their golden flagons with thick honey filled;
From splintered cups the ripe pomegranates spilled
A shower of rubies ; oranges that glow
Like globes of fire, enclosed a heart of snow
Which thawed not in their flame; like balls of gold
The peaches seemed, that had in blood been rolled;
Pure saffron mixed with clearest amber stained
The apricots; bunches of amethyst
And sapphire seemed the grapes, so newly kissed
That still the mist of Beauty's breath remained;
And where the lotus slowly swung in air
Her snowy-bosomed chalice, rosy-veined,
The golden fruit swung softly-cradled there,
Even as a bell upon the bosom swings
Of some fair dancer, — happy bell, that sings
For joy, its golden tinkle keeping time
To the heart's beating and the cymbal's chime!
There dates of agate and of jasper lay,
Dropped from the bounty of the pregnant palm,
And all ambrosial trees, all fruits of balm,
All flowers of precious odors, made the day
Sweet as a morn of Paradise. My breath
Failed with the rapture, and with doubtful mind
I turned to where the garden's lord reclined,
And asked, 'Was not that gate the Gate of
Death ?'.

ARIEL IN THE CLOVEN PINE.
The lark is flickering in the light;
Still the nightingale doth sing; —
All the isle, alive with Spring,
Lies, a jewel of delight,
On the blue sea's heaving breast:
Not a breath from out the West,
But some balmy smell doth bring
From the sprouting myrtle buds,
Or from meadowy vales that lie
Like a green inverted sky,
Which the yellow cowslip stars,
And the bloomy almond woods,
Cloud-like, cross with roseate bars.

IN THE MEADOWS.
LIE in the summer meadows,
In the meadows all alone,
With the infinite sky above me,
And the sun on his midday throne.
The smell of the flowering grasses
Is sweeter than any rose,'
And a million happy insects
Sing in the warm repose.
The mother lark that is brooding
Feels the sun on her wings,
And the deeps of the noonday glitter
With swarms of fairy things.

THE BATH.
The dewy beach beneath her glows;
A pencilled beam, the lighthouse burns:
Full-breathed, the fragrant sea-wind blows, —
Life to the world returns!



https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:%27Myan_Ruins,_Yucatan%27_by_Robert_Scott_Duncanson,_Dayton.jpg

Fragrance in the writings of William Beebe

And these were but the first of the flowers; for when the brief tropic twilight is quenched, a new world is born. The leaves and blossoms of the day are at rest, and the birds and insects sleep. New blooms open, strange scents pour forth. Even our dull senses respond to these; for just as the eye is dimmed, so are the other senses quickened in the sudden night of the jungle. Nearby, so close that one can reach out and touch them, the pale Cereus moons expand, exhaling their sweetness, subtle breaths of fragrance calling for the very life of their race to the whirring hawkmoths. The tiny miller who, through the hours of glare has crouched beneath a leaf, flutters upward, and the trail of her perfume summons her mate perhaps half a mile down wind. The civet cat, stimulated by love or war, fills the glade with an odor so pungent that it seems as if the other senses must mark it.
Although there may seem not a breath of air in motion, yet the tide of scent is never still. One's moistened finger may reveal no cool side, since there is not the vestige of a breeze; but faint odors arrive, become stronger, and die away, or are wholly dissipated by an onrush of others, so musky or so sweet that one can almost taste them. These have their secret purposes, since Nature is not wasteful. If she creates beautiful things, it is to serve some ultimate end; it is her whim to walk in obscure paths, but her goal is fixed and immutable. However, her designs are hidden and not easy to decipher; at best, one achieves, not knowledge, but a few isolated facts.
Edge of the jungle
By William Beebe

The air blows cool and damp on our faces, and we long for the keen power of scent of a dog. Even to our dull nostrils every turn of the road is full of interest. A swamp, thickly starred with dainty spider-lilies, comes into view, and we inhale draughts of sweetest incense; Easter Sunday is at hand, and the very wilderness reminds us of it.
With every breath of air the great palm leaves flick myriads of drops to the underbrush below, with a sound as of heavy rain. The trunks are black and soaked, and there is not a dry frond for miles. A sudden curve brings another loop of the river into view, with a foreground of scuttling crabs and mangrove seedlings. Here a wave of coarse, salty, marsh smell fills our lungs — not stagnant, but redolent of the distant sea; the smell that makes one's blood leap. The next quarter-mile is covered with lilies again. From their perfume we enter a zone of recently cut grass — and the incense brings to mind northern hay-fields and the sweetgrass baskets of the Indians. What new pains and pleasures would be ours could we possess the power of scent of some of the "lower" animals!
Our search for a wilderness
By Blair Niles, William Beebe

All about our feet, and in many other places around our camp, grew clumps of the little club-moss, known as the Resurrection Plant. We had often seen it sold in New York and wondered where its home could be, and here we found it, clinging in thousands to the scanty film of parched earth in the crevices of the boulders and cliffs. Each plant is like a little incurved ball of arbor-vitce foliage, dry and brittle, but when placed in a spring or a pool of water, it opens wide its little array of leaves, which, in a day or two, turn from brown to green and send forth a spicy perfume. A bucket of water thrown among a multitude of these plants awakens into a brief greenness every one upon which it happens to fall; but soon, unless kept moist, the little leaves close and return to their parched condition —the little brown fists are clinched again.
Two bird-lovers in Mexico
By William Beebe


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

In the open spaces of the earth, and more than anywhere in this conservatory of unblown odors, we come more and more to appreciate and envy a dog's sensitive muzzle. Here we sniffed as naturally as we turned ear, and were able to recognize many of our nasal impressions, and even to follow a particularly strong scent to its source. Few yards of trail but had their distinguishable scent, whether violent, acrid smell or delectable fragrance. Long after a crab-jackal had passed, we noted the stinging, bitter taint in the air; and now and then the pungent wake of some big jungle-bug struck us like a tangible barrier.
The most tantalizing odors were the wonderfully delicate and penetrating ones from some great burst of blossoms, odors heavy with sweetness, which seeped down from vine or tree high overhead, wholly invisible from below even in broad daylight. These odors remained longest in memory, perhaps because they were so completely the product of a single sense. There were others too, which were unforgettable, because, like the voice of the frog, they stirred the memory a fraction before they excited curiosity. Such I found the powerful musk from the bed of leaves which a fawn had just left. For some reason this brought vividly to mind the fearful compound of smells arising from the decks of Chinese junks.
Along the moonlit trail there came wavering whiffs of orchids, ranging from attar of roses and carnations to the pungence of carrion, the latter doubtless distilled from as delicate and as beautiful blossoms as the former. There were, besides, the myriad and bewildering smells of sap, crushed leaves, and decaying wood; acrid, sweet, spicy, and suffocating, some like musty books, others recalling the paint on the Noah's Ark of one's nursery.
Jungle night
By William Beebe

Few birds were here and no humming of insects was audible. The steaming air was so heavy with pungent earth and swamp smells that one imagined that all low sounds were deadened and lost. Here and there a dry hummock rose from the swamp, covered with short lawn-like grass and great running vines of convolvulus. From one of these a Boat-billed Heron flew up, with a croak. Another parody of Nature and this time on our Night Heron! In voice, actions, and flight this tropical bird is an exact copy of our large-eyed nocturnal heron, but its broad, flat bill is as different as is the bill of a gannet from that of a pelican.
Two bird-lovers in Mexico
By William Beebe

Wherever a ledge or a more gentle slope gave foothold, luxuriant vegetation crowded it; gigantic Agaves, or Century-plants, variegated with white, starred the walls; purple-leafed orchids, and now and then a dangling tangle of Night-blooming Cereus, the spiny stems looking like nothing so much as colonies of monstrous hydras, tentacled and budding. Where the drip and splash of ice-cold springs were heard, mosses and ferns abounded, delicate maidenhair, with fronds two and three feet in length, forming arrowheads of filmiest green against the black moist cliffs. Saxifrage (etymologically, if not botanically) lit up the glades with myriads of white stars, filling the whole air with sweetest fragrance.
Two bird-lovers in Mexico
By William Beebe

It might have been that the light breeze brought with it some subtle evidence of land close ahead, some familiar Eastern fragrance which heralded the presence of a native village, with its palm trees rising dark and splendid above a row of thatched huts, and its fishing canoes drawn up like a black battalion along the water's edge. For, in the early morning a blue mist that lay close to the horizon took form and contour, becoming a white shore behind which distant trees showed in an opaque emerald border against the sky. This had the quality and unreality of a mirage, and the appearance of each successive detail seemed only to bring new elements of fiction into the illusion.
THE GATES OF THE EAST
BY C. WILLIAM BEEBE

The jungle was bright with flowers, but it was a sinister brightness—a poisonous, threatening flash of pigment, set off by the blackness of the shadows. Heliconia spikes gleamed like fixed scarlet lightning, zigzagging through the pungent air. Now and then a bunch of pleasing, warm-hued berries reminded one of innocuous currants, but a second glance showed them ripening into swollen, liver-hued globes which offered no temptation to taste. One tree dangled hideous purple cups filled with vermilion fruits, and not far away the color sequence was reversed. A low-growing, pleasant-leaved plant lifted bursting masses of purple-black, all dripping like wounds upon the foliage below. Many flowers were unrecognizable save by their fragrance and naked stamens, advertised neither by color nor form of blossom. I despaired of flowers worthy of the name, until close by my foot I saw a tiny plant with a comely, sweet-scented blossom, grateful to the eye and beautiful as our northern blooms are beautiful. The leaf was like scores lying about, and I realized that this was a sproutling of the giant tree. Nothing but the death of this monster could give the light and air which the little plant needed. It was doomed, but it had performed its destiny. It had hinted that much of the beauty of the jungle lay far above the mold and stagnant water. And then I remembered the orchids high overhead. And the realization came that the low-growing blooms needed their glaring colors to outshine the dim, shadowy underjungle, and their nauseous fumes to out scent the musky vapors of decay.
Jungle peace
By William Beebe

We took our meals at the delightful El Sanatorio, where one finds a haven of good American cooking in a land of beans and fried unleavened corn-cakes. The two-storied patio was always filled with flowers, great geraniums and heliotropes making the air fragrant by day; and the immaculate cereus blossoms pouring forth their perfume in the moonlight. During January and February the entire front of the building was a mass of purple Bougainvillea.
Two bird-lovers in Mexico
By William Beebe

All along the upper rim the sustaining structure was more distinctly visible than elsewhere. Here was a maze of taut brown threads stretching in places across a span of six inches, with here and there a tiny knot. These were actually tie-strings of living ants, their legs stretched almost to the breaking-point, their bodies the inconspicuous knots or nodes. Even at rest and at home, the army ants are always prepared, for every quiescent individual in the swarm was standing as erect as possible, with jaws widespread and ready, whether the great curved mahogany scimitars of the soldiers, or the little black daggers of the smaller workers. And with no eyelids to close, and eyes which were themselves a mockery, the nerve shriveling and never reaching the brain, what could sleep mean to them? Wrapped ever in an impenetrable cloak of darkness and silence, life was yet one great activity, directed, ordered, commanded by scent and odor alone. Hour after hour, as I sat close to the nest, I was aware of this odor, sometimes subtle, again wafted in strong successive waves. It was musty, like something sweet which had begun to mold; not unpleasant, but very difficult to describe; and in vain I strove to realize the importance of this faint essence—taking the place of sound, of language, of color, of motion, of form.
Edge of the jungle
By William Beebe

With two senses so perfectly occupied, sight becomes superfluous and I close my eyes. And straightway the scent and the murmur usurp my whole mind with a vivid memory. I am still squatting, but in a dark, fragrant room; and the murmur is still of doves; but the room is in the cool, still heart of the Queen's Golden Monastery in northern Burma, within storm-sound of Tibet, and the doves are perched among the glitter and tinkling bells of the pagoda roofs. I am squatting very quietly, for I am tired, after photographing carved peacocks and jungle fowl in the marvelous fretwork of the outer balconies, There are idols all about me—or so it would appear to a missionary; for my part, I can think only of the wonderful face of the old Lama who sits near me, a face peaceful with the something for which most of us would desert what we are doing, if by that we could attain it. Near him are two young priests, sitting as motionless as the Buddha in front of them.
After a half-hour of the strange thing that we call time, the Lama speaks, very low and very softly:
"The surface of the mirror is clouded with a breath."
Out of a long silence one of the neophytes replies, "The mirror can be wiped clear."
Again the world becomes incense and doves,— in the silence and peace of that monastery, it may have been a few minutes or a decade,—and the second Tibetan whispers, "There is no need to wipe the mirror."
When I have left behind the world of inharmonious colors, of polluted waters, of soot stained walls and smoke-tinged air, the green of jungle comes like a cooling bath of delicate tints and shades. I think of all the green things I have loved—of malachite in matrix and table-top; of jade, not factory-hewn baubles, but age-mellowed signets, fashioned by lovers of their craft, and seasoned by the toying yellow fingers of generations of forgotten Chinese emperors—jade, as Dunsany would say, of the exact shade of the right color. I think too, of dainty emerald scarves that are seen and lost in a flash at a dance; of the air-cooled, living green of curling breakers; of a lonely light that gleams to starboard of an unknown passing vessel, and of the transparent green of northern lights that flicker and play on winter nights high over the garish glare of Broadway.
Edge of the jungle
By William Beebe





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Walks in New England By Charles Goodrich Whiting

The forest bloom has departed, the birds have flown, the squirrels and the boys are a-nutting; on the roadsides few flowers besides the asters linger and the long sprays of the wreath goldenrod, the humbler members of the sunflower kindred and the late gentians; in the fields appear those second blossoms that spring from the mowed down golden-rods, ox-eye daisies and black-eyed Susans. Down the forest aisles streams the unique magnetic fragrance of the witch hazel, which only of all fragrances could harmonize with the sacred sweetness of the autumn woodland. A familiar of the flowers knows that a month hence he shall find these and a score of flowers besides, in places that he wots of, but to the general eye the gay children of Nature have departed, and winter seems waiting around the corner to close the door.

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Fragrance in the writings of William Sharp

That particles become divided into less portions than is shewn in these examples is evident from the daily observation of the sense of smell. The violet fills even a royal apartment with its sweet odor, which is thus readily perceived, but which absolutely eludes every other mode of observation. How inconceivably small must be the particles of all odors! And yet how obviously material they are.
Tracts on homœopathy
By William Sharp

How delicious was the smell of the land, with a poignant touch given to it by the peat-smoke that had begun to rise from some of the fishermen's cottages; and with odors of moor and bracken and bog-myrtle blending with the keen breath of the seaweed. The air, too, was light and cool and exhilarating.
Wives in exile: a comedy in romance
By William Sharp

Lowering skies, with the floating odour of coming rain, already dulled the hill-land. A raven, flying athwart Iolair, looked larger than its wont. Its occasional croak fell heavily as though from ledge to ledge of weighty air. The wood-doves which flew back toward the forest winged their way at a lower level than usual, the clamour of their pinions beating the atmosphere as with oars: on the moorland the lapwings rose and fell incessantly with wailing cries.
The writings of "Fiona Macleod" [pseud.], Volume 1
By Fiona Macleod, William Sharp

It was an hour before midnight when Oona awoke. So often had she slept in the woods, through the hot summer nights, that there was nothing strange or terrifying in the blackness of darkness about her. She could smell the pungent odour of the bracken, and, somewhere near, wild mint. The keen fragrance of the pines and firs everywhere prevailed.
Ah, she was in the forest: how warm and sweet it was! Where was Nial? Scarce more than this drifted through her mind; then the heaviness of sleep came upon her again.

He has, to a phenomenal degree, the delicate flair which detects the remotest perfume amid a confusion of fragrances; he knows how to isolate it, how to detach it, how to delight us with it—and then, when we are just upon the verge of deeper enjoyment, he proves that the scent is not so exquisite in itself after all, but owes much to the blending of the exhalations of neighbouring flowers and blossoms and herbs. While we are still wavering between conviction and disenchantment, he explains that it has this peculiarity or that because of the soil whence it derives its nurture, a thin rocky earth or loam of the valley. Then, finally, lest we should turn aside disappointedly, he tells us something about it which we had but half noticed, praises fragrance and bloom again, and with a charming smile gives us the flower to take with us, perchance to press and put away, like sweet-lavender or wild-thyme, a hostage against oblivion of a certain hour, a certain moment of fresh experience.
Selected writings, Volume 2
By William Sharp

Then I went down the Spanish Stairs, and hesitated awhile whether to drive to the Janiculum or to the Villa Borghese. I did neither, but, after having seated myself in my little open vettura, and given myself keen pleasure by simply loading the front seat with winter roses and camellias and long sprays of yellow wattle from the Riviera, drove out to the Ponte Molle, across the Tiber (which gleamed like a long broad ribbon of shot silk, mostly silver gray), and then back and round by what was Antemnae in the old Etrurian days. There are few flowers anywhere in that part of Rome, even in April, and yet the air was full of exquisite fragrances. I am, as you know, very sensitive to odors, the subtle half hidden scents of shadow-loving plants, the delicate thrills of perfume from wild growing things, and perhaps above all to the intoxicating breath of the earth when the sun steeps it in hot light, that strange smell as of the living body of the world. Just before entering the Porto di San Popolo a whim took me to drive up the gloomy Via dell' Mura. I wish I had not gone. It was desolate, and dark and chill. I don't know what could have made me so depressed. Don't laugh at me when I tell you that the stupid tears at last came to my eyes. How I dislike camellias — melancholy deathly flowers! Besides, they have neither fragrance nor pleasant associations; they always seem to me as if they had been made, and had not grown as other flowers grow. Before we drove in at the Porta S. Pancrazio I threw them all away — everything *
except the sweet smelling wattle-sprays.
A fellow and his wife
By Blanche Willis Howard, William Sharp

For all its harshness there are few sounds of the summer-dusk so welcome. It speaks of heat: of long shadow-weaving afternoons: of labour ceased, of love begun, of dreams within dreams. The very memory of it fills the mind as with silent garths of hay, with pastures ruddy with sorrel, lit by the last flusht glow or by the yellow gold of the moon, paling as it rises. The white moth is out; the dew is on the grass, the orchis, the ghostly clover; the flittermouse is here, is yonder, is here again; a late mallard flies like a whirring bolt overhead, or a homing cushat cleaves the airwaves as with rapid oars. As a phantom, a white owl drifts past and greys into the dusk, like flying foam into gathering mist. In the dew-moist air an innumerable rumour becomes a monotone: the breath of life, suppressed, husht, or palpitant. A wilderness of wild-roses has been crushed, and their fragrance diffused among the dove-grey and harebell blue and pansy-purple veils of twilight: or is it a wilderness of honeysuckle; or of meadowsweet; or of the dew-wet hay; or lime-blossom and brier, galingale and the tufted reed and the multitude of the fern? It is fragrance, ineffable, indescribable: odour born under the pale fire of the moon, under the lance-thrusting whiteness of the Evening Star.
The silence of amor [and] Where the forest murmurs
By William Sharp


The pleasant firelight! I must still keep harping on it. The kitchen hearth had an old-fashioned breadth, depth, and spaciousness, far within which lay what seemed the butt of a good-sized oak-tree, with the moisture bubbling merrily out at both ends. It was now half an hour beyond dusk. The blaze from an armful of substantial sticks, rendered more combustible by brushwood and pine, flickered powerfully on the smoke-blackened walls, and so cheered our spirits that we cared not what inclemency might rage and roar on the other side of our illuminated windows. A yet sultrier warmth was bestowed by a goodly quantity of peat, which was crumbling to white ashes among the burning brands, and incensed the kitchen with its not ungrateful fragrance. The exuberance of this household fire would alone have sufficed to bespeak us no true farmers; for the New England yeoman, if he have the misfortune to dwell within practicable distance of a wood-market, is as niggardly of each stick as if it were a bar of California gold....
From the Blithedale Romance
Nathaniel Hawthorne

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There was a fragrance of old
learning in this ancient library; a soothing influence, as the American
felt, of time-honored ideas, where the strife, novelties, uneasy
agitating conflict, attrition of unsettled theories, fresh-springing
thought, did not attain a foothold; a good place to spend a life which
should not be agitated with the disturbing element; so quiet, so
peaceful; how slowly, with how little wear, would the years pass here!
Nathaniel Hawthorne

File:Interior of a Library - Google Art Project.jpg
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They were cheery little
imps, who sucked up fragrance and pleasantness out of their
surroundings, dreary as these looked; even as a flower can find its
proper perfume in any soil where its seed happens to fall. The great
spider, hanging by his cordage over the Doctor's head, and waving
slowly, like a pendulum, in a blast from the crack of the door, must
have made millions and millions of precisely such vibrations as these; but the children were new, and made over every day, with yesterday'sweariness left out.
Nathaniel Hawthorne

File:Cesar Pattein Kinder am Heimweg 1895.jpg
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Meantime, that single drop (for good Dr. Dolliver had immediately put astopper into the bottle) diffused a sweet odor through the chamber, so that the ordinary fragrances and scents of apothecaries' stuff seemed to be controlled and influenced by it, and its bright potency also dispelled a certain dimness of the antiquated room.
Moreover, the grandmothers of the community were kind to him, and mindful of his perfumes, his rose-water, his cosmetics, tooth-powders, pomanders, and pomades, the scented memory of which lingered about their toilet- tables, or came faintly back from the days when they were beautiful. Among this class of customers there was still a demand for certain comfortable little nostrums (delicately sweet and pungent to the taste, cheering to the spirits, and fragrant in the breath), the proper distillation of which was the airiest secret that the mystic Swinnerton had left behind him.
Nathaniel Hawthorne
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In the morning—dim, gray, dewy summer's morn—the distant roll of ponderous wheels begins to mingle with my old friend's slumbers, creaking more and more harshly through the midst of his dream and gradually replacing it with realities. Hardly conscious of the change from sleep to wakefulness, he finds himself partly clad and throwing wide the toll-gates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay. The timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels; one sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen, and, peering from the summit of the hay, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern over the toll-house is seen the drowsy visage of his comrade, who has enjoyed a nap some ten miles long.
Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Only a step from its canals you wander through the silvery olive orchards of Provence, or climb the sweet lavenderscented hillsides, or follow a smooth, white road past an old red-roofed farmhouse, or a dark cypress grove, or a stone-pine standing solitary, or else a thick hedge of tall, waving reeds. And even while in the town, you cannot help seeing the country as you never do in Venice. As the fishermen drew up their nets on canal-banks there would come rattling by long Provencal carts, drawn by horses that wear the blue wool collar and high-pointed horn which makes them look like some domestic species of unicorn. Or in the cool of the summer evening, after the rest during the day's heat, a shepherd, crushing a sprig of lavender between his fingers as he walked, would drive his goats and sheep over the bridges, and start out for the long night's browse on the salt marshes by the lake, or on the sparse turf of the rocky hillsides ; or in the morning, just as the white-sailed boats were coming home, he would leave his flock huddled together on the church steps or in the little square.
Play in Provence
By Elizabeth Robins Pennell, Joseph Pennell

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Wild lavender and thyme and yellow gorse still fringe the road a little further, with here and there an almondtree; but soon the road begins to cling to one side of a cliff, with a sheer drop on the outer edge, guarded by lines of scattered stones. Then a wild, desolate valley opens out to the east, and the guardstones of the winding road crowd close together like the battlements upon a fortress, while the steep mountain-sides burn blue and gold with countless tiny blossoms set among the scanty green. Alone and bare, and straight ahead, a gaunt crag of wind-swept limestone marks and bars the valley's end. The road, now built upon a wall, crosses over to the northern side, and the stone-carts from the quarries above begin to swing down with their first freights for the day. Quite unexpectedly the horizon opens out towards the plains of Orgon and Cavaillon on the east, and westwards to Tarascon and Beaucaire." Above the rocky amphitheatre from which the road seems to have emerged the silver line of the Rhone shows like a glittering thread in the morning sunlight, just where the elephants of Hannibal crossed it so long ago, just where Nicolete first saw Aucassin coming downwards from the castle gate. Through towering walls of white, a way
has been cut for the carriage road sheer down into the limestone, and quarries begin to gape on every side, until suddenly upon the right a little slip of green valley pushes its way into this rocky desolation, and from some hidden building in it a bell rings slowly, like the dirge for a dead world that has already turned to stone.
Old Provence
By Theodore Andrea Cook


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Who that has grown to maturity in an old homestead, which is full of sweet memories, does not long to live her young life over, if only in dreams. Memories are so registered on our immortal-mind, that they become an eternal part of us. A familiar spot by the sea, a winding path through the woods, a book, a faded flower, a golden-tress, a glove,—all these and numberless more hallowed memories, big and little, hold some cherished place in our inmost-heart, bringing us back golden moments through the many years. They are all sacred moments which have been breathed upon by our very soul.
Memories of Home by Ruth Van Saun
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The lilacs, once marking with purple fragrance the gateway where no longer do lovers linger; the stepping-stones, half-buried in myrtle run wild, that lead to the broken front entry; the degenerate tufts of ribbon-grass here and there battling for life against the myrtle and weeds and lilac sprouts; the unpruned tangle of roses whose haws show that each spring they strive to be ready to welcome again the hands that were wont to tend them—all are eloquent of the domestic scenes, that once vivified this abandoned homestead. None makes so sure of keeping his memory green as he who plants seeds in the kindly soil about the family doorstep.
The wit of the wild
By Ernest Ingersoll

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I like to watch the cows in winter crunching the succulent, fragrant millet, or feeding upon clover hay, or eating their corn fodder. Sometimes snow gets mingled with it from the stacks. But how they love it! How they toss it, and put their noses down into the wisps and stalks, and slash the great corn leaves about! The milking is generally attended to while they eat, and that, too, is always an interesting process—that is, to outsiders. Swish, swosh! swish, swosh! swish, swosh! goes the milk into the buckets, in a kind of rough purring rhythm. 
Around an Old Homestead: A Book of Memories
By Paul Griswold Huston
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Fragrance in Literature 2-Nathaniel Hawthorne(2)

From the Blithedale Romance

The pleasant firelight! I must still keep harping on it. The kitchen hearth had an old-fashioned breadth, depth, and spaciousness, far within which lay what seemed the butt of a good-sized oak-tree, with the moisture bubbling merrily out at both ends. It was now half an hour beyond dusk. The blaze from an armful of substantial sticks, rendered more combustible by brushwood and pine, flickered powerfully on the smoke-blackened walls, and so cheered our spirits that we cared not what inclemency might rage and roar on the other side of our illuminated windows. A yet sultrier warmth was bestowed by a goodly quantity of peat, which was crumbling to white ashes among the burning brands, and incensed the kitchen with its not ungrateful fragrance. The exuberance of this household fire would alone have sufficed to bespeak us no true farmers; for the New England yeoman, if he have the misfortune to dwell within practicable distance of a wood-market, is as niggardly of each stick as if it were a bar of California gold....

The silence which followed upon our sitting down to table grew rather oppressive; indeed, it was hardly broken by a word, during the first round of Zenobia's fragrant tea.....

A man—poet, prophet, or whatever he may be—readily persuades himself of his right to all the worship that is voluntarily tendered. In requital of so rich benefits as he was to confer upon mankind, it would have been hard to deny Hollingsworth the simple solace of a young girl's heart, which he held in his hand, and smelled too, like a rosebud. But what if, while pressing out its fragrance, he should crush the tender rosebud in his grasp! ...

The pleasant scent of the wood, evolved by the hot sun, stole up to my nostrils, as if I had been an idol in its niche. Many trees mingled their fragrance into a thousand-fold odor. Possibly there was a sensual influence in the broad light of noon that lay beneath me.

So we all of us took courage, riding fleetly and merrily along, by stone fences that were half buried in the wave-like drifts; and through patches of woodland, where the tree-trunks opposed a snow-incrusted side towards the northeast; and within ken of deserted villas, with no footprints in their avenues; and passed scattered dwellings, whence puffed the smoke of country fires, strongly impregnated with the pungent aroma of burning peat.

Her hair, which was dark, glossy, and of singular abundance, was put up rather soberly and primly—without curls, or other ornament, except a single flower. It was an exotic of rare beauty, and as fresh as if the hothouse gardener had just clipt it from the stem. That flower has struck deep root into my memory. I can both see it and smell it, at this moment. So brilliant, so rare, so costly as it must have been, and yet enduring only for a day, it was more indicative of the pride and pomp which had a luxuriant growth in Zenobia's character than if a great diamond had sparkled among her hair.

Some betook themselves into the wide, dusky barn, and lay there for hours together on the odorous hay; while the sunstreaks and the shadows strove together,—these to make the barn solemn, those to make it cheerful,—and both were conquerors; and the swallows twittered a cheery anthem, flashing into sight, or vanishing as they darted to and fro among the golden rules of sunshine.

DOCTOR GRIMSHAWE'S SECRET
A ROMANCE
BY
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE


They were cheery little
imps, who sucked up fragrance and pleasantness out of their
surroundings, dreary as these looked; even as a flower can find its
proper perfume in any soil where its seed happens to fall. The great
spider, hanging by his cordage over the Doctor's head, and waving
slowly, like a pendulum, in a blast from the crack of the door, must
have made millions and millions of precisely such vibrations as these;
but the children were new, and made over every day, with yesterday's
weariness left out.

Still, the grim, shaggy Doctor was seen setting doggedly forth, in all
seasons and all weathers, at a certain hour of the day, with the two
children, going for long walks on the sea-shore, or into the country,
miles away, and coming back, hours afterwards, with plants and herbs
that had perhaps virtue in them, or flowers that had certainly beauty;
even, in their season, the fragrant magnolias, leaving a trail of
fragrance after them, that grow only in spots, the seeds having been
apparently dropped by some happy accident when those proper to the
climate were distributed.

The medicine, whatever
it might be, had the merit, rare in doctor's stuff, of being pleasant
to take, assuasive of thirst, and imbued with a hardly perceptible
fragrance, that was so ethereal that it also seemed to enter into his
dream and modify it. He kept his eyes closed, and fell into a misty
state, in which he wondered whether this could be the panacea or
medicament which old Doctor Grimshawe used to distil from cobwebs, and
of which the fragrance seemed to breathe through all the waste of years
since then.

There was a fragrance of old
learning in this ancient library; a soothing influence, as the American
felt, of time-honored ideas, where the strife, novelties, uneasy
agitating conflict, attrition of unsettled theories, fresh-springing
thought, did not attain a foothold; a good place to spend a life which
should not be agitated with the disturbing element; so quiet, so
peaceful; how slowly, with how little wear, would the years pass here!

"These plants and shrubs," returned Redclyffe, "seem at all events to
recognize the goodness of your rule, so far as it has extended over
them. See how joyfully they take the sun; how clear [they are] from all
these vices that lie scattered round, in the shape of weeds. It is a
lovely sight, and I could almost fancy a quiet enjoyment in the plants
themselves, which they have no way of making us aware of, except by
giving out a fragrance."

After this pleasant little acknowledgment, there ensued a conversation
having some reference to books; for though Redclyffe, of late years,
had known little of what deserves to be called literature,--having
found political life as much estranged from it as it is apt to be with
politicians,--yet he had early snuffed the musty fragrance of the
Doctor's books, and had learned to love its atmosphere.

THE DOLLIVER ROMANCE
BY
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE



Meantime, that single drop (for good Dr. Dolliver had immediately put a
stopper into the bottle) diffused a sweet odor through the chamber, so
that the ordinary fragrances and scents of apothecaries' stuff seemed to
be controlled and influenced by it, and its bright potency also dispelled
a certain dimness of the antiquated room.

Moreover, the grandmothers of the community were kind to him, and mindful
of his perfumes, his rose-water, his cosmetics, tooth-powders, pomanders,
and pomades, the scented memory of which lingered about their toilet-
tables, or came faintly back from the days when they were beautiful. Among
this class of customers there was still a demand for certain comfortable
little nostrums (delicately sweet and pungent to the taste, cheering to
the spirits, and fragrant in the breath), the proper distillation of which
was the airiest secret that the mystic Swinnerton had left behind him.

"For Heaven's sake, no!" cried the Doctor. "The dose is one single drop!--
one drop, Colonel, one drop!"

"Not a drop to save your wretched old soul," responded the Colonel;
probably thinking that the apothecary was pleading for a small share of
the precious liquor. He put it to his lips, and, as if quenching a
lifelong thirst, swallowed deep draughts, sucking it in with desperation,
till, void of breath, he set it down upon the table. The rich, poignant
perfume spread itself through the air.

The apothecary, with an instinctive carefulness that was rather ludicrous
under the circumstances, caught up the stopper, which the Colonel had let
fall, and forced it into the bottle to prevent any farther escape of
virtue. He then fearfully watched the result of the madman's potation.

The peculiarly brisk sensation of this morning, to which we have more than
once alluded, enabled the Doctor to toil pretty vigorously at his
medicinal herbs,--his catnip, his vervain, and the like; but he did not
turn his attention to the row of mystic plants, with which so much of
trouble and sorrow either was, or appeared to be, connected. In truth, his
old soul was sick of them, and their very fragrance, which the warm
sunshine made strongly perceptible, was odious to his nostrils. But the
spicy, homelike scent of his other herbs, the English simples, was
grateful to him, and so was the earth-smell, as he turned up the soil
about their roots, and eagerly snuffed it in.

And now it was ragged again, and all the fingers that should have mended
it were cold. It had an Eastern fragrance, too, a smell of drugs, strong-
scented herbs, and spicy gums, gathered from the many potent infusions
that had from time to time been spilt over it; so that, snuffing him afar
off, you might have taken Dr. Dolliver for a mummy, and could hardly have
been undeceived by his shrunken and torpid aspect, as he crept nearer.

Mosses from an Old Manse and Other Stories, by
Nathaniel Hawthorne


When Georgiana recovered consciousness she found herself breathing an atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency of which had recalled her from her deathlike faintness. The scene around her looked like enchantment. Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy, sombre rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits, into a series of beautiful apartments not unfit to be the secluded abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with gorgeous curtains, which imparted the combination of grandeur and grace that no other species of adornment can achieve; and as they fell from the ceiling to the floor, their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all angles and straight lines, appeared to shut in the scene from infinite space. For aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds. And Aylmer, excluding the sunshine, which would have interfered with his chemical processes, had supplied its place with perfumed lamps, emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting in a soft, impurpled radiance. He now knelt by his wife's side, watching her earnestly, but without alarm; for he was confident in his science, and felt that he could draw a magic circle round her within which no evil might intrude.

Then came the slender stalk; the leaves gradually unfolded themselves; and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower.
"It is magical!" cried Georgiana. "I dare not touch it."
"Nay, pluck it," answered Aylmer,—"pluck it, and inhale its brief perfume while you may. The flower will wither in a few moments and leave nothing save its brown seed vessels; but thence may be perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself."
But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole plant suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black as if by the agency of fire.

Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear his voice in the distant furnace room giving directions to Aminadab, whose harsh, uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response, more like the grunt or growl of a brute than human speech. After hours of absence, Aylmer reappeared and proposed that she should now examine his cabinet of chemical products and natural treasures of the earth. Among the former he showed her a small vial, in which, he remarked, was contained a gentle yet most powerful fragrance, capable of impregnating all the breezes that blow across a kingdom. They were of inestimable value, the contents of that little vial; and, as he said so, he threw some of the perfume into the air and filled the room with piercing and invigorating delight.
"And what is this?" asked Georgiana, pointing to a small crystal globe containing a gold-colored liquid. "It is so beautiful to the eye that I could imagine it the elixir of life."

Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path: it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature, making observations in regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of this deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach to intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the direct inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably; for the man's demeanor was that of one walking among malignant influences, such as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young man's imagination to see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most simple and innocent of human toils, and which had been alike the joy and labor of the unfallen parents of the race. Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world? And this man, with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow,—was he the Adam?

"Here am I, my father. What would you?" cried a rich and youthful voice from the window of the opposite house—a voice as rich as a tropical sunset, and which made Giovanni, though he knew not why, think of deep hues of purple or crimson and of perfumes heavily delectable. "Are you in the garden?"
"Yes, Beatrice," answered the gardener, "and I need your help."

"Here, Beatrice," said the latter, "see how many needful offices require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned to your sole charge."
"And gladly will I undertake it," cried again the rich tones of the young lady, as she bent towards the magnificent plant and opened her arms as if to embrace it. "Yes, my sister, my splendour, it shall be Beatrice's task to nurse and serve thee; and thou shalt reward her with thy kisses and perfumed breath, which to her is as the breath of life."

Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the depths of the pool, which thus seemed to overflow with colored radiance from the rich reflection that was steeped in it. At first, as we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however,—as Giovanni had half hoped, half feared, would be the case,—a figure appeared beneath the antique sculptured portal, and came down between the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as if she were one of those beings of old classic fable that lived upon sweet odors.
"You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor," said Beatrice, with a smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the window. "It is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my father's rare collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs; for he has spent a lifetime in such studies, and this garden is his world."
"And yourself, lady," observed Giovanni, "if fame says true,—you likewise are deeply skilled in the virtues indicated by these rich blossoms and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my instructress, I should prove an apter scholar than if taught by Signor Rappaccini himself."

"I have been reading an old classic author lately," said he, "and met with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you may remember it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful woman as a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn and gorgeous as the sunset; but what especially distinguished her was a certain rich perfume in her breath—richer than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fell in love at first sight with this magnificent stranger; but a certain sage physician, happening to be present, discovered a terrible secret in regard to her."
"And what was that?" asked Giovanni, turning his eyes downward to avoid those of the professor.
"That this lovely woman," continued Baglioni, with emphasis, "had been nourished with poisons from her birth upward, until her whole nature was so imbued with them that she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With that rich perfume of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison—her embrace death. Is not this a marvellous tale?"

A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed upon Giovanni's consciousness like the light of truth itself; but while she spoke there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and delightful, though evanescent, yet which the young man, from an indefinable reluctance, scarcely dared to draw into his lungs. It might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice's breath which thus embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them in her heart? A faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni and flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the beautiful girl's eyes into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear.

Twice Told Tales

"Did you never hear of the Fountain of Youth?" asked Dr. Heidegger, "which Ponce de Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went in search of two or three centuries ago?"
"But did Ponce de Leon ever find it?" said the widow Wycherly.
"No," answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the right place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, is situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far from Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic magnolias which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept as fresh as violets by the virtues of this wonderful water. An acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent me what you see in the vase."
"Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the doctor's story; "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the human frame?"
"You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel," replied Dr. Heidegger.—"And all of you, my respected friends, are welcome to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the bloom of youth. For my own part, having had much trouble in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With your permission, therefore, I will merely watch the progress of the experiment."
While he spoke Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four champagne-glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was apparently impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles were continually ascending from the depths of the glasses and bursting in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and comfortable properties, and, though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenescent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. Heidegger besought them to stay a moment.
"Before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it would be well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, you should draw up a few general rules for your guidance in passing a second time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and shame it would be if, with your peculiar advantages, you should not become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all the young people of the age!"

As Cranfield walked down the street of the village the level sunbeams threw his shadow far before him, and he fancied that, as his shadow walked among distant objects, so had there been a presentiment stalking in advance of him throughout his life. And when he drew near each object over which his tall shadow had preceded him, still it proved to be one of the familiar recollections of his infancy and youth. Every crook in the pathway was remembered. Even the more transitory characteristics of the scene were the same as in by-gone days. A company of cows were grazing on the grassy roadside, and refreshed him with their fragrant breath. "It is sweeter," thought he, "than the perfume which was wafted to our ship from the Spice Islands."

In the morning—dim, gray, dewy summer's morn—the distant roll of ponderous wheels begins to mingle with my old friend's slumbers, creaking more and more harshly through the midst of his dream and gradually replacing it with realities. Hardly conscious of the change from sleep to wakefulness, he finds himself partly clad and throwing wide the toll-gates for the passage of a fragrant load of hay. The timbers groan beneath the slow-revolving wheels; one sturdy yeoman stalks beside the oxen, and, peering from the summit of the hay, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished lantern over the toll-house is seen the drowsy visage of his comrade, who has enjoyed a nap some ten miles long.

If the young men boast their knowledge of the ledges and sunken rocks, I speak of pilots who knew the wind by its scent and the wave by its taste, and could have steered blindfold to any port between Boston and Mount Desert guided only by the rote of the shore—the peculiar sound of the surf on each island, beach and line of rocks along the coast. Thus do I talk, and all my auditors grow wise while they deem it pastime.

Here comes a big, rough dog—a countryman's dog—in search of his master, smelling at everybody's heels and touching little Annie's hand with his cold nose, but hurrying away, though she would fain have patted him.—Success to your search, Fidelity!—And there sits a great yellow cat upon a window-sill, a very corpulent and comfortable cat, gazing at this transitory world with owl's eyes, and making pithy comments, doubtless, or what appear such, to the silly beast.—Oh, sage puss, make room for me beside you, and we will be a pair of philosophers.

There comes a day in the first advent of Spring when a perverse thermometer, which has been plunging nightly below frost line and creeping too briefly up at noon, suddenly takes a jump. The air is balmy, the sun is bright, there has been no frost the night before to make a glistening mud-skin on the walks; the dead leaves, which have apparently rotted down during the winter, are dry, at least on the surface, and rustle about in a caressing wind. Though snowdrifts yet linger under the evergreens and in northward shelters, the footing is firm over the lawn, and the woods call. You cross fields that are bare of snow, the brown and palest straw colour of dead weeds and grasses, and enter the woods on the first slope of the mountain. What an exquisite world it is! The birches shine white, as if new-washed by Winter. The chestnuts are gray, the poplars have a yellow tinge. The forest floor, lying plain to view now with no shadowing foliage, is a brown and gray carpet, almost silvery in texture here and there, for dead leaves under a recently melted snowdrift often seem to bear a film of gray mould. The interlacing branches overhead make an exquisite tracery against the sky and dapple the ground with delicate shadows. Many plants, too, especially the perennial ferns, have come through the Winter green and fresh, so that it almost appears as if some gardener had been here already, getting his first spring planting done. But the greatest charm of the woods on this bright morning is the water. Just on this day, perhaps, can you see it. Yesterday the melting process was too slow. To-morrow the run will be over. But, for this once, those lingering white drifts you see up the slope, under a protecting bowlder or in the shadow of the evergreens, are pouring down little brooks of dancing quicksilver over the forest floor. They follow no worn channels; they flow not to rule or boundary. Over the brown leaves they come, by any little hollow, irresponsible, twinkling, with the softest of plashing sounds as one of them jumps over a fern-covered rock or the root of an aged chestnut, and sinks into the moss or the mould.
And the smell of the forest that day! It is the smell of sweet, black humus, just exposed. It is the smell of dead Winter. It is the indescribable smell of pure ice water running over leaves. If you know it, you know it. If not, no description can bring the odour to your nostrils. It is the first and sweetest smell of Spring.
Green Trails and Upland Pastures
By Walter Prichard Eaton
This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 100 years or less.
COMMONS.WIKIMEDIA.ORG

The road that winds down the hills to the covered bridge, or crosses the green fields of the intervale, is white with dust and lined with bramble-covered stone walls and elm trees or maples. Always, as it draws near, it runs up a little incline to the bridge (perhaps just after you have paid your toll at the toll gate); and warned by a large sign over the entrance you pull your horses down to a walk or reduce the speed of your motor. You pass at once out of the hot sunshine into the dusty dimness of the long, telescope-like shed, and the planks rumble beneath your wheels. What a curious smell there is in the old covered bridge! It is like no other smell in the world, and quite indescribable to one who has never sniffed it—not the smell of a country barn, nor of a circus ring, yet reminiscent of both, with a new quality entirely its own. It always brings back my childhood to me with a sudden, startling vividness, and I recall the covered bridge across the Androscoggin at Bethel, with ancient circus posters flaring from the dusty walls, with tin placards on every beam proclaiming some magic spavin cure, with bits of hay hanging from the cobwebs, pulled from a towering load recently passed through, and finally with exquisite landscapes of the great curve of the river, the green fields, and the far blue peaks of the Presidential, framed through the square windows—for every covered bridge is lighted by square windows at orthodox intervals. The road on either side of that bridge is as vague in my memory as yesterday's breakfast; but the entrance—a shadowy cave where dust motes danced in the rays which streamed from cracks between the boarding—and every detail of the interior, including the smell, are so clear and vivid that I have only to shut my eyes and be five years old again.