erfume which I cannot breathe deep enough. Spring rain is
beautiful, impartial, lovable. With pearly drops it washes every leaf on
tree and bush, ministers equally to salutary herbs and noxious growths,
searches out every living thing that needs its beneficence.

The senses assist and reinforce each other to such an extent that I am
not sure whether touch or smell tells me the most about the world.
Everywhere the river of touch is joined by the brooks of
odour-perception. Each season has its distinctive odours. The spring is
earthy and full of sap. July is rich with the odour of ripening grain
and hay. As the season advances, a crisp, dry, mature odour
predominates, and golden-rod, tansy, and everlastings mark the onward
march of the year. In autumn, soft, alluring scents fill the air,
floating from thicket, grass, flower, and tree, and they tell me of time
and change, of death and life's renewal, desire and its fulfilment.

FOOTNOTE:

[B] George Arnold.

SMELL, THE FALLEN ANGEL

VI

SMELL, THE FALLEN ANGEL

FOR some inexplicable reason the sense of smell does not hold the high
position it deserves among its sisters. There is something of the fallen
angel about it. When it woos us with woodland scents and beguiles us
with the fragrance of lovely gardens, it is admitted frankly to our
discourse. But when it gives us warning of something noxious in our
vicinity, it is treated as if the demon had got the upper hand of the
angel, and is relegated to outer darkness, punished for its faithful
service. It is most difficult to keep the true significance of words
when one discusses the prejudices of mankind, and I find it hard to give
an account of odour-perceptions which shall be at once dignified and
truthful.

In my experience smell is most important, and I find that there is high
authority for the nobility of the sense which we have neglected and
disparaged. It is recorded that the Lord commanded that incense be burnt
before him continually with a sweet savour. I doubt if there is any
sensation arising from sight more delightful than the odours which
filter through sun-warmed, wind-tossed branches, or the tide of scents
which swells, subsides, rises again wave on wave, filling the wide world
with invisible sweetness. A whiff of the universe makes us dream of
worlds we have never seen, recalls in a flash entire epochs of our
dearest experience. I never smell daisies without living over again the
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