flowers are sandwiched between layers of fat, resting upon the lower layer, but not touching the upper layer. In a short period the fat will have absorbed the whole perfume of the flower, when a fresh supply is added, and this process of feeding with flowers is often repeated thirty times, until the fat is thoroughly saturated with its perfume. Thus imprisoned, the odour is safely transferred from one part of the globe to another.
The extent to which this process is carried in the south of France may be imagined when we say that 1,600,000 lbs. of orange flowers, 500,000 lbs. of rose blooms, 100,000 lbs. of jasmine blooms, 60,000 lbs. of violets, 65,000 lbs. of acacia buds, 30,000 lbs. of tuberose flowers, and 5,000 lbs. of jonquil flowers are consumed annually, the value of which cannot be less than 240,000l. But, says the reader, what can all this scented fat be used for? The fat, good reader, is only the vehicle in which these odours travel. The next process, when it reaches the manufacturing perfumer, is to liberate the delicate Ariel from its bondage. In order to accomplish this, the fat is cut into small cubes and macerated in pure spirits of wine. The scent, like an inconstant mate, immediately deserts its more material partner, and combines with the spirit, just as wives now and then will desert their solid city husbands for some mercurial singing master. The scent is now in the form of an extract, but is by no means fitted for the pocket handkerchief. Here the artist steps in and combines in definite proportions different odours so as to produce bouquets, or he manufactures primary odours; for your fashionable perfumer will no more allow the public to enjoy the pure perfume of the flower than a chef de cuisine will permit you to taste the natural quality of the meat. And, first, with respect to primary odours, it is astonishing how few art has yet managed to extract direct from the flower. Violets, geraniums, orange blossoms, and roses, are translated, it is true, by the absorptive process immediately into the perfumer’s stores. But of the scores of scents which the European nose smells at, full two-thirds are but a delusion and a snare. Mr. Septimus Piesse, of the firm of Piesse and Lubin, has written a very interesting book on the art of perfumery, in which this secret is most frankly confessed. We must admit, however, that the manufacturing perfumer is in no wise to blame in this matter. It is not his business to provide the primary odours; his department is the higher duty of combining them: give him a fuller scale of notes and he will afford the public more varied airs. Mr. Piesse indeed laments, that whilst cultivators of gardens spend thousands for the gratification of the eye, they altogether neglect the nose. Why should we not grow flowers for their odours as well as for their colours? There are scores of flowers in our gardens that would yield admirable extracts with a little pains. For instance, there is heliotrope, the lily of the valley, honeysuckle, myrtle, clove pink, and wallflower. We have extracts of all these flowers in the perfumers’ shops, but they are nothing but skilful combinations of other scents. They play tricks with our noses as they do with our palates. We know full well that certain flavourings, such as pine apple drops, jargonelle pears, &c., are manufactured out of the refuse of gas tar and from rotten cheese. In the same way some of our sweetest and, as we believe, natural flower-scents have their base in fetid animal secretions, such as musk, civet, &c. Who will come to the rescue? There is a great cry for woman’s work—here it is. Many a lady would willingly employ her time which hangs heavy in country-houses, if she only knew how. We will tell her. “I want heliotrope pomade,” says Mr. Piesse. “I would buy any amount that I could get;” and this is the way to get it. If there is such a thing as a glue-pot in the house, you have the only piece of machinery needed—it is, in fact, a water-bath.
As the details of the process are all important, we will proceed in Mr. Piesse’s own words.
“At the season when the flowers are in bloom, obtain a pound of fine lard, melt the lard, and strain it through a close hair sieve, allow the liquid fat as it falls from the sieve to drop into the cold spring water; this operation granulates and washes the blood and membrane from it. In order to start with a perfectly inodorous grease, the melting and granulation process may be repeated three or four times, using a pinch of salt and a pinch of alum in each water; it is then to be washed five or six times in plain water; finally, re-melt the fat, and cast it into a pan, to free it from adhering water. Now put the clarified fat into the glue-pot, and place it in such a position near the fire of the green-house, or elsewhere, that will keep it warm enough to be liquid; into the fat throw as many flowers as you can, and there let them remain for twenty-four hours. At this time strain the fat from the spent flowers, and add fresh ones; repeat this operation for a week: we expect, at the last straining, the fat will have become very highly perfumed, and when cold, may be justly termed pommade à la heliotrope.” To turn this pomade into an extract fit for the handkerchief, all that has to be done is to cut the perfumed fat into small pieces, drop it into a wide-mouthed bottle, and cover it with highly rectified spirit, in which it must remain for a week. When strained off the process will be completed.
In this manner every flower of the garden may be turned into a genuine extract, and the lady who takes the trouble to perform the operation may be sure that she possesses a perfume which money cannot buy from the best perfumer’s in the metropolis. Moreover, she would then possess some individuality in her perfume. Why should we not know our fair friends by the delicate odours with which they are surrounded, as we know them afar off by the charm of voice? There is an appropriate odour, to our minds, to each particular character. The spirituelle should affect jasmine; the brilliant and witty, heliotrope; the robust, the more musky odours; and young girls just blooming into womanhood, the rose. The citron-like perfumes are more fitted for the melancholy temperament, and there is a sad minor note in vanille that the young widow should affect. When we study the æsthetics of odours, we shall match nice shades of character with delicate shades of odour. Why should human feeling be expressed better by colours than by perfumes?