ON THE MANUSCRIPTS OF GOD 



Near cousins of the fumes of nicotine are 

 the odors of spices which lend a halo of 

 poetry to the creative operations of the 

 kitchen. There is always something cheer- 

 ing in the olfactory rumor that sweet pickles, 

 mince pies, and fruit cakes are in the mak- 

 ing. Even a cook who may have but a 

 short suit in amiability by association with 

 her fragrant works, is invested, like the 

 Vale of Tempe, with charms not her own. 

 By the same necromancy of olfactory as- 

 sociation, a certain street in the business sec- 

 tion of New York always wears for the 

 writer an aureola, because it is perfumed its 

 entire length by the wholesale house of an 

 importer of Indian spices. Passing from 

 the neighboring thoroughfares to this par- 

 ticular street, is like finding a clump of rose- 

 bushes in a desert, or a Shakespearian sonnet 

 in a newspaper. 



In addition to redolent delights shared by 

 most of mankind, one must not forget those 

 more sophisticated raptures known only to 

 the nostrils of bibliomaniacs. But what un- 

 hallowed pen may write of the poignant 



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