Part 10 (1/2)

”At that time, too,” said Charles, ”I suppose, the more expensive fruits were not cultivated. Mulberries are the witness, not only of a full college, but of simple tastes.”

”Charles is secretly cutting at our hothouse here,” said Mr. Reding; ”as if our first father did not prefer fruits and flowers to beef and mutton.”

”No, indeed,” said Charles, ”I think peaches capital things; and as to flowers, I am even too fond of scents.”

”Charles has some theory, then, about scents, I'll be bound,” said his father; ”I never knew a boy who so placed his likings and dislikings on fancies. He began to eat olives directly he read the OEdipus of Sophocles; and, I verily believe, will soon give up oranges from his dislike to King William.”

”Every one does so,” said Charles: ”who would not be in the fas.h.i.+on?

There's Aunt Kitty, she calls a bonnet, 'a sweet' one year, which makes her 'a perfect fright' the next.”

”You're right, papa, in this instance,” said his mother; ”I know he has some good reason, though I never can recollect it, why he smells a rose, or distils lavender. What is it, my dear Mary?”

”'Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,'” said she.

”Why, sir, that was precisely your own reason just now,” said Charles to his father.

”There's more than that,” said Mrs. Reding, ”if I knew what it was.”

”He thinks the scent more intellectual than the other senses,” said Mary, smiling.

”Such a boy for paradoxes!” said his mother.

”Well, so it is in a certain way,” said Charles, ”but I can't explain.

Sounds and scents are more ethereal, less material; they have no shape--like the angels.”

Mr. Malcolm laughed. ”Well, I grant it, Charles,” he said; ”they are length without breadth!”

”Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Reding, laughing too; ”don't encourage him, Mr. Malcolm; you are worse than he. Angels length without breadth!”

”They pa.s.s from place to place, they come, they go,” continued Mr.

Malcolm.

”They conjure up the past so vividly,” said Charles.

”But sounds surely more than scents,” said Mr. Malcolm.

”Pardon me; the reverse as _I_ think,” answered Charles.

”That _is_ a paradox, Charles,” said Mr. Malcolm; ”the smell of roast-beef never went further than to remind a man of dinner; but sounds are pathetic and inspiring.”

”Well, sir, but think of this,” said Charles, ”scents are complete in themselves, yet do not consist of parts. Think how very distinct the smell of a rose is from a pink, a pink from a sweet-pea, a sweet-pea from a stock, a stock from lilac, lilac from lavender, lavender from jasmine, jasmine from honeysuckle, honeysuckle from hawthorn, hawthorn from hyacinth, hyacinth”----

”Spare us,” interrupted Mr. Malcolm; ”you are going through the index of Loudon!”

”And these are only the scents of flowers; how different flowers smell from fruits, fruits from spices, spices from roast-beef or pork-cutlets, and so on. Now, what I was coming to is this--these scents are perfectly distinct from each other, and _sui generis_; they never can be confused; yet each is communicated to the apprehension in an instant. Sights take up a great s.p.a.ce, a tune is a succession of sounds; but scents are at once specific and complete, yet indivisible. Who can halve a scent? they need neither time nor s.p.a.ce; thus they are immaterial or spiritual.”

”Charles hasn't been to Oxford for nothing,” said his mother, laughing and looking at Mary; ”this is what I call chopping logic!”

”Well done, Charles,” cried Mr. Malcolm; ”and now, since you have such clear notions of the power of smells, you ought, like the man in the story, to be satisfied with smelling at your dinner, and grow fat upon it. It's a shame you sit down to table.”

”Well, sir,” answered Charles, ”some people _do_ seem to thrive on snuff at least.”

”For shame, Charles!” said Mr. Malcolm; ”you have seen me use the common-room snuff-box to keep myself awake after dinner; but nothing more. I keep a box in my pocket merely as a bauble--it was a present.