We come now to the fourth important function of the nose—the sense of
smell. What has this to do with Personal Beauty? A great deal. In the
first place, is not the flower-like fragrance of a lovely maiden a
personal charm that has been sung of by a thousand poets, of all times?
“The fragrant bosom of Andromache and of Aphrodite finds a place in
Homer’s poetry,” as Professor Bain remarks; and an eccentric German
professor, Dr. Jäger of Stuttgart, even wrote a book a few years ago on
the _Discovery of the Soul_, in which he endeavoured to prove that the
whole mystery of Love lies in the intoxicating personal perfumes.
It is not with such fancies, however, that we are concerned here. It can
be shown on purely scientific grounds that the cause of Personal Beauty
would gain an immense advantage if people would train and refine their
olfactory nerves systematically, as they do their eyes and ears.
Unfortunately, Kant’s absurd notion, expressed a century ago, that it is
not worth while to cultivate the sense of smell, has been countenanced
to the present day by the erroneous views held by the leading men of
science, including Darwin, who wrote that “the sense of smell is of
extremely slight service” to man.
In an article on the “Gastronomic Value of Odours,” which appeared in
the _Contemporary Review_ for November 1886, I pointed out that this
under-valuation of the sense of smell is explained by the fact that the
sense of taste has hitherto been credited with all the countless
flavours inherent in food, whereas, in fact, taste includes only four
sensations of gastronomic value—sweet, sour, bitter, and saline, all
other “flavours” being in reality odours; as is proved by the fact that
by clasping the nose we cannot distinguish between a lime and a lemon,
different kinds of confectionery, of cheese, of nuts, of meat, etc.
Now it is well known that most people show a most amazing tolerance to
insipid, badly-cooked food, gulping it down as rapidly as possible; and
why? Simply because they do not know that in order to enjoy our meals we
must eat slowly, and, while masticating, _continually exhale the
aroma-laden air through the nose_ (mind, not inhale but _exhale_). This
is what epicures do unconsciously; and look at the results! No
dyspepsia, no anæmia and sickly pallor, no walking skeletons;—and surely
a slight _embonpoint_ is preferable to leanness from the point of view
of Personal Beauty.
If this gastronomic secret were generally known, people would insist on
having better cooked food; dyspepsia, and leanness, and a thousand
infirmities hostile to Beauty would disappear, and in course of time
everybody would be as sleek and handsome and rosy-cheeked as a
professional epicure.
Nor is this the only way in which refinement of the sense of smell would
benefit Personal Beauty. In consequence of the criminally superstitious
dread of night air, the atmosphere in most bedrooms is as foul, compared
to fresh air, as a street puddle after a shower compared to a mountain
brook. I have seen well-dressed persons in America and Italy take into
their mouths the shamefully filthy and disease-soaked banknotes current
in those countries; and I have seen others shudder at this sight who, if
their smell were as refined as their sight, would have shuddered equally
at the foul air in their bedrooms, which diminishes their vital energy
and working power by one-half. Architects, of course, will make no
provision for proper ventilation as long as they are not compelled to do
so. Why should they? They don’t even care, in building a theatre, how
many hundreds of people will some day be burnt in it, in consequence of
their neglect of the simplest precautions for exit.
One more important consideration. When you leave the city for a few
weeks everybody will exclaim on your return, “Why, how well you look!
where have you been?” But wherein lies this cosmetic magic of country
air? Not in its oxygen, for it has been proved, by accurate chemical
tests, that in regard to the quantity of oxygen there is not the
slightest difference between city and country air. What, then, is the
secret?
I am convinced, from numerous experiments, that the value of country air
lies partly in its tonic fragrance, partly in the _absence of
depressing, foul odours_. The great cosmetic and hygienic value of
deep-breathing has been proved in the chapter on the Chest. Now the
tonic value of fragrant meadow or forest air lies in this—that it causes
us involuntarily to breathe deeply, in order to drink in as many
mouthfuls of this luscious aerial Tokay as possible: whereas in the city
the air is—well, say unfragrant and uninviting; and the constant fear of
gulping down a pint of deadly sewer gas discourages deep breathing. The
general pallor and nervousness of New York people have often been noted.
The cause is obvious. New York has the dirtiest streets of any city in
the world, except Constantinople and Canton; and, moreover, it is
surrounded by oil-refineries, which sometimes for days poison the whole
city with the stifling fumes of petroleum, so that one hardly dares to
breathe at all. No wonder that, by universal consent, there is more
Fashion than Beauty in New York. And no wonder that it is becoming more
and more customary, for all who can afford it, to spend six to eight
months of the year in the country.