It is noticeable that while the scents of autumn are often strong and bitter, the scents of spring are usually delicate and sweet.
It seems to me that in time we town-dwellers will lose our sense of smell! The odours that pervade our cities are so surpassingly abominable, that in sheer self-defence we have to “turn off our nose,” if you know what I mean by that; we are getting to smell as little as possible, just as we are getting to breathe as little as possible, owing to the vitiated air of the great crowded centres; with the result that we seem to be losing our power to smell sensitively and keenly, as well as our power to breathe deeply.
In town, the winds and the seasons seem only distinguishable by the grade of one’s underwear. Outer garments are no guide, for in December and January one meets bare chests in the public thoroughfares and transparent gowns indoors; while in August, with equal suitability, we trim a chiffon blouse with fur! (and, by the way, it is instructive to recall the fact that it was a German Court dressmaker who first set going the inappropriate, vulgar, inartistic fashion of trimming frail transparent dress materials with fur).
If you live in clean fresh air, however, you know the seasons by their odours, and it is possible to distinguish with absolute certainty the four winds of heaven by their scent, just as at sea you can smell land, or an iceberg, before it is anywhere within sight.
The scent of the east wind is entirely different from the scent of the north wind, though both are cold and penetrating. In the same way, the scent of growing bracken—for instance—is entirely different from the scent of moss. But it takes time for the town-dweller to be able to distinguish between the more subtle of the thousand fragrances that Nature flings broadcast about the countryside, so blunted is the sense of smell by the coarse reek of dirt, and petrol, and chemicals, and smoke, and over-breathed poisoned atmosphere that does duty for “air” in the modern centres of civilisation.
Virginia was vowing that she could actually smell the salmon in the river, when we entered the village; at the same time, the fish cart that makes a weekly tour of these hills was standing outside the “New Inn” (dated 1724). I omitted to draw her attention to the coincidence, because at that moment the lady of the post-office stepped out into the road and waved a telegram at our approaching steed.
It was from the Head of Affairs, briefly stating that he had returned home, safe and sound, that he would soon have the little mess cleared up, and that I need not worry.