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CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
SOLUTION TO SOLVED PROBLEMS

1.S1 Make or Buy

Power Notebooks, Inc. plans to manufacture a new line of notebook computers. Management is trying
to decide whether to purchase the LCD screens for the computers from an outside supplier or to
manufacture the screens in-house. The screens cost $100 each from the outside supplier. To set up the
assembly process required to produce the screens in-house would cost $100,000. The company could
then produce each screen for $75. The number of notebooks that eventually will be produced (Q) is
unknown at this point.
a. Set up a spreadsheet that will display the total cost of both options for any value of Q. Use trial-
and-error with the spreadsheet to determine the range of production volumes for which each
alternative is best.

Copyright © 2019 McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. No reproduction or distribution without the prior
written consent of McGraw-Hill Education
1
 If Power Notebooks purchases the screens, the fixed cost is $0 and the unit cost is $100. These
data are entered into B2:B3.

If Power Notebooks manufactures the screens, the fixed cost is $100,000 and the unit cost is
$75. These data are entered into D2:D3.

The number of LCD screens needed (Q) is unknown. Cell C6 will be used for this quantity.

In general, Total Cost = Fixed Cost + (Unit Cost)(LCD Screens Needed). This formula is entered
into B4 and D4.

Trial and error with the spreadsheet shows that purchasing is cheaper if Q < 4000,
manufacturing is cheaper if Q > 4000, and the costs are identical when Q = 4000.

The spreadsheet is shown below.

Range Name Cell
ManufactureFixedCost D2
ManufactureTotalCost D4
ManufactureUnitCost D3
PurchaseFixedCost B2
PurchaseTotalCost B4
PurchaseUnitCost B3
Q C6

Copyright © 2019 McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. No reproduction or distribution without the prior
written consent of McGraw-Hill Education
2
b. Use a graphical procedure to determine the break-even point for Q (i.e., the quantity at which both
options yield the same cost).
To determine the ranges of Q for which each source is cheapest, graph the total cost versus Q, as
shown below. The total cost lines cross at Q = 4,000. This is the break-even point for Q.

c. Use an algebraic procedure to determine the break-even point for Q.

The total cost if Power Notebooks purchases the LCD screens is TCpurchase = ($100)Q.
The total cost if Power Notebooks manufactures the LCD screens is TCmanufacture = $100,000 +
($75)Q.
The break-even point for Q occurs when TCpurchase = TCmanufacture.
($100)Q = $100,000 + ($75)Q when ($25)Q = $100,000, or Q = 4,000.

Copyright © 2019 McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. No reproduction or distribution without the prior
written consent of McGraw-Hill Education
3
Copyright © 2019 McGraw-Hill Education. All rights reserved. No reproduction or distribution without the prior
written consent of McGraw-Hill Education
4
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found an Apoplectick Balsam more illustrious for Fame, more noble for Virtue,
more worthy for Honour, more ready for Help, and more fragrant for smell, than
this. It chears and comforts all the spirits, natural, vital, and animal, by anointing
the extremities of the Nostrils and the Pulses. It cures Convulsions, Palsies,
Numbness, and other Diseases proceeding of cold.”

The modern physician may think this Balsam “apoplectick” in a

sense never dreamt of by its author; nevertheless he must also sigh
for the faith that believed all those wonders.
Here is another from the same source for “the strengthening of
memory”:

“Balsamum Maemonicus (sic) Sennerti. Balsam for the loss of Memory.

“℞ of the juices of Bawm, Basil, flowers of Sage, Lillies, Primroses, Rosemary,
Lavender, Borrage, Broom, A. ℥ii.; Aqua Vitae, Water-lillies, Roses, Violets, A. ℥i.;
Cubebs, Cardamoms, Grains of Paradise, yellow Sanders, Corpo balsamum,
Orrice, Saffron, Savory, Peony, Tyme, A. ℥ʃ; Storax liquid and Calamita,
Opopanax, Bdellium, Galbanum, Gum of Ivy, Labdanum, A. ʒvi.; Roots of Peony,
long Birthwort, Oils of Turpentine, Spike, Costus, Juniper, Bays, Mastick, Baben,
Lavender, A. ʒv. Pouder them that are to be poudered, then mix and distil in an
Alembick, with a gradual fire; separate the Balsam from the Water.
“Salmon. In this we have put flowers of Sage instead of Mynica or Tamarisk:
otherwise it is verbatim. It is a truly noble Cephalick, and it is reported to cause a
perpetual memory, both Water and Balsom are excellent good against all cold
Diseases: you may anoint the hinder part of the Head, the Nostrils and Ears
therewith. Dose gut. iii. ad vi. This is that Balsam which Charles, Duke of
Burgundy bought of an English Doctor for 10000 Florentines.”

It is to be noted, by the way, the odours do not “strengthen the

memory” as a whole; what they do is to revive special memories.

The use of perfumes like camphor to ward off infection has long
been in vogue. The pompous doctors of Hogarth’s time—just 200
years ago—carried walking-sticks the hollow handle of which formed
a receptacle for camphor, musk, or other pungent substances, which
they held to their noses when visiting patients, to guard against the
smells that to them spelt infection. And the air of the Old Bailey used
to be, and indeed still is, sweetened with herbs strewn on the Bench,
lest the prisoner about to be condemned to death by the rope might
return the compliment and sentence his judge to death by gaol-fever.
To this day, also, herbs are strewn about the Guildhall on state and
ceremonial occasions, an interesting survival.

Demoniac possession was also largely responsible for the nauseous

and disgusting remedies of which early medicine, both among the
folk and among the more educated medical men, was very fond.
Paracelsus was a great believer in such concoctions, one of which,
zebethum occidentale, was his own invention. Fortunately I am not
compelled to divulge the constitution of this remarkable remedy. All
I need say is that it was by no means the “cassia, sandal-buds, and
stripes of labdanum” of Browning’s “Paracelsus”!
Those unspeakable medicaments were (and are still) sometimes
applied externally, sometimes administered internally. One of the
most absurd variants of this class was the holding of divers
foulsmelling mixtures under the patient’s nose for the cure of
hysteria, the idea being that the stench would repel the “mother”
from the patient’s throat, whither it had wandered through sheer
boredom and lack of interest elsewhere.
Nevertheless, out of these most absurd and to us meaningless
methods of treatment modern medicine has here and there selected
remedies which experiment and experience have proved to be of
value; valerian, for example, which is still largely employed for
hysterical conditions, and asafœtida (popularly named “devil’s
dung”).
As a matter of fact, many pungent, strong-smelling substances are
powerful cardiac and muscular stimulants.

Nor must we overlook the carminatives, the pleasantly smelling

dill, aniseed, rue and peppermint, the very names of which bring to
our minds the sweetness of old country places and the efforts, not
always vain, to quiet screaming country babies! Well are they named
the carminatives, acting as they do “like a charm.”
 In the Æneid we are told how once upon a time his divine mother
was revealed to pious Æneas by a heavenly odour. And although
Lucian intimates that the gods themselves enjoyed the smell of
incense, yet, according to Elliot Smith, the real object of incense-
burning was to impart the body-odour of the god to his worshippers.
Something of the kind, whatever the primary motive may have been,
must have been needed, one would imagine, to drown the unpleasant
smells from the abattoirs in the temples where the sacrificial animals
were slaughtered.
The wrath of the Lord God of the Hebrews after the Flood, it will
be remembered, was appeased when he smelled the sweet savour of
the burnt offerings of Noah on his emergence from the Ark. The
sacrifice was, of course, the meal of the god, the flesh of bullocks,
rams, doves, and what not, being spiritualised by the flames and so
transformed into food a spirit could absorb. The Greek gods, it is
true, refreshed themselves with such ethereal delicacies as nectar
and ambrosia, but they were by no means indifferent to the square
meal of roast beef so punctiliously provided for them by human
purveyors. Homer is always careful to mention that, as often as a
feast was toward, neither the gods nor the bards were forgotten, the
former being fed before and the latter after the heroes themselves
had been satisfied.
When, following the Persian division of the unseen world of spirits
into good and bad, the idea of an evil-minded and consistently
hostile god became popular, his odour was naturally enough the
opposite of that of the kindly gods. And as in time he came to assume
some of the attributes of the Roman di inferni, he, like the dragons of
an even greater antiquity, sported the sulphury odour of his
underground dwelling.
The Northern nations of ancient Europe, Grimm tells us, believed
that hell was a place of burning pitch, whence arose an intolerable
stench. Our English word “smell” is obviously related to a German
dialect word for hell—smela—which in turn is itself akin to the
Bohemian smola, resin or pitch.
The Christian “hell” was thus the lineal descendant of the
subterranean “Hades” of the pagans, and what its stench was like
may be gathered from that of the noxious fumes that rise out of clefts
in volcanic rocks, such fumes, we may suppose, as in earlier days
threw the Oracle at Delphi into her prophetic trances. (Some
authorities, however, say that it was the smoke of burning bay-leaves
that the Oracle inhaled.)
The offensive odour of hell adheres to all the devils right down to
modern times. In the Middle Ages you could always tell the Evil One
by his sulphurous stink, but, unfortunately for the tempted, it was
not usually observed until after his departure.
But evil odours not only attended the devil himself: they were also
generated by the sins. For St. Joseph of Copertino, “seeing beneath
the envelope of the body,” was able to recognise the sins of the flesh
by their odour. And St. Paconi, so it was said, could even smell out
heretics in his day, presumably in the same way as witches are now
discovered in Africa.
Moreover, as the devil and his minions are attended with a vile
smell, the odour of their infernal home, so naturally they detest what
we call sweet and aromatic perfumes and are repelled by them, as the
following tale from Sinistrari of Ameno shows. I give it verbatim as it
appears in Sax Rohmer’s “Romance of Sorcery”:

“In a certain monastery of holy nuns there lived as a boarder a young maiden of
noble birth who was tempted by an Incubus, that appeared to her by day and by
night, and with the most earnest entreaties, the manners of a most passionate
lover, incessantly incited her to sin; but she, supported by the grace of God and the
frequent use of the Sacraments, stoutly resisted the temptation. But all her
devotions, fasts, and vows notwithstanding, despite the exorcisms, the blessings,
the injunctions showered by exorcists on the Incubus that he should desist from
molesting her, in spite of the crowd of relics and other holy objects collected in the
maiden’s room, of the lighted candles kept burning there all night, the Incubus
none the less persisted in appearing to her as usual in the shape of a very
handsome young man.
“At last among other learned men whose advice had been taken on the subject
was a very erudite Theologian, who, observing that the maiden was of a thoroughly
phlegmatic temperament, surmised that the Incubus was an aqueous demon (there
are in fact, as is testified by Guaccius, igneous, aerial, phlegmatic, earthly,
subterranean demons, who avoid the light of day) and prescribed an uninterrupted
fumigation of the room.
“A new vessel, made of glass like earth, was accordingly brought in, and filled
with sweet cane, cubeb seed, roots of both aristolochies, great and small
cardamom, ginger, long-pepper, caryophylleae, cinnamon, cloves, mace, nutmegs,
calamite, storax, benzoin, aloes wood and roots, one ounce of triapandalis, and
three pounds of half brandy and water; the vessel was then set on hot ashes in
order to distil the fumigating vapour, and the cell was kept closed.
“As soon as the fumigation was done, the Incubus came, but never dared enter
the cell; only, if the maiden left it for a walk in the garden or the cloister, he
appeared to her, though invisible to others, and, throwing his arms around her
neck, stole or rather snatched kisses from her, to her intense disgust.
“At last, after a new consultation, the Theologian prescribed that she should
carry about her person pills made of the most exquisite perfumes, such as musk,
amber, chive, Peruvian balsam, etc. Thus provided, she went for a walk in the
garden, where the Incubus suddenly appeared to her with a threatening face, and
in a rage. He did not approach her, however, but, after biting his finger as if
meditating revenge, disappeared, and was nevermore seen by her.”

On the other hand, the odour of sanctity in mediæval times was a

much more real perfume than that in which the Jackdaw of Reims
died. It does not seem, so far as I can make out from my reading, that
the sweet smell of the Saints was ever remarked in the early centuries
of the Christian era. The odour diffused around his pillar by St.
Simeon Stylites, for example, was by no means pleasant. But by A.D.
1000 the sweetness of the Saints’ persons was beginning to pervade
the religious atmosphere. Writing about that time, Odericus Vitalis
tells us that “from the sepulchre of St. Andrew” (at Patras, Asia
Minor) “manna like flour and oil of an exquisite odour flow, which
indicate to the inhabitants of that country” what the crops will be like
that year. And the example thus set by this apostle is followed by all
other saintly personages for many centuries.
In England, we read that when the Blessed Martyr Alban’s burial
place on the hill above Verulamium was opened, in obedience to a
sign from heaven in the shape of a flash of lightning, the good people
were enraptured by the delicious fragrance of the Saint’s remains,
and the same characteristic attended those of the later martyr
Thomas à Becket.
St. Thomas à Kempis is credited with the statement that the
chamber of the blessed Leduine was so charmingly odorous that
people who were privileged to enter it were delighted, and wishing to
enjoy her perfume to the full, were wont to approach their faces close
to the bosom of the Saint, “who seemed to have become a casket in
which the Lord had deposited His most precious perfumes.” After the
death of St. Theresa a salt-cellar which had been placed in her bed
preserved for a long time a most delicious odour. And so on
indefinitely, some of the stories being, as might be expected, a little
too plain-spoken and artless for modern readers.

It is difficult to account for the pleasant odour of Saints whose

pride it was to live without change of raiment, to harbour parasites,
and to abstain from washing. Nevertheless that certain persons
exhale a naturally pleasant aroma from their bodies is true.
Alexander the Great is noted by Plutarch as having so sweet an odour
that his tunics were soaked with aromatic perfume, and taking a
flying leap through the pages of history, we come to Walt Whitman,
who had the same characteristic. Indeed, a piny aromatic odour, of
considerable strength, is occasionally noticeable in certain people,
and I can myself testify that it becomes stronger on the approach of
their death.
We are not often told when historical heroes were unpleasant in
this respect, but in the case of Louis XIV. we have the authoritative
evidence of Madame Montespan, who after their “divorce, when
having a public set-to with her sun-god in the glittering salles of
Versailles, discomfited that little, red-heeled, bewigged, and
pompous mannikin with the following broadside:
“With all my imperfections, at least I do not smell as badly as you
do!”
His ancestor, “Lewis the Eleventh,” says Burton in “The Anatomy
of Melancholy,” “had a conceit everything did stink about him. All
the odoriferous perfumes they could get would not ease him, but still
he smelled a filthy stink.”
A modern rhinologist would suspect this monarch of having been
afflicted with maxillary antrum suppuration. It will be noted,
however, that there is no record that the odour he himself perceived
was perceptible to others. The fœtor, as we say, was subjective, not
objective, in which respect it differed from that of another historical
personage, Benjamin Disraeli to wit, who was the subject probably of
the disease known as ozæna. (See later.)
 CHAPTER VI
THE ULTIMATE

In a former chapter we dwelt upon the curious fact that memories

aroused by olfactory stimuli are independent of the will. Now there is
yet another way in which smell ignores the head of the cerebral
hierarchy.
Although on occasion confining its operations to the
subconsciousness, and exercising, so to speak, only a backstairs
influence upon the mind, olfaction much more frequently insists
upon recognition, breaking in upon our privacy, like a disreputable
acquaintance, at most inopportune moments.
If you do not wish to see you can look the other way. When you
would rather not hear you can be inattentive. A proffered handshake
you can ignore. A dish you dislike you may decline. But you can’t
help smelling—no, not even if you turn up your nose.
Olfaction is thus the great leveller among the senses, equality
having here a reality but rarely found elsewhere. For odour makes its
way into the nose of king and cadger, duke and drayman, lady and
lout, indifferently. Nay, by an ironical law of olfaction the fœtors are
more powerful than the fragrances, and vervain the feeble turns tail
before the onslaught of scatol (as well it might, indeed!), in which
case there is nothing to be done but to bear it (without the grin
mostly); or to follow the wise example of vervain; or to remove the
offence, as we have done in England these latter days, only to render
ourselves, as I have carefully pointed out in Chapter I., all the more
sensitive to it when it does come.
To many of us it comes on the dog.
This animal has a regrettable fondness for wallowing, diligently
and with forethought, in the Abominable, until his coat is thoroughly
well impregnated. For no other reason, I do verily believe, than, as he
thinks, to give his human friends for once some of the olfactory
pleasure he himself enjoys. A treat he thinks it, without any doubt.
Just look at the smirk of pride and satisfaction on his face as he trots
in and resumes his place on the drawing-room hearthrug and the
amazement with which he receives the sudden toe of your boot!
And yet he rolls himself over on the odoriferous for the same
reason that a fashionable lady has orris-root put in her bath; namely,
for the pleasure and gratification of society at large. There are who
say that my lady’s perfume seems as vile to her Pekinese as his then
does to her! If so, he is the more tolerant animal of the two.
Anyhow, he certainly has the knack of thrusting the
Unmentionable upon the attention of the most fastidious, and smell
is no longer speechless.

Now, if we are to treat fully of things olfactory, we must at least

take cognisance of the Unmentionable. But to extend our notice
would take us across the garden to the muckrake and the dunghill.
And such nearer investigation and description I must decline, even
although in these days of outspokenness I may have to apologise for
Victorian squeamishness. To attain merit as a writer the advice now
given you is: Be frank! And if you disgust, why, so much the better!
That may be so. I do not question the value of the advice, not for a
moment. All I say is that I prefer not to take it. And if somebody else
desires this particular laurel-crown, this crown of tainted laurel, he
shall wear it without arousing any envy upon my part, albeit, as I
know full well, this is a branch of the subject which illuminates many
obscurities and seeming eccentricities in human conduct. I know all
about that, but, as Herodotus so often says, I am not going to tell all I
know, although, I fear, an allusion or two may be necessary.
We may take it as on the whole true that a repulsive odour is a
dangerous odour. Not invariably, however. Otherwise grouse in their
season would not be esteemed a dainty and Gorgonzola would
everywhere be buried. Nevertheless in these high realms palatability
is limited to quite a narrow streak. There is a level beyond which the
boldest gastronomic adventurer dare not climb.
 It is remarkable that the liking for half-decomposed food, although
an acquired taste, is found everywhere in the world, among savage
and civilised, rich and poor, high and low—but not among young and
old. For young people do not usually approve of such recherché
flavours. It would be a mistake, however, to argue from that fact that
these savoury meats act as fillips to a sense jaded with age, because it
is generally agreed that neither smell nor taste declines in acuteness
as we grow old. On the contrary, they become more instructed, more
particular, more delicate. Appetite declines if you like, but taste and
smell abide increasingly unto the end.
Nevertheless we can only look upon this particular liking as
acquired, since the high relish of one country but fills its neighbours
with disgust.
It is worthy of remark, perhaps, that the last whiff, the final
sublimated breath of ripe Gorgonzola as it passes over, is a faint
suggestion of ammonia. Curiously enough, this always fills my
imagination with the sack of cities and the end of all things in smoke
and thunder. It may be because the penultimate phase of life itself is
ammonia. Fire, slaughter, and much more besides come quite
promptly to this gas for the City of Destruction, what there is left of
the remainder in dust and ashes being but a handful for the wind.

To the keen-sensed medical man certain morbid states can be

recognised by their exhalations. I have even heard of an enthusiast
on the subject who alluded to them as “both visible and tangible”;
but that, I think, must be exceptional.
Physicians of the last generation used to speak of typhus fever as
having a close, mawkish odour, and the smell of smallpox is horrible.
But these, as well as the appalling stench of the hospitals in olden
days, are among the smells which have, for the most part, fled our
country.
There are others, however, less powerful and repugnant, which are
still with us, and which we recognise as among the prominent
characteristics of certain maladies, the acid smell of acute
rheumatism for one, and I have sometimes thought I could detect a
characteristic odour also in acute nephritis, a smell resembling that
of chaff. The odour of a big hæmorrhage is unmistakable and, to
obstetricians particularly, ominous.
Then there is the smell of mice which attends upon the skin
disease known as favus.
The breath of a chronic drunkard is familiar enough to everybody,
and the more delicate aroma in the circumambient atmosphere of
the careful tippler, ethereal and by no means unpleasant, will often
reveal to the physician the hidden cause of obscure symptoms. It is
particularly valuable when your patient is, as so many of these secret
drinkers are, a woman, it may be a woman of good social standing.
A disease-odour of great value and significance is the sweet-
smelling breath caused by acetone poisoning in the later stages of
diabetes.
A sweet smell is also said by Bacon to attend plague:

“The plague is many times taken without a manifest sense, as hath been said.
And they report that, where it is found, it hath the scent of a smell of a mellow
apple; and (as some say) of May-flowers; and it is also received that smells of
flowers that are mellow and luscious are ill for the plague, as white lilies, cowslips
and hyacynth.” (Quoted by Creighton, “A History of British Epidemics,” p. 685,
f.n.)

Death sometimes heralds his approach by means of an odour, said

in some parts of the country to bring ravens about the house, which
may well be true, as it is apparently a summons of the same nature
that calls the Indian vulture in flocks from apparently untenanted
skies. Birds in general, however, seem to belong to the microsmatic
group of animals, relying chiefly upon their vision, which is often
highly perfected, particularly for distance.

Much has been made, too much perhaps, of the part played by
olfaction in the sex-life, and its undoubted prominence in the
coupling of four-footed animals is pointed to as an indication of its
potency in mankind also. But the reasoning is fallacious. Olfactory
influences predominate in these animals simply because olfaction is
their principal sense.
 Among birds, now, courtship and marriage are conducted without
any apparent aid from olfaction, and in no group of beings, not even
in mankind, is the poetic side of courtship, both before and after
marriage, so highly developed and so beautifully displayed. In their
love-making the birds appeal to each other through the ear in their
songs, and through the eye in the nuptial splendours of the male,
splendours which he parades with glorious pomp before what often
seems to be, indeed, but a lackadaisical and indifferent spouse.
As we have already seen, this independence of olfactory stimuli is,
so far as obvious indications go, also the case with human lovers.
True, we have numerous references by poets to the sweetness of their
ladies’ breath, only one, as far as I know, being blunt enough to say:
“And in some perfumes there is more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.”

But the sum and substance of Havelock Ellis’s exhaustive inquiry on

this point is undoubtedly this, that if a lover loves the aroma of his
lady, that is because of his love, not because of her inherent
sweetness. In other words, the attraction, subtle though it be, at least
in the early or romantic stage, is seldom or never obviously olfactory.
It is the suggestion of closer intimacy that constitutes the attraction
of her nearer environment, and this suggestion is the offspring of the
lover’s imagination.
As to the influence of her personal emanation in the second, the
realistic, stage, there also, it would seem, its power is subsidiary,
certainly to that of touch, although more active than that of sight and
hearing, seeing that the holy of holies is only unveiled in darkness
and in silence.
As for our opinion in everyday life, I think most people will
subscribe to the old adage “Mulier bene olet dum nihil olet.”
 CHAPTER VII
SMELL AND THE PERSONALITY

Whatever of myth there may be in the quaint stories we related in

Chapter V., there is no doubt about this, that there is great variety
among different individuals in respect to their personal atmosphere.
I mean the natural atmosphere of the person, of course, not the
artificial airs that surround and envelop the beperfumed modern
lady.
There is no need to enlarge upon this branch of our subject. Those
who are curious about it may apply themselves to Havelock Ellis for
more detailed information. What I am concerned with here is
something much less commonplace and obvious, the question,
namely, whether we disseminate and receive, each of us, anything
less material than the odours we are conscious of.
In addition to his other olfactory accomplishments, our friend the
dog seems to be able to distinguish by smell when a strange dog is to
be cultivated as a friend or wrangled with as a foe, and nothing is
more amusing to watch than the careful and even suspicious
olfactory investigation two dogs meeting for the first time make of
each other’s odours, during which exchange of credentials a state of
armed neutrality exists, to pass, apparently as a result of some
mysterious olfactory decision, either into frank, open, and
unchangeable hostility, or into friendship equally frank, open, and
unchangeable.
But what it is that makes one dog smell to another of enmity or of
friendship is as mysterious as—the mutual attraction or repulsion
felt for each other by two human beings, shall we say? For, of course,
this suspense of judgment on encountering a new-comer is a human
no less than a canine trait. There were physiognomists before
Lavater, since we are naturally influenced by what our senses, and
especially our eyes and our ears, tell us about a person we are
meeting for the first time. We like the look of the man, his
expression, his smile, the character of his movements, bodily as well
as facial; we find the intonation of his voice, his accent, his laugh,
agreeable. Or we don’t. And our decision is curiously independent of
his moral character, even after we have got to know that side of him.
Now, this act of judgment seems to us to be quite independent of any
olfactory evidence. We rely upon our predominant senses just as the
dog relies upon his. Yet I sometimes catch myself wondering whether
olfaction, olfaction rarefied and refined beyond imagining, does not
without our knowledge play some part in our estimate of the pros
and cons in character.
What is conveyed to us by the “personality” of a man? Here we
have apparently a complex of sense-impressions, for the most part
vague, which we are seldom able to analyse, even to ourselves. Still
less can we put it into words capable of conveying our impression to
other people. “There is something about him that I like” is about the
sum-total of our attempts at description.
And if this be true as between man and man, it is even more often
remarked as between man and woman. Meredith it is, I think, who
says that the surest way to a woman’s heart is through her eye.
Fortunately for most of us, his dictum is open to question. Otherwise
the human race would soon come to an end. Now, although, unlike
Meredith, I cannot claim the rank of a high-priest in the temple of
Venus, yet so far as I may dare to express an opinion upon a matter
so recondite, not to say mysterious, I should rather be inclined to say
that the surest route is by way of her ear, and I am fortified in my
belief by an authority as erudite in these matters as Meredith
himself, Shakespeare to wit:
“That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.”

John Wilkes, they say, to all appearance a “most uninteresting-

looking man,” asked for only half an hour of a start to beat the
handsomest gentleman in England at the game of games. Women
forgot what he was like as soon as he began to talk.
Who has not seen women turning sidelong glances, with that
surreptitious intentness we all know so well, towards some very
ordinary man in whose voice they, but not we, detect the indefinable
something that has the power of luring these shy creatures from their
inaccessible retreats? What man has not seen this play and puzzled
over it? The quality—is it perhaps something caressing, or something
brutal and ultra-masculine, or both at once? Who knows what it is
that their intuition perceives?
So we ask, we less favoured mortals, as we turn and look at him
also, hard and long, only to give it up with a shrug!

When I am one of a crowd under the spell of an orator—a rare

bird, by the way, in England—I feel his power less in what he says
than in how he says it. Gladstone, for example, swayed his audience
by the fervour of his personality, not by any beauty of word or
thought in his rhetoric. How meaningless his speeches seem to us
nowadays as we vainly try to read them, how involved, discursive,
ambiguous, turgid. How dull! And yet we know that these same
involved, discursive, ambiguous, turgid and dull speeches could and
did rouse hard-bitten Scotsmen to a wildness of enthusiasm that
seems to us incredible.

Thus the personality is something that travels on the wings of

sound. But is that all? Is there not something more, something
imperceptible which yet exercises a secret power over our emotions
and passions? Is there an olfactory aura?

“Why does the elevation of the Host in a Roman Catholic church bring such an
assurance of peace to the congregation?” writes a friend of mine. “This remarkable
sensation I have myself frequently experienced and wondered at. Yet I am, as you
know, a Scots Presbyterian, and do not credit for a single moment the miraculous
change of bread and wine. And yet to this gracious and comforting influence I have
been subject on more than one occasion. It is for all the world as if the constant
pin-pricks of our normal life were suspended for a moment or two.
“It is present only during service, and then only at the culmination of the rite.
“As I do not believe in the miracle, the influence must come to me from without,
not from within myself. Indeed, I have actually come to the conclusion that it is
borne in upon me not by the church atmosphere with its incense, nor by the
solemn intonation of the priest, nor by the whisper of the muted organ, nor yet by
the distant murmur of the choir, but—by the congregation itself!
 “It is from the kneeling worshippers that the mysterious influence emanates,
invisibly, inaudibly, intangibly, to suffuse with the peace of some other world the
spirit even of an unbeliever....”

Is it possible that influences such as these may enter by the

olfactory door?
This perhaps may seem to be rather a fanciful suggestion for a
scientifically trained writer to offer. But it is not wholly fanciful, since
it has some support at least from theory (whatever that may be
worth), and even from some considerations based upon solid fact.
As to theory, we have already seen how Fabre arrived at the
conclusion that the olfactory sense of certain insects is capable of
receiving stimuli to which we are insensitive, stimuli which he
surmised to be of the nature of an ethereal vibration. Consider too
the following facts.
It is well known that there are people who have an instinctive
dislike of cats. The late Lord Roberts was one, and it is said of him
that he was aware of the presence of his bête noire before he caught
sight of it. How was he made aware?
The same instinctive aversion is felt by some people towards
spiders. I myself know of one, a young girl, who cannot sleep if her
bedroom contains one of these creatures. She, like Lord Roberts feels
without knowing how when a spider is near her.
Here also is a letter to a newspaper from a correspondent telling
the same tale:

“Sir,

“I notice with interest that the official photographer who is to accompany Sir
Ernest Shackleton’s Quest expedition has an intense dislike of spiders. Can any of
your readers explain this uncanny horror, which I believe is shared by a large
number of people?
“I myself loathe and fear spiders—so much so that I have been known on more
than one occasion to go into a darkened room and to declare the presence of one of
these creatures, my pet abomination being subsequently discovered....
“F. E.”
 What sense-organ—because there must be one—enables F. E. and
others like him (or her) to detect the presence of a small creepy-
crawly?
We turn now to a series of medical cases which may throw some
light upon this peculiarity.
There are people who suffer from asthma when they go near
horses. To enter a stable or to sit behind a horse is to them a certain
means of bringing on an attack.
This susceptibility and the peculiar form taken by the reaction
remind us of hay fever. In sufferers from this troublesome complaint
the pollen of certain plants has an irritating effect upon the mucous
surfaces of the eyes, nose, and bronchial tubes. So in like manner
recent investigation has shown that there is in the blood of the horse
a proteid substance which acts as an irritant poison to those
susceptible people. Their asthma, therefore, is merely a
manifestation of the irritation produced by the poisonous body or its
emanation when it is borne to them through the air. Similarly we are
justified in arguing that cats and spiders may throw off an effluvium
which is irritating to those susceptible to it.
But it is to be noted that the antipathy in these last instances
manifests itself, not in a tissue change, but in a feeling of the mind,
an emotion. Nay more, these people do not smell the cat or the
spider, except in the way that James I. “smelled” gunpowder.
Nevertheless, the irritant must travel through the air as an odour
does, and it probably enters the organism by the mucous membrane
of the nose.
But does it act upon the olfactory cells? Here we encounter, I must
confess, a serious obstacle to an acceptance of this theory.
The interior of the nose is sensitive not only to odours, but also to
certain chemical irritants. Any one who has peeled a raw onion or
has taken a good sniff at a bottle of strong smelling-salts knows what
I mean. Now, the chemical irritant, in the latter case ammonia gas,
affects not the olfactory nerve, but certain naked nerve fibrils in the
mucous membrane belonging to what is known as the fifth cranial
nerve, a nerve of simple sensation.[2] And the simultaneous irritation
of the eyelids, and in the case of the pollen and horse effluvia the
bronchial tubes, shows that these resemble in their action the simple
chemical irritants, and not the odours.
2. The difference between those two sensations becomes clearly evident when
an anosmic person is peeling an onion. The usual irritation of the eyes and nose is
felt and manifested, but the patient is unaware of any odour.
It must be remembered, however, that, as we have said, the cat
and the spider effluvia induce an emotional effect simply, without
local irritation. And emotional change not only follows, it may also
precede, the perception of an odour.
The following anecdote of Goethe, for example, shows how smell
may affect the personality before it is recognised as an odour by the
consciousness:

“An air that was beneficial to Schiller acted on me like poison,” Goethe said to
Eckermann. “I called on him one day, and as I did not find him at home, I seated
myself at his writing-table to note down various matters. I had not been seated
long before I felt a strange indisposition steal over me, which gradually increased,
until at last I nearly fainted. At first I did not know to what cause I should ascribe
this wretched, and to me unusual, state, until I discovered that a dreadful odour
issued from a drawer near me. When I opened it I found, to my astonishment, that
it was full of rotten apples. I immediately went to the window, and inhaled the
fresh air, by which I was instantly restored. Meanwhile his wife came in, and told
me that the drawer was always filled with rotten apples, because the scent was
beneficial to Schiller, and he could not live without it.”

I wish to emphasise, for the sake of my argument, that Goethe

underwent a profound constitutional disturbance, with its attendant
discomfort, before he realised that its cause was an odour.
If, then, an odour can induce such emotional changes without
attracting attention to itself, the suggestion is not, after all, so very
far-fetched that an emanation proceeding from the worshippers at
the moment of the elevation of the Host in a Roman Catholic church
may be transmitted to the bystanders through the olfactory door to
induce in them an emotion similar to that felt by the initiated.
It may be objected that Goethe’s experience and that of my friend
are not alike, since Goethe plainly, though tardily, became aware of a
real odour. It must be remembered, however, that Goethe was a
scientist and naturally gifted, besides, with an unusual power of
introspective analysis. He found the cause of his disturbance because
he sought for it.
Moreover, we learn from Havelock Ellis that during religious
excitement a real (and pleasant) odour is sometimes perceptible in
the atmosphere around the faithful.
May it not also be the same kind of influence, transmitted in the
same way, that dominates the mind, in company with impressions
received by sight and hearing, when we are in the vicinity of other
people?

Our study of smells has brought us, to be sure, into a strange

region of psychology, for it is possible that we have here one
explanation of the mysteries of crowd-psychology, of those
unreasonable waves of passion that sometimes sweep through
masses of people and lead to all manner of strange happenings, like
crusades and holy wars; autos-da-fé; witch-burnings; lynch-
murders; State-prohibition; spiritualistic manifestations; and other
miracles.

(The somewhat uncanny “sense” we have when some one else is

present in what we suppose to be an empty room may be olfactory in
origin, but it has generally seemed to me that it is due rather to an
alteration in the echo of the room, a change in its normal sound-
picture. If the room is a strange one to us, I do not think we so
readily become suspicious of the presence of an unseen and
unexpected visitor.)
 CHAPTER VIII
THEORIES OF OLFACTION
(The Pièce de Résistance)

The anatomical structure of the olfactory end-organ in the nose is,

as we saw in Chapter II., simple.
Contrast it with the eye. Here we have what is obviously an optical
instrument, with lens, iris diaphragm, dark walls, and sensitive plate
complete—a photographic camera, in a word.
Contrast it also with the ear, which is an acoustic apparatus
reminding us in its detail of a recording gramophone leading to a
closed box in which are what look like a series of resonators, like the
wires of a piano.
In the antechamber of each of those organs the physical vibrations
to which they respond undergo considerable modification before
they reach the sensory cells.
In the antechamber of the olfactory organ, on the other hand, the
amount of modification necessary is evidently but slight, as the
olfactory region of the nasal chamber is merely a narrow, open
passage. As far as we know, all that takes place is that the incoming
stimulus, the odorous molecule, is warmed and received by the nasal
mucus.
Thus the very complexity of the structure both of the eye and of the
ear helps us to comprehend their function.
But what can we deduce from a flat surface in which all we can see
is a collection of cells with minute protoplasmic hairs projecting from
their distal ends? Obviously, little or nothing. We are, in fact,
confounded by simplicity. It may be that we are here dealing with
one of the essential properties of all living matter, little, if at all,
altered from its primitive condition.
To the physiologist, then, olfaction is the most mysterious of all the
senses. It still retains its secrets, and therein lies the fascination of its
study.
Of late years, the exploration of this dark region of physiology has
been, and is still being, vigorously pushed, and we shall now proceed
to give what, however, can only be a brief and superficial account of
the progress made and of the opinions held. Even so we shall be
compelled to make an incursion into the high and dry realms of
modern chemical and physical theory. That may not be good hearing,
but what is still worse is that almost every single point we shall be
discussing is a matter of controversy.
Let us commence with a few of the details, mostly unimportant,
upon which there is general agreement.
Consider, first of all, the variety, the almost infinite variety, of
odours. We have, for example, all the odours of the world of Nature,
the emanations of inorganic matter, of the earth itself, its soil and its
minerals; to these we must add the multitudinous perfumes of the
vegetable kingdom, of barks, roots, leaves, flowers and fruits,
including those of growing herbaceous plants, which differ so widely
from one another that it is said of Rousseau, whose myopia was
compensated for by an unusually acute sense of smell, and who was,
moreover, no mean botanist, that he could have classified the plants
according to their smell had there been a sufficiency of olfactory
terms for the purpose; then we have the thousand effluvia, some
pleasant and others not so pleasant, of living animals, including the
various races of mankind; next come the—mostly repulsive—odours
of decaying vegetable and putrefying animal matter; and finally the
products of man’s own proud ingenuity and skill, such as the
artificial perfumes and flavours on the one hand and on the other
coal-gas, acetylene, carbon disulphide, and the like.

Parker notes it as worthy of remark that man has created, both

accidentally and intentionally, many new odours—smells, that is to
say, which have no fellow in the world of Nature—and he emphasises
the fact that the nose is nevertheless capable of appreciating such
novel sensations.
In this connection we may mention that the art of modern
perfumery can imitate closely many of the natural perfumes, and
more particularly the natural flavours, by mixing together essences,
or components, which in no way resemble the final product.
Thus the flavour of peaches can be compounded artificially of
aldehyde, acetate, formate, butyrate, valerianate, œnanthylate, and
sebate of ethyl, and salicylate of methyl, with glycerine, glycerine
being added to the fruit essences, as it is to wines, in order to restrain
the evaporation of the volatile bodies. (The fruit essences are used
only in the making of flavours. They cannot be employed as
perfumes, as they are too irritating to the nose.)
The union of components to form a product different from any one
of them is found also in vision. When the colours of the spectrum, for
example, are commingled, the resultant white light is devoid of any
colour.
Thus the potential responsiveness of the olfactory organ seems to
be practically inexhaustible. So far, at all events, it has not yet
reached the limits of its capacity.
The number and variety of recognised smells being so great, then,
one can readily understand how difficult it is to construct a
classification of odours. Many attempts have, in fact, been made, but,
depending as they do more or less upon subjective sensation, no two
classifiers give us the same classification. Indeed, a division of all
smells into “nice,” “neutral,” and “nasty” would be about as good as
many much more ambitious efforts.
Zwaardemaker’s is the classification most usually followed at
present, and as it is to him we owe most of our knowledge of
scientific olfaction, we shall detail it here:
(1) Ethereal or fruity odours; (2) aromatic, including as sub-classes
camphrous, herbaceous, anisic and thymic, citronous, and the bitter
almond group; (3) balsamic, with sub-groups floral, liliaceous, and
vanillar; (4) ambrosial or muscous; (5) garlicky (including garlic),
oniony, fishy, and the bromine type of odour; (6) empyreumatic
(guaiacol); (7) caprylic (valerianic acid); (8) disgusting; and (9)
nauseating.
 The subjective character of these classes is obvious, especially in
the last two groups, but, apart from that objection, most people will
be inclined to protest when they learn that chloroform and iodoform
are put into the first, the ethereal or fruity, group, while it is
suggested, though to be sure with a query, that coffee, bread, and
burnt sugar may belong to the “repulsive” (pyridine) group!
The fact is that Zwaardemaker’s classification is based upon a
chemical foundation, that is to say, upon properties which, as we
shall see later on, do not necessarily correspond with the odours as
we smell them. That, no doubt, explains his inclusion of iodoform
among the “fruity” odours.—Iodoform fruity!—Shades of George
Saintsbury and his “Cellar Book”!
A shorter classification is that of Heyninx, who, aiming at
objectivity, bases his arrangement, to some extent at all events, upon
the spectrum analysis of odorous molecules in the atmospheric
medium, of which more anon. His list is: acrid, rotten, fœtid,
burning, spicy, vanillar or ethereal, and garlicky. But here, also, the
coupling of vanillar with ethereal odours seems a little inappropriate.
We stand, perhaps, on rather firmer ground when we turn to the
manufacturer’s classification, founded as it is frankly upon subjective
sensation, and therefore devoid of any surprises to the logical faculty.
Here is Rimmel’s arrangement: rose, jasmine, orange, tuberose,
violet, balsam, spice, clove, camphor, sandal-wood, lemon, lavender,
mint, anise, almond, musk, ambergris, fruit (pear).
It may be objected, perhaps, that this is a catalogue merely, not a
scientific classification. That is quite true. But what is also true is that
the others we have quoted are little, if any, better. The fact is that we
do not yet possess the knowledge necessary to enable us to arrange
odours in classes.
The manufacturers, of course, concern themselves with agreeable
and attractive odours only. To the great and growing company of the
stinks they pay no attention whatever. For that reason their
contribution to our knowledge is necessarily but partial and limited.
In their own proper domain, however, they can point to several
great successes. They recognise, for practical purposes, about eighty
primitive scents. Many natural (to say nothing of many unnatural)
perfumes can now be prepared artificially, and some so prepared are
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