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  Midnight Marzipan Perfume Oil

  A Winter Solstice gourmand: a ground almond snowpack glistening under a chilly scattering of sugar-bright stars, standing out against a night sky of the darkest cacao.

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  O Beautiful White Mother Death Perfume Oil

  This Spiritualism is the nepenthe which the ancient philosophers sought, to prolong life for ever; you cast off your bodies like an old garment. The pathway of this new science is as clear to the spirit as the names of the constellations are to the astronomer. In the great realm of the spirit there is no room for death to abide ; he has gone out with the ignorance, and blindness, and prejudice of the past, and life, only life, remains as your inheritance.
  
  Mrs. Tappan then paused. After a moment’s silence she delivered the following inspirational poem:—
  
  O beautiful white mother Death,
  Thou silent and shadowy soul,
  Thou mystical, magical soul,
  How soothing and cooling thy breath!
  Ere the morning stars sang in their spheres,
  Thou didst dwell in the spirit of things,
  Brooding there with thy wonderful wings,
  Incubating the germs of the years.
  Coeval with Time and with Space,
  Thy sisters are Silence and Sleep ;
  Three sisters—Death, Silence, and Sleep,
  How strange and how still is thy face!
  In the marriage of matter to soul,”
  Thou wert wedded to young fiery Time,
  The now weary and hoary-haired Time,
  With him thou hast shared earth’s control.
  O beautiful spirit of Death,
  Thy brothers are Winter and Night;
  Stern Winter and shadowy Night,
  They bear thy still image and breath.
  Summer buds fall asleep in thy arms,
  ’Neath the fleecy and soft-footed snow,
  The silent, pure, beautiful snow;
  And the earth their new life-being warms.
  All the world is endowed with thy breath,
  Summer splendours and purple of wine
  Flow out of this magic of thine,
  O beautiful angel of Death
  What wonders in silence we see
  The lily grows pale in thy sight;
  The rose thro’ the long summer night
  Sighs its life out in fragrance to thee.
  O beautiful angel of Death,
  The beloved are thine, all are thine !
  They have drunk the nepenthe divine,
  They have felt the full flow of thy breath.
  Out into thy realm they are gone,
  Like the incense that greeteth the morn,
  On the wings of thy might they’re up-borne,
  As bright birds to thy Paradise flown.
  They are folded and safe in thy sight,
  Thro’ thy portals they pass from earth’s prison;
  From the cold clod of clay they have risen,
  To dwell in thy temple of light.
  O beautiful Angel of Life,
  Germs feel thee and burst into bloom,
  Souls see thee and rise from the tomb,
  With beauty and loveliness rife.
  On earth thou art named cold Death,
  Dim, dark, dismal, dire, dreadful Death,
  In heaven thou art “Angel of Life.”
  We are one with thy spirit, O Death ;
  We spring to thy arms unafraid,
  One with thee are our glad spirits made.
  We are born when we drink thy cold breath,—
  Oh, Angel of Life, lovely Death.

   

  The concluding hymn was then sung, after which Mrs. Tappan uttered the following benediction—“ May the peace of the loving spirit of the Heavenly Father and His angels abide with you, and the life that knows no death bear you on to the immortal world.”

  
  The Spiritualist, Oct. 15, 1873
  Poem by Cora L.V. Richmond
  
  The lily grows pale in thy sight; the rose, through the long summer night, sighs its life out in fragrance to thee.

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  The Phenomena of Witchcraft Perfume Oil

  The Rev. Joseph Glanvil, chaplain in ordinary to Charles II., was a writer of great erudition and ability. In his “Sadducismus Triumphatus,” written to show that the phenomena of witchcraft were genuine occurrences, he gives an account of Mr. Mompesson’s haunted house at Tedworth, where it was observed that, on beating or calling for any tune, it would be exactly answered by drumming. When asked by some one to give three knocks, if it were a certain spirit, it gave three knocks and no more. Other questions were put, and answered by knocks exactly. Glanvil himself says, that, being told it would imitate noises, he scratched, on the sheet of the bed, five, then seven, then ten times ; and it returned exactly the number of scratches each time.
  
  Melanethon relates that at Oppenheim, in Germany, in 1620, the same experiment of rapping, and having the raps exactly answered by the spirit which haunted a house, was successfully tried ; and he tells us that Luther was visited by a spirit who announced his coming by “a rapping at his door.”
  
  In the famous Wesley case, the haunting of the house of John Wesley’s father, the Parsonage at Epworth, Lincolnshire, in 1716, for a period of two months, the supposed spirit used to imitate Mr. Wesley’s knock at the gate. It responded to the Amen at prayers. Emily, one of the daughters, knocked ; and it answered her. Mr. Wesley knocked a stick on the joists of the kitchen ; and it knocked again, in number of strokes and in loudness exactly replying. When Mrs. Wesley stamped, it knocked in reply.
  
  It is not surprising that John Wesley was a Spiritualist. “With my last breath,” he writes, “will I bear my testimony against giving up to infidels one great proof of the invisible world ; I mean that of witchcraft, confirmed by the testimony of all ages.”

  Planchette, or The Despair of Science : being a full account of modern spiritualism, its phenomena, and the various theories regarding it : with a survey of French Spiritism, Epes Sargent
  
  Green balsam, bay leaf, fossilized amber, blackened vetiver, and clove bud cloaked in oud.
  

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  Phantom Team of Horses Perfume Oil

  About two miles from the village of Canton, Me., is a cosey, old-fashioned farm-house which is located directly opposite a graveyard, with no other house in sight. From the window of this little house nothing can be seen except the graveyard with its gleaming stones, and the hills and mountains round about.
  
  The family that has been occupying the house moved out not long ago, declaring that they could not stand it any longer, that they were wellnight distracted by the demonstrations. When they told their story a former resident, who now lives in Hartford, announced that he had known for years that the place was haunted. He had not told any one for fear of the ridicule of his neighbors.
  
  The demonstrations were not only in the house, but in the barn and around the premises. Regularly every night at 12 o’clock a team of horses rushes from the direction of the village, rumbles over the little bridge at a slashing gait, and then disappears. It never reaches the house. Instead, ghostly voices address the members of the family who have the temerity to live there, the voices coming from all parts of the house, but never so clearly that they can be located.
  
  On one memorable night a member of the family went to the barn just at dusk without a lantern. A figure stood at the corner of the building, and he ran to learn what the straggler wanted about the place. The figure silently and mysteriously melted into the shadows and was gone.
  
  The Buffalo News, April 20, 1904
  
  A spectral cacophony of shimmering, translucent dun sandalwood, grey amber, and wraith-chilled chestnut galloping through the mist-cloaked shadows of time, a clattering of clove and black pepper, and a crack of phantom leather.

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