it is very effective, especially in masses of gorgeous
color. In its innumerable shades and enlarging
proportions, it is a triumph of the gardener.
It is a rival to the analine dyes and to the marabout
feathers. It goes along with all the conceits
and fantastic unrest of the decorative art. Indeed,
but for the discovery of the capacities of the chrysanthemum,
modern life would have experienced a fatal hitch in
its development. It helps out our age of plush
with a flame of color. There is nothing shamefaced
or retiring about it, and it already takes all provinces
for its own. One would be only half-married—civilly,
and not fashionably—without a chrysanthemum
wedding; and it lights the way to the tomb. The
maiden wears a bunch of it in her corsage in token
of her blooming expectations, and the young man flaunts
it on his coat lapel in an effort to be at once effective
and in the mode. Young love that used to express
its timid desire with the violet, or, in its ardor,
with the carnation, now seeks to bring its emotions
to light by the help of the chrysanthemum. And
it can express every shade of feeling, from the rich
yellow of prosperous wooing to the brick-colored weariness
of life that is hardly distinguishable from the liver
complaint. It is a little stringy for a boutonniere,
but it fills the modern-trained eye as no other flower
can fill it. We used to say that a girl was as
sweet as a rose; we have forgotten that language.
We used to call those tender additions to society,
on the eve of their event into that world which is
always so eager to receive fresh young life, “rose-buds”;
we say now simply “buds,” but we mean chrysanthemum
buds. They are as beautiful as ever; they excite
the same exquisite interest; perhaps in their maiden
hearts they are one or another variety of that flower
which bears such a sweet perfume in all literature;
but can it make no difference in character whether
a young girl comes out into the garish world as a
rose or as a chrysanthemum? Is her life set to
the note of display, of color and show, with little
sweetness, or to that retiring modesty which needs
a little encouragement before it fully reveals its
beauty and its perfume? If one were to pass his
life in moving in a palace car from one plush hotel
to another, a bunch of chrysanthemums in his hand
would seem to be a good symbol of his life. There
are aged people who can remember that they used to
choose various roses, as to their color, odor, and
degree of unfolding, to express the delicate shades
of advancing passion and of devotion. What can
one do with this new favorite? Is not a bunch
of chrysanthemums a sort of take-it-or-leave-it declaration,
boldly and showily made, an offer without discrimination,
a tender without romance? A young man will catch
the whole family with this flaming message, but where
is that sentiment that once set the maiden heart in
a flutter? Will she press a chrysanthemum, and
keep it till the faint perfume reminds her of the
sweetest moment of her life?