Produced by David Widger
1904
The Drawer will still bet on the rose. This is not a wager, but only astrong expression of opinion. The rose will win. It does not look so now.To all appearances, this is the age of the chrysanthemum. What this gaudyflower will be, daily expanding and varying to suit the whim of fashion,no one can tell. It may be made to bloom like the cabbage; it may spreadout like an umbrella—it can never be large enough nor showy enough tosuit us. Undeniably it is very effective, especially in masses ofgorgeous color. In its innumerable shades and enlarging proportions, itis a triumph of the gardener. It is a rival to the analine dyes and tothe marabout feathers. It goes along with all the conceits and fantasticunrest of the decorative art. Indeed, but for the discovery of thecapacities of the chrysanthemum, modern life would have experienced afatal hitch in its development. It helps out our age of plush with aflame of color. There is nothing shamefaced or retiring about it, and italready takes all provinces for its own. One would be onlyhalf-married—civilly, and not fashionably—without a chrysanthemumwedding; and it lights the way to the tomb. The maiden wears a bunch ofit in her corsage in token of her blooming expectations, and the youngman flaunts it on his coat lapel in an effort to be at once effective andin the mode. Young love that used to express its timid desire with theviolet, or, in its ardor, with the carnation, now seeks to bring itsemotions to light by the help of the chrysanthemum. And it can expressevery shade of feeling, from the rich yellow of prosperous wooing to thebrick-colored weariness of life that is hardly distinguishable from theliver complaint. It is a little stringy for a boutonniere, but it fillsthe modern-trained eye as no other flower can fill it. We used to saythat a girl was as sweet as a rose; we have forgotten that language. Weused to call those tender additions to society, on the eve of their eventinto 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 thatflower which bears such a sweet perfume in all literature; but can itmake no difference in character whether a young girl comes out into thegarish world as a rose or as a chrysanthemum? Is her life set to the noteof display, of color and show, with little sweetness, or to that retiringmodesty which needs a little encouragement before it fully reveals itsbeauty and its perfume? If one were to pass his life in moving in apalace car from one plush hotel to another, a bunch of chrysanthemums inhis hand