As We Were Saying | Page 4

CIVILIZATION SOCIAL SCREAMING DOES REFINEMENT
KILL INDIVIDUALITY? THE DIRECTOIRE GOWN THE
MYSTERY OF THE SEX THE CLOTHES OF FICTION THE
BROAD A CHEWING GUM WOMEN IN CONGRESS SHALL
WOMEN PROPOSE? FROCKS AND THE STAGE ALTRUISM
SOCIAL CLEARING-HOUSE DINNER-TABLE TALK
NATURALIZATION ART OF GOVERNING LOVE OF DISPLAY
VALUE OF THE COMMONPLACE THE BURDEN OF
CHRISTMAS THE RESPONSIBILITY OF WRITERS THE CAP
AND GOWN A TENDENCY OF THE AGE A LOCOED NOVELIST

ROSE AND CHRYSANTHEMUM
The Drawer will still bet on the rose. This is not a wager, but only a
strong 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 gaudy flower 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 spread out like an umbrella--it can never be large enough nor
showy enough to suit us. Undeniably 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?
Are we exaggerating this astonishing rise, development, and spread of
the chrysanthemum? As a fashion it is not so extraordinary as the hoop-
skirt, or as the neck ruff, which is again rising as a background to the
lovely head. But the remarkable thing about it is that heretofore in all
nations and times, and in all changes of fashion in dress, the rose has
held its own as the queen of flowers and as the finest expression of
sentiment. But here comes a flaunting thing with no desirable perfume,
looking as if it were cut with