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
he