13 May: Boreham on Chrysanthemums

Flags of Defiance
This, in Australia, is chrysan-themum time. Oriental literature is extra-ordinarily rich in legends that purport to explain the origin of the chrysanthemum; but they all agree that it was specially created one moonlight night in a hanging garden in the ancient East, and that, where silvery brooks murmured softly as they ran beneath the little bamboo bridges, the voluptuous blossoms sprang up and glorified the grassy banks. In those dim and distant days, the mythologists say, the flower was known as "the diadem of the year," and, in the course of the ages a wealth of tradition has clustered about its petals.

The climax of autumnal luxuriance, there is a certain flaunting abandon about the chrysanthemum that other flowers never quite attain. Coming to us when the golden magnificence of Summer has faded, these gorgeous blossoms seem to whisper of a glory that lingers about our path even when all things are rushing to disintegration and decay. The symbolism of the chrysanthemum is so obvious that no eyes can miss it. Mr. C. E. Shea declares that, of all flowers, only three are fundamentally emblematic.

The narcissus, the rose, and the chrysanthemum represent, he says, the three clearcut stages of human existence. The narcissus typifies youth. The air is sparkling; the sun is shining, no cloud disfigures the sky; everything is on ahead. The rose stands for maturity, satisfaction, the plenitude of power. But the chrysanthemum flourishes among the tints of Autumn to assure us that, even when the shadows are lengthening and life's vital forces waning, all is not lost. The dusk of the year has its loveliness as well as the dawn.

Man Must Be Captain Of Their Soul
It is the glory of the chrysanthemum that it declines to become the slave of its environment. It defies its frigid and chilling surroundings. Its brilliant tassels of white and purple and gold are like waving tongues of flame blazing a grand and triumphant challenge to the wintry atmosphere that enfolds them.

Its life is most exuberant and its appearance most splendid when all other flowers lie dead. The chrysanthemum bids men be the masters, not the servants, of their circumstances. Like Ulysses, it urges us, though weakened by time or fate, to remain stout of heart and strong of will, to strive, to seek, to find, but not to yield.

No character in fiction has charmed us more than Mark Tapley; we have all fallen in love with him. And the one thing about him that makes him so attractive is that he was for ever and for ever growing chrysanthemums. He saw no credit in being jolly when everything was going well. His heart sang amidst the dreariest gloom. And even when disaster reached its grim climax in the pestilential American swamp, and when poor Martin Chuzzlewit's heart was breaking with the bleak disillusionment and stark cruelty of it all, Mark was at his golden best. Amidst the mud and the darkness and the cold, he soon sorted things out, spread an appetising meal and declared that it was for all the world like a gipsy party.

Daniel Webster, the great American statesman, always contended that the noblest passage in all literature was Habakkuk's courageous declaration: "Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall the fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail and the fields shall yield no meat; the flocks shall be cut off from the fold and there shall be no herd in the stalls; yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation." Webster expressed amazement that no classical painter had ever produced a glowing canvas representing the devastated prophet growing his chrysanthemums.

Late—But Not Too Late
There is, too, a letter in the New Testament that reminds one of nothing so much as of a brilliant bed of chrysanthemums on a misty Autumn morning. It was written in a wretched cell by an old man in tottering health, whose hopes were all shattered, whose plans were all thwarted, and whose prospects lay in ruins. Yet the brave sentences seem set to martial music. The letter ripples with sacred mirth and expresses the unconquerable gaiety of its writer's heart. "Rejoice," the old prisoner cries, "rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, Rejoice!" It is melody breaking out of misery. It is internal gladness vanquishing external gloom.

The chrysanthemums appear at this time of year to tell us that it is never too late for a superb endeavour. It does not follow, because the last rose of Summer has faded and fallen, that, therefore, the age of loveliness is dead. Longfellow found himself surrounded by men who, having spent their youth and maturity on mundane tasks involved in the pioneering of a young country, fancied that it was too late to apply themselves to literary enterprise. "Too late!" the poet cried, in stinging rebuke, "nothing is too late till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate," and he fills half a page with the resounding names of people who have glorified the autumnal phases of life with luxuriously efflorescent achievements.

The chrysanthemums bring us the heartening message with which the Ghost of Christmas-Yet-to-Come transfigured the impoverished life of Mr. Scrooge. "People laughed to see the change in him, but he let them laugh. His own heart laughed and that was quite enough for him." As he approached the Autumn of his days, the neglected garden of his soul suddenly blazed with chrysanthemums. Just as Winter seemed about to engulf him, he found his path bathed in unexpected sunshine.

F W Boreham

Image: Chrysanthemums.