Works of Grant Allen

by Grant Allen

  Now, I am not a great believer in that system of word-counting which is so favourite a device with Mr. Gladstone. It appears to me a fallacious and illegitimate application of seemingly rigorous statistical methods, for the value of the word can never be properly appreciated apart from its context. Nevertheless, in order to meet the enemy with his own weapons, I have counted up all the colour-epithets in Mr. Swinburne’s “Poems and Ballads,” a volume which I have purposely selected, because it represents the spirit of traditional poetry in its purest form. I find the results to be as follows: — The word red occurs in all 151 times, together with rosy, crimson, once each, and sanguine, ruddy, scarlet, twice each: total of the pure red epithets, 159. Yellow is mentioned 13 times, tawny once; but the more poetical word gold numbers 113 repetitions, and golden 16: total of the yellow epithets, 143. Purple comes in for 23 notices. Grand total of red-end epithets, 325. On the other hand blue occurs 25 times, and violet once; total, 26. Green obtains mention in 86 places. Total of the violet-end epithets, 110. The only other colour term is brown, employed 10 times. Now, I acknowledge that this is an ex parte statement, for three reasons: I have reckoned the word gold, which is sometimes a noun and sometimes an adjective, as though it were always the latter; I have counted purple as a red-end word, though it might equally claim to belong to the violet; and I have clubbed together red and yellow. But Mr. Gladstone also makes ex parte statements, and mine seem to me much more justifiable than his. For gold is undoubtedly a favourite word in poetry, largely on account of its colour and glitter; purple undoubtedly owes its effectiveness to its red, not to its blue element; and the yellow of golden is a colour which may very fairly rank with red and orange. On the other hand, I have allowed all the greens, though many of them are not colour-words at all, and though the number of objects which may properly be called green is out of all proportion to the number of objects which may properly be called red. The true significance of the list is best seen by comparing the 25 blues with the 151 reds. To adopt the statistical form, we might say (if we chose to reckon the unreckonable) that red is 500 per cent. more poetical than blue!

  For comparison with these results, I have also extracted the colour-words from Mr. Tennyson’s “Princess,” and I find they stand in the following proportions: — Red occurs 10 times, crimson 3, rosy 3, rosed (as an adjective) once, ruby once, and rubric once; while the verb to redden has also one mention. Golden is employed 13 times, gold 7, gilded 3, gilt twice, yellow once, orange once, and the verb to gild once. Purple occurs 6 times, purpled once, and empurpled once. Total of the red-end epithets, 56. On the other hand, green is used 5 times (not always as a colour term), blue once, azure three times, lilac once, and violet once. Total of the violet-end epithets, 11. So that Mr. Tennyson also finds red and yellow just five times as poetical as green and blue.

  There are, however, some other more useful deductions to be made from the above lists. Observe, in Mr. Swinburne’s case, the want of variety, the paucity of colour terms as a whole — the total absence of orange, lilac, pink, azure, saffron, vermilion, or lavender. This absence is due to the fact that Mr. Swinburne faithfully echoes the old ballad poetry, with its relatively poor but strong vocabulary — its preference of bold outline to finished detail. There are none of the conventional prettinesses of the eighteenth century; none of the refined distinctions of our modern miniature word-painters. Mr. Tennyson puts in colour phrases with the fidelity of a Dutch landscape; but Mr. Swinburne throws on his broad contrasts with the rich sensuousness of an Egyptian or Mediæval colourist.

  Observe, too, the preponderance in both poets of gold and golden. The secret of this peculiarity is to be found in the emotional associations of costliness which the words suggest. So we find the poets (especially the commonplace) are fond of silvery locks, coral lips, sapphire seas, ruby wine, emerald eyes, amber tresses, ebon locks, pearly teeth, and ivory brows. All these points serve to elucidate the real nature of the poetic colour-vocabulary. It is archaic, it seeks immediate effect, and it lays stress upon associated emotions.

  In order further to impress these facts, I have analysed a few examples of well-known English poetry, and extracted the colour terms, or words bearing on colour, and with the following results: —

  The first two books of Mr. F. T. Palgrave’s “Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics,” embracing the Elizabethan and Miltonic periods, contain: pure colour-epithets — red 8 times, green 6, blue 16, yellow 4; impure colour-epithets — blushing 2, crimson 2, ruby 2, vermeil 2, bricky 1, sanguine 1, rosy 3, cramasie 1, russet 1, purple 4, orange 1, saffron 1, golden 13, gilded 1, greenish 1, and azure 1. White occurs in 18 places, black in 6, snowy 2, whiter 1, sable 4, ebon 1, swart 1, grey 3, brown 2, and nut-brown 1. Among concrete coloured objects, flower is mentioned 28 times, posy twice, and blossom once; rose 21, lily 7, daffodil 2, daisy 3, violet 4, primrose 2, cowslip 1, may 1, pansy 1, woodbine 1, jessamine 1, crow-toe 1, pink 1, garland 4, and flowery 2. Cherry occurs 6 times. Gold counts for 6, pearl 6, diamond 1, coral 5, amber 2, sapphire 3, silver 8, ivory 1, and crystal 8. Sunset and rainbow are mentioned once each. The only other words suggesting colour are ensaffron and variable in the sense of variegated.

  This list, I think, serves to show two or three of our main points. In the first place, it is quite clear that if we take the various red and yellow adjectives, and their corresponding concretes, they enormously outnumber the greens and blues. Next, it is instructive as showing how unfair is an enumeration by simple epithets alone. Again, the number of metaphorical colour words which it contains must strike us at once. And, lastly, the number of allusions to gems, or their organic equivalents, is very great.

  Gray’s “Bard” yields as follows: — crimson, ruddy, blushing, and golden, once each, sable twice. Shelley’s “Skylark,” golden twice, purple, green, blue, white, and silver, once each. Shelley’s “Euganean Hills,” green three times, red, purple, and golden twice each, crimson, blue, azure, sapphire-tinted, black and grey once each. Total, red and yellow 14 times, blue and green 8 times. I obtain pretty similar proportions in many other cases.

  And now let us turn to our final question — the examination of the Homeric and Hebrew colour-vocabulary.

  As regards the Akhaians, Mr. Gladstone tells us that they could not have understood real colours by their apparent colour terms, because the words are used so loosely. An adjective here applied to a red object is there applied to a black one. Here, green means green; there, it means fresh or young. So be it. Has Mr. Gladstone never heard of red blood, red skies, red bricks, and red Indians? Do Englishmen never talk of a green old age, or Americans of green corn, which is really pale yellow? Is not red blood confronted with sangre azul, and red wine with the petit vin bleu? When an untrained speaker talks of purple does he not mean violet, and when he talks of violet does he not mean ultramarine? Did any man ever really possess red hair or blue eyes? In short, are not colour terms always vague, and are they not vaguer in the idealised language of poetry than anywhere else? The later Greeks were themselves aware of the deficiency in their colour-vocabulary, as is shown by a passage in Athenæus (“Deipnosophists,” xviii. 31). Mr. Gladstone’s microscope has brought out one result, let us see what result the comparative method will bring out on the other hand. I shall take the liberty of dogmatising in opposition to his dogmatism, and I shall leave the decision between us in the hands of the critical reader.

  The Homeric Akhaians were a sub-barbaric race, who had reached the stage of culture at which the use of pigments is practised, but who only employed red and a reddish purple in staining or dyeing. Their colour-vocabulary is exactly accommodated to such a stage. One true abstract adjective exists for the colour red; two pigmentary adjectives express the red dye and the reddish purple dye; a second abstract adjective denotes yellow; and all other hues are designated by metaphorical colour-terms. Furthermore, light and shade adjectives and glitter adjectives naturally preponderate over true colour epithets; because metals and precious stones, to
gether with such other similar objects as ivory and horn, were more prized than dyes or pigments.

  The abstract red colour epithet is eruthros. This is an ancient Aryan word, whose derivatives express the idea of redness in all the languages in which they occur. It would be hopeless now to decide whether it was originally a pigmentary or a metaphorical adjective. Long before the age at which the Homeric ballad-writers lived, it had become a true abstract word. That it meant red and nothing else is clear, not only from the cognate languages, but also from its being applied to only four objects, namely, copper (Iliad, ix. 365), nectar (Iliad, xix. 38; Odyssey, v. 93), wine (Odyssey, v. 165; ix. 163, 208; xii. 19, 327; xiii. 69; and xvi. 444), and blood (Iliad, x. 484; xxi. 21), every one of which is red. When we say red we mean red, and not crimson, scarlet, russet, or any subspecies.

  The red pigmentary epithet is some compound of phoinix. What the material so named may have been we cannot know with certainty; but the uses of the word show clearly that it was a bright scarlet. In Iliad, iv. 141, it is mentioned as a stain employed in decorating ivory to form an adjunct of chieftainship, and its colour is there described as like that of fresh blood, flowing from an open wound. Nothing could be clearer or more explicit than this, and nobody but a theory-maker could mistake its meaning. That one passage is quite enough to show that the Akhaians saw red. To suppose that a race devoid of colour-sense would take the trouble to use dyes is about as rational as to suppose that a race of deaf-mutes would spend their time in the manufacture of pianos. Elsewhere the word (or its derivative) is applied to a red horse and a red lion. As a blood epithet it occurs in one form or another six times (Iliad, xii. 202, 220; xvi. 159; xviii. 538; xxiii. 716; Odyssey, xviii. 96). It is also used for cloaks and mantles, which are never called eruthros, and for a very good reason; the pure abstract colour epithet is applied to wine, copper, and blood, which are self-coloured; but the pigmentary adjective is naturally given to the artificial objects stained with it. Thus the girdle in Iliad, vi. 219; vii. 305 and Odyssey, xxiii. 201, is said to be dyed with phoinix. So, too, are the prows of ships, like the war-canoes of so many savage tribes, in the phrase phoinikoparêos. Of course, the word is sometimes extended to naturally-coloured objects — blood, horses, and jackals — but the primitive pigmentary sense is pronounced throughout, and the transference is too easy and simple to call for special explanation.

  A minor red pigmentary adjective is miltoparêos, also applied to the war-canoes. The milt may very likely have been an ochreous earth. It occurs in too specialised a connection to hazard a guess upon its exact hue.

  The reddish purple pigmentary adjective is porphureos. There is very little reason to doubt that this applies to the Tyrian murex dye. At any rate, it was a stain employed for artificial colouring, and its derivation is from a verb meaning to mix together, or, more literally, to middle-muddle. Its commonest use is in connection with clothing, especially the clothing of the chieftains. The word is employed as an epithet of carpets (Iliad, ix. 200, Odyssey, xx. 278), coverlets (Iliad, xxiv. 643), mantles (Odyssey, xix. 225), cloaks (Iliad, viii. 221, Odyssey, viii. 85), clothing (Odyssey, xiii. 108), gowns (Iliad, xxiv. 796), the web in spinning (Iliad, iii. 125; xxii. 441), and the wool on the distaff (Odyssey, vi. 53, 306). It is also applied to a sort of cricket ball (Odyssey, viii. 373). In all these cases, it refers to objects actually dyed with the pigment. As a secondary colour epithet it occurs with reference to the purple rainbow (Iliad, xvii. 547), the purple stream of blood (Iliad, xvii. 361), the purple sea (Iliad, i. 482, and three times elsewhere), and the purpling of the soul in terror (Iliad, xxi. 551).

  The other red epithets are metaphorical. They include “rose-like” rhodoeis, “wine-faced” oinops, and “pretty-cheeked” kalliparêos.

  The abstract yellow colour epithet is xanthos. It is applied to human hair, to horses, and to the brook of that name. But in the Homeric poems, as in all other poetical writing, yellow is generally described by gold or golden.

  Blue has only two words, both metaphorical. The first, huakinthinos, is derived from some flower, possibly a hyacinth. It occurs but sparingly. The second word, ioeis or ioeidês, is undoubtedly the colour of the violet — that is, ultramarine. The sea is three times spoken of as “violet-faced” (Iliad, ix. 298; Odyssey, v. 55; xi. 106), and it cannot be denied that the sea is sometimes (though rarely) blue. ‘Violetish’ is also used of blue steel. We must remember, in this connection, that the pottery of Troy and Mycenæ is coloured red and yellow, never blue. But once, in Odyssey, iv. 135, we get the startling word, iodnephes “violet-darkened,” or dyed blue, applied to wool. This would seem as though towards the close of the epic period, when the Odyssean ballads were composed, a blue dye began to make its appearance. On this point we shall find hereafter a Hebrew analogy.

  Green is always designated by “grass-like” (khlôros). The derivation is from khloê, herbage. The word is seldom applied to literally green objects, because such are generally leaves or other vegetal products, of which the name alone is sufficient to describe the colour. The ballad-maker loves to dwell on red wine, scarlet robes, purple carpets, golden helmets, glistening bronze; but why should he need to tell us about the common green leaves or the blue sky overhead? These things belong to the poetry of civilised man, the town dweller; but they find no natural place in the rude songs which tell the tale of savage royalty and bloody fights.

  Herein we get the real secret of the Akhaian colour nomenclature. The many brilliant objects of external nature for which we require such varied names — the flowers, the birds, the butterflies — these were of little importance in the eyes of those bloodthirsty warriors, whose greatest joy was the kharmê, the battle-ecstasy, the delight in slaying. Only a very few flowers have separate names in the poet’s vocabulary: as a rule mere vague references suffice for all his needs. The objects which he most wishes to describe are men, horses, cattle, whose hues are indefinite, impure, and very variable in different individuals. Bronze, gold, silver, garments, war-canoes, royal furniture, sceptres, and rude palaces, these supply him with a few epithets of dyes or natural colours. But when he turns to nature, it is the great wholes alone which attract his attention; the sea, white, or blue, or green, or grey, or purple, in its changeful moods; the sky, coppery, or azure, or leaden, or black with storm-clouds, or crimson with the sunset, or gilded with the rays of dawn. Earth, mountains, rivers, sands, and rocks, all these afford him no fixed and regular sensations. Hence his language is necessarily indefinite and vague. The epithet that suited the sea in this line suits the sky in that. What is the colour of a horse, of a cow, of the human race, of water, of clouds, of the ship under weigh? Red, or black, or white, or grey, or what you will.

  In truth, the primitive man shows his acute colour perceptions by the accurate manner in which he detects faint undertones of hues hardly suspected at a first rough glance. How sharp is the eye which notes the almost imperceptible tinge of greenness in the face of fear, and likens it at once to the full green of grass? How keen is the sense which catches the slight difference of shade between the black Douglas and the red Douglas, between the O’Connor Don and the O’Connor Roe! The most insignificant trace of ruddiness in the soil entitles a place to be called Edom, Eruthrai, or Rutland; the merest suspicion of yellow gives us such names as Xanthos and Hoang Ho. In short, if one object be a little darker than another, the quick-minded savage calls it black; if it have a tiny infusion of blueness, he says it is sky-faced.

  As for the indirect traces of colour-perception in the Homeric poems, I need only point to such casual references in the Iliad as “saffron-robed Dawn” (Iliad, viii. 1); the many-coloured metals of Agamemnon’s armour (xi. 15); the jewelled girdle of Aphrodite (xiv. 181); the silver, gold, bronze, and tin of Akhilles’ shield (xviii. 474); or the cup, “wrought by cunning Sidonian workmen, and brought by Phœnician men across the sky-blue sea” (xxiii. 743). Then there are the occasional references to flowers, roses, violets, hyacinths, and crocuses. But perhaps the bes
t proof of all is that afforded by the wardrobe of Hekabê, “wherein were her many-coloured (pampoikiloi) robes, Sidonian women’s work, which godlike Alexander brought himself from Sidon-land, sailing across the mighty sea.” Amongst all these, Hekabê chose for Athênê “that which was loveliest in figured dyes (poikilmasin), and largest eke, and as some star it shone;” and rosy-cheeked Theanô laid it on the knees of the golden-haired, hazel-eyed goddess. How singularly appropriate all these phrases would sound in the mouth of a poet who did not know one colour from another!

  And now let us pass on to Geiger’s instance of the ancient Hebrews. Here I can only trust to the Authorised Version of the early books, for I am no Hebraist; but I have secured the kind assistance of a distinguished specialist, the Rev. T. K. Cheyne, and I venture to submit my results as follows: —

  The Hebrews of the kingly age were one step in advance of the Homeric Akhaians, as regards their employment of pigments, and the wealth of their colour-vocabulary. This might naturally be expected from their closer connection with the civilised communities of Egypt and Assyria. They appear to have employed three pigments, a red, a purple, and a blue; and they had a word in common use for green.

  The history (or legend) of the Tabernacle gives an account of the objects to be offered for sacred purposes, which include “gold, and silver, and brass; and blue, and purple, and scarlet; and fine linen, and goats’ hair; and rams’ skins dyed red, and badgers’ skins; and shittim wood; oil for the light, spices for anointing oil, and for sweet incense; onyx stones, and stones to be set in the ephod and in the breastplate.” The curtains of the Tabernacle were to be made of “fine twined linen, and blue and purple and scarlet,” and fringed with “loops of blue.” The same stereotyped conjunction of “blue and purple and scarlet” reappears, with true Hebrew monotony, in the veil (Exod. xxvi. 31), the hanging for the door (xxvi. 36), the gate of the court (xxvii. 16), and elsewhere during the subsequent chapters no less than nine times. Various minor portions of the sacerdotal costume are specially restricted to one hue. Gold and other precious objects occur in profusion.