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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development," Grant Allen delves into the intricate relationship between human perception of color and its evolutionary implications. This groundbreaking work, set against the backdrop of late 19th-century scientific and philosophical discourse, employs a blend of empirical research and speculative insight, illustrating how color perception is not merely a sensory experience but a complex interplay of biology, culture, and cognition. Allen's clear and engaging literary style makes complex ideas accessible to both the lay reader and the informed scholar, reflecting the burgeoning interest in psychology and sensory studies characteristic of his time. Grant Allen was a prominent British author and scientist, recognized for his contributions to both literature and empirical science. His extensive background in biology and his engagement with contemporary debates about evolution and psychology uniquely positioned him to explore the nuances of color perception. Influenced by the works of luminaries such as Darwin, Allen sought to understand the development of human senses through a thoughtful analysis of their origins and functions, bridging the gap between scientific inquiry and literary expression. This book is highly recommended for anyone interested in the intersection of sensory perception, evolutionary biology, and literary analysis. Allen's insightful exploration invites readers to reflect not only on how we perceive the world around us but also on the cultural and psychological factors that shape our experiences. "The Colour-Sense" stands as a seminal text for students and enthusiasts of psychology, philosophy, and the history of science. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development
Table of Contents
Introduction
At its core, this study asks how the human capacity for color vision arose, unfolded, and came to shape our ways of seeing the living world. It frames color not as a static property but as a relationship between organisms and their environments, a capacity honed by needs, signals, and attention. By tracing the emergence and refinement of this sense, it invites readers to consider perception as a living history rather than a given fact. The journey it proposes bridges biology and psychology, examining how sensations become experiences, and how those experiences influence behavior, preference, and the interpretation of nature's variety.
Grant Allen's The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development is a work of nineteenth-century science that joins evolutionary biology with early psychology. Written in the Victorian era shaped by the reception of Darwin's ideas, it participates in a broader effort to explain mental life through natural history. The book belongs to the tradition of learned essays that synthesize findings across fields for a general, educated audience. Rather than offering laboratory reports, it situates color perception within a lineage, using the language of development and adaptation to frame questions about how seeing in hues might have emerged from simpler forms of sensation.
Allen adopts a lucid, argumentative voice, building a comparative narrative that moves from biological function to psychological implication. Readers can expect careful distinctions, illustrative examples drawn from natural observation, and a steady attention to how evidence supports plausible lines of descent in the senses. The mood is exploratory and confident, characteristic of Victorian popular science, yet measured enough to invite scrutiny and debate. The result is neither a textbook nor a mere curiosity; it is an organized inquiry that asks the reader to follow definitions, weigh proposals, and consider how a complex faculty could accrete gradually under ordinary conditions of life.
Several themes animate the book: the role of variation and selection in shaping sensory capacities; the ecological functions of color as signal, lure, or warning; the interplay between perception and behavior; and the potential pathways by which a coarse sensitivity might become fine discrimination. Allen also considers how an expanded color repertoire can inform taste and preference, placing aesthetic feeling within a naturalistic frame without reducing it to simple utility. Throughout, the sense of color is treated as both adaptive and expressive, a means by which organisms negotiate environments and, in humans, a source of meaning and delight.
Methodologically, the study proceeds by comparison, drawing together physiology, natural history, and contemporary psychological discussion to test and refine its claims. It weighs rival explanations, outlines the kinds of evidence that would support each, and uses familiar phenomena to anchor abstract arguments. The approach remains interdisciplinary, but it is also historically grounded, reflecting the confidence and limits of its period. Readers will find synthesized references to prevailing theories, illustrative cases from animals and plants, and reflections on human perception, each marshaled to illuminate a developmental arc rather than to settle questions by authority alone.
For modern readers, its value lies in questions that continue to animate research and culture: Is perception an adaptation to niches or a window on objective properties; how do signals and senses coevolve; what links exist between utility and beauty. The book offers a framework that resonates with current work in neuroscience, cognitive science, design, and ecology, even as its language and assumptions reveal their time. It models cross-disciplinary thinking, encourages skepticism alongside curiosity, and shows how a clear evolutionary narrative can organize data without foreclosing alternatives, making it a stimulating companion for anyone interested in color and mind.
Approached on these terms, The Colour-Sense promises an engaging, reflective exploration rather than a catalogue of settled facts. It sets out a landscape of ideas, invites readers to traverse it attentively, and supplies signposts for further thought. Expect a steady build from foundational concepts to more speculative vistas, always tethered to observations that a careful reader can test against experience. As a window onto Victorian science and as a meditation on perception, it rewards patient reading, offering both intellectual provocation and historical insight into how one era sought to understand the vivid palette through which life presents itself.
Synopsis
Grant Allen’s The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development investigates how the capacity to perceive and value color arose and changed across nature and human societies. Framed within Darwinian evolution, the book gathers evidence from physiology, comparative zoology, botany, psychology, and ethnography to trace both biological origins and cultural elaborations. Allen sets out to explain why colors appear in the living world, which observers are equipped to see them, and how human preferences were shaped. He presents a continuous narrative from basic sensory mechanisms through ecological functions to artistic practice, aiming to connect natural selection and sexual selection with the refinement of color appreciation.
The work begins with the sensory foundation of color perception. Allen outlines the structure of the eye, the role of the retina, and prevailing theories of the period, notably trichromatic accounts that posit distinct responses for red, green, and blue. He discusses the spectrum, complementary hues, contrast, and afterimages, using these phenomena to illustrate how the nervous system encodes chromatic differences. Attention is given to color-blindness as a partial absence or alteration of sensory components, its inheritance, and its greater frequency among men. These physiological observations serve as a baseline for understanding how color capacities could be modified by evolutionary pressures.
From physiology, Allen moves to animal coloration and the ecological functions that shape it. He surveys protective coloration that conceals organisms against their backgrounds, seasonal changes that follow environmental cycles, and conspicuous signals that advertise unpalatability. Mimicry is presented as a major mechanism, with Batesian and Müllerian patterns illustrating how one species benefits from another’s warning display. The argument emphasizes that colors are not ornamental by default; they are adaptations in relation to the visual systems of predators, prey, and mates. By linking signaler and observer, the book situates color sense within networks of attention, survival, and reproduction.
Plant coloration receives detailed treatment as an arena where animal perception drives floral and fruit displays. Drawing on earlier naturalists, Allen describes how bright petals attract pollinators, while scent and shape also play roles when colors are inconspicuous. He explores the correlation between diurnal pollinators and vivid corollas, and between wind-pollination and reduced chromatic show. Fruits are considered as visual lures for dispersers, with ripeness signaled by distinct hues. The text suggests an evolutionary reciprocity: plants evolve to meet the perceptual biases of animals, and animals evolve sensitivities that make resource detection efficient. This mutual shaping underlies both diversity and regularity in plant colors.
Turning to human evolution, the book proposes that ecological demands and sexual selection together favored finer chromatic discrimination. Foraging among fruits and leaves is cited as a practical context where detecting subtle differences in hue yields advantage. At the same time, the display and recognition of color in adornment, clothing, and ornament are treated as social arenas where preferences could be reinforced. Allen discusses how taste might be cultivated from simple contrasts to nuanced harmonies, and how group norms stabilize color choices. The narrative ties utilitarian perception and aesthetic practice, presenting them as outcomes of the same underlying sensory capacities.
Allen then examines cultural and linguistic evidence for the development of color naming. Surveying ancient literature and ethnographic reports, he notes that societies differ in the number and boundaries of color terms, often organizing them initially around light–dark contrasts and a few salient hues. Discussions of classical texts, including observations on Homeric color usage, are used to illustrate historical stages in color vocabulary. The book distinguishes between perceptual ability and lexical codification, suggesting that language refines and communicates distinctions that may precede naming. Education, craft training, and exposure to colored materials are presented as means by which communities sharpen and transmit chromatic categories.
Applied aesthetics and the decorative arts form another strand of the argument. Allen describes the progression from stark patterns toward balanced schemes, relating preferences to available dyes, pigments, and technologies. National styles and climatic contexts are briefly surveyed to show how external conditions channel color usage. The analysis extends to textiles, ceramics, and architecture, highlighting conventions that guide harmony and contrast. Industrial production is noted for expanding the palette while also generating excesses that require disciplined taste. Throughout, the book maintains that artistic choices rest on physiological limits and historically acquired habits, linking sensory endowment with cultural selection in practice.
Individual differences receive careful attention. Allen reviews reports on the prevalence of color-blindness, its implications for occupations requiring accurate signaling, and the importance of standardized tests. He considers developmental aspects, observing that children acquire stable color naming over time with instruction and exposure. Possible sex differences in discrimination are mentioned alongside caution about environmental and educational influences. The discussion also touches on visual fatigue, illumination, and context effects that alter apparent hues. These observations are used to show that color sense is both constrained by biology and modifiable through experience, creating variability that social systems must accommodate.
In conclusion, The Colour-Sense argues that color perception and preference are products of evolutionary history refined by cultural processes. Biological selection explains why colors appear in organisms and why observers attend to them, while social practices elaborate, codify, and transmit chromatic distinctions. By integrating physiology, natural history, language, and art, the book presents a unified account of origin and development. Its central message is that the eye’s capacities and the world’s displays coevolved, and that human culture extends this interaction into aesthetic domains. The volume closes by pointing to further empirical inquiries that could test and extend its proposals.
Historical Context
Grant Allen’s The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development (London: Trübner & Co., 1879) emerged in late-Victorian Britain, a milieu defined by rapid industrialization, imperial expansion, and the triumph of scientific naturalism after Charles Darwin’s revolution. London’s laboratories, lecture halls, and journals—Royal Institution, British Association for the Advancement of Science, Fortnightly Review—shaped the book’s argumentative style and evidence base. Allen, educated at Oxford and seasoned by teaching in Jamaica (1871–1876), wrote amid debates over physiology, psychology, and anthropology. The period’s urban spectacle—gas and early electric lighting, chromolithography, dyed textiles—flooded daily life with new hues, while Britain’s global networks supplied travelers’ reports that fed comparative inquiry into color naming and perception, anchoring Allen’s evolutionary thesis in a richly empirical setting.
Darwinism provides the foundational framework. Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859) and The Descent of Man (1871) reframed biology, while the 1858 Darwin–Wallace joint paper and the 1860 Oxford debate between T. H. Huxley and Bishop Wilberforce signaled a cultural turning point. Allied advances—Henry Walter Bates’s 1862 account of mimicry in Amazonian butterflies and Alfred Russel Wallace’s 1867 synthesis of protective resemblance—supplied concrete models for how selection shapes coloration for survival, warning, or display. Allen extends this evolutionary reasoning to human perception, arguing that the color sense could itself be an adaptive product, sharpened by ancestral ecological pressures and sexual selection. He reads the profusion of color in nature, and human responses to it, as historical outcomes of selection rather than timeless, fixed properties.
Nineteenth-century physiological optics and psychophysics furnished methods and metrics crucial to Allen’s argument. Thomas Young’s trichromatic proposal (1802) matured in Hermann von Helmholtz’s Handbuch der physiologischen Optik (1856–1866), while Ewald Hering’s opponent-process theory (1874) offered a rival model; Gustav Fechner’s Elements of Psychophysics (1860) quantified sensation, and Wilhelm Wundt’s Leipzig laboratory (1879) signaled psychology’s experimental turn. James Clerk Maxwell’s color-matching experiments and his 1861 three-color photographic demonstration at the Royal Institution exemplified measurement-driven color science, complemented by Bunsen and Kirchhoff’s spectroscopy (1859–1860). The book draws on this apparatus—color triangles, thresholds, comparative tests—to track how visual discriminations might accumulate historically. Allen’s evolutionary narrative is inseparable from these laboratories’ instruments, which enabled claims about the development, limits, and variability of human color vision.
Industrial chemistry transformed the Victorian color economy and public attention to hue. William Henry Perkin’s 1856 discovery of mauveine sparked the aniline dye industry, with London, Manchester, and, increasingly, German firms (BASF, Bayer, founded 1863) reshaping textiles, wallpapers, and inks. The Great Exhibition in Hyde Park (1851) and the International Exhibition (1862) showcased mass-produced brilliance, while chromolithography flooded advertising with saturated palettes. This saturation made color a measure of modernity and standardization a commercial necessity. Allen’s theme intersects with these developments by treating color discrimination as a practical and historical faculty: industrial hues and calibrated pigments exemplified how technological change foregrounded the variability and trainability of human color perception.
Public safety concerns surrounding color-blindness tied color science to policy. Following long awareness of “Daltonism” since John Dalton’s 1794 account, Frithiof Holmgren’s wool-test (Uppsala, 1874) gained prominence after the 1875 Lagerlunda railway accident in Sweden. Holmgren’s 1877 report urged systematic screening of railway and maritime workers; in the late 1870s, European railways and navies, and the British Board of Trade, moved toward standardized testing of signalmen and seamen. Allen’s discussion of inherited color-blindness and perceptual limits resonated with these debates, illustrating that understanding the evolution and distribution of color sense had immediate social stakes in an era when red and green signals governed mass transportation and industrial workplaces.
A philological controversy over ancient color vocabulary fed Allen’s developmental thesis. William Ewart Gladstone, in Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age (1858) and later essays (notably 1877), argued that Greek lacked distinct color terms, suggesting a rudimentary chromatic sensibility. Lazarus Geiger (1867–1871) extended the claim across Indo-European languages, while Max Müller’s Oxford lectures (1861–1864) popularized linguistic evolution. E. B. Tylor’s Primitive Culture (1871) supplied a comparative framework for correlating language and cognition. Allen engages these materials to propose that color nomenclature, and perhaps discrimination itself, unfolds historically: the gradual appearance of words for blue or violet in texts mirrors, for him, stages in the social and biological refinement of color sense.
Empire and field observation underwrote the book’s comparative reach. Allen’s Jamaican tenure at Queen’s College, Spanish Town (1871–1876), situated him in Britain’s Caribbean colony during Crown Colony rule after the 1865 Morant Bay Rebellion, exposing him to tropical ecologies rich in floral and insect coloration. Imperial circuits—missionary societies, the Royal Geographical Society, and the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland (founded 1871)—circulated reports on color naming and visual customs among diverse peoples. Allen mines such travel narratives and ethnographic notes to argue for environmental and cultural shaping of perception. The empire thus supplied both specimens and testimonies, allowing him to link adaptive coloration in nature to historical gradations in human sensory and linguistic development.
The book functions as a social and political critique by subordinating inherited authority—classical taste, theological immutability, and metropolitan aesthetic canons—to empirical, evolutionary explanation. By connecting color perception to survival, work, and regulation, it implicitly indicts industrial negligence and supports evidence-based standards (such as color-vision testing) that protect workers and passengers. Its comparative method challenges Eurocentric assumptions that treat contemporary elite sensibilities as universal. Yet, characteristic of its era, Allen sometimes reproduces hierarchical evolutionary schemas. The overall thrust exposes Victorian tensions: science versus scriptural authority, mass industry’s hazards versus public welfare, and class-bound aesthetics versus a democratized, historically contingent account of how humans come to see and value color.
The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development
BOSTON:HOUGHTON, OSGOOD, & COMPANY. 1879.
PREFACE.
The materials which form the nucleus of the present volume were originally collected as part of the basis for a chapter on “the Genesis of Æsthetics” in my little work on “Physiological Æsthetics,” published some two years since. I found, however, when I came to arrange them, that the subject had grown under my hands, and that it would be impossible fully to develop my ideas except in the form of a separate treatise. The omission seemed all the more desirable, because my former work dealt only with Æsthetics as an element of human psychology: while the materials here collected refer rather to the wider science which studies the phenomena of mind throughout the whole animal world. Accordingly, I deferred their publication for the time, only mentioning my original intention in a footnote on p. 156 of “Physiological Æsthetics.” But most of the critics who kindly noticed that little work were so unanimous in calling attention to the hints which I had thrown out with reference to the Colour-Sense, and the love for colour which forms such a striking characteristic of mankind, that I determined on following up the subject on a wider basis, and elucidating my view by full inductive generalisations. The present volume is the result.
Meanwhile two works appeared, in Germany and in England, which necessitated considerable divergences from my original plan. The first was Dr. Hugo Magnus[1]’s “Geschichtliche Entwickelung des Farbensinnes;” the second Mr. A. R. Wallace’s “Tropical Nature.” Put shortly, the gist of my theory was this: that the taste for bright colours has been derived by man from his frugivorous ancestors, who acquired it by exercise of their sense of vision upon bright-coloured food-stuffs; that the same taste was shared by all flower-feeding or fruit-eating animals; and that it was manifested in the sexual selection of brilliant mates, as well as in other secondary modes, such as the various human arts. The two volumes mentioned above came like utterly destructive criticisms of any such belief. Dr. Magnus endeavoured to prove that the Colour-Sense of mankind was a late historical acquisition of the race, whose beginnings hardly dated back as far as the Homeric and Vaidik periods. Mr. Wallace controverted, with all his well-known vigour and ingenuity, the theory of sexual selection, first announced by Mr. Darwin, upon which rested almost the whole argument for a love of pure colour among the lower animals. Thus these two books between them cut away the whole ground from under my feet. It became necessary to go back over my materials afresh, and to seek for evidence against both anticipatory assailants. I have tried, therefore, to show, in opposition to Dr. Magnus, that the Colour-Sense of mankind dates back to the earliest appearance of our race upon earth; and, in opposition to Mr. Wallace, that a modified form of the sexual selection theory may still survive his powerful attack. I am aware how ill prepared I am to encounter so thorough a biologist as the joint discoverer of Natural Selection on his own ground; but I have humbly offered such arguments as lay in my power, trusting to the generosity of my opponent to forgive any technical errors which may easily creep into a discussion of the sort.
I should like to add that I enter the lists as a comparative psychologist, not as a biological student. I do not pretend to discover facts of botany or zoology at first hand: I accept them as data from the lips of competent specialists. Yet I hope my work may prove valuable in its own peculiar sphere, which ought to be kept distinct from the objective biological sciences whose conclusions form its basis. Our great naturalists supply us with the facts upon which to build our comparative psychology: and I hope there is no presumption in employing them sometimes to test the logical correctness of a few among the naturalists’ own conclusions.
One of the main necessities of science at the present day is the existence of that organising class whose want was pointed out by Comte, and has been further noted by Mr. Herbert Spencer. To this class I would aspire, in a humble capacity, to belong. But the organising student cannot also himself be a specialist in all the sciences whose results he endeavours to co-ordinate: and he must, therefore, depend for his data upon the original work of others. If specialists find technical errors in such co-ordinated results, they should point them out frankly for correction and improvement, but they should not regard them as fit subjects for carping criticism. I shall feel grateful to any biologists who can suggest alterations or modifications in any part of what I cannot but feel a very tentative and rudimentary work. But unless we make a beginning in psychology we shall never reach the end: and I send forth my speculations rather in the hope that they may arouse comment and lead to further researches, than because I consider them in any way final or complete.
With regard to the authorities used or quoted, I have followed the plan of making no references to original works when dealing with the accepted common-places of science; but wherever I have occasion to note a particular fact, of comparatively modern ascertainment or specialist knowledge, I give the authority in a footnote. For the general groundwork of my theory, my acknowledgments are mainly due to the works of Mr. Darwin and Mr. Herbert Spencer, which I seldom quote by name, because they now form part of the established body of scientific doctrine. After these, I owe most to Mr. A. R. Wallace, Mr. Bates, and Mr. Belt. For personal assistance, by letter or otherwise, I must thank Mr. Darwin, who supplied me with corrections on the colours of flowers; Mr. Wallace, who kindly wrote to me with regard to the colours of fruits; Mr. Galton, F.R.S., for an introduction to the library of the Royal Society; Mr. Gladstone, who called my attention to notes in German periodicals; the Rev. A. H. Sayce, for reference to Assyrian and Babylonian works of art; the Rev. T. K. Cheyne, for aid on the question of Hebrew colour-terms; Mr. H. N. Moseley, naturalist to the Challenger expedition, for references to papers on the colouration of deep-sea organisms; Sir John Lubbock and Mr. B. T. Lowne, for copies of their original researches on the eyes and optical perceptions of insects; and the Rev. S. J. Whitmee of Samoa, with a large number of other missionaries or civil servants, for information with regard to the Colour-Sense of savages.
In a more strictly personal sense, I owe my acknowledgments to my friends, Mr. F. T. Richards of Trinity College, Oxford, Mr. G. J. Romanes, F.L.S., and Professor G. Croom Robertson, for constant assistance in calling my attention to passages in books or periodicals which bore on the subject under investigation.
Finally, I should mention that, although most of the matter contained in the present volume is entirely new, I have incorporated into Chapters IV. and VI. the substance of two papers on “The Origin of Flowers” and “The Origin of Fruits,” which appeared in the “Cornhill Magazine” for May and August 1878. Part of the materials for Chapter X. were also included in a note which I contributed to “Mind” for January of the same year.
G. A.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
There is no element of our sensuous nature which yields us greater or more varied pleasure than the perception of colour. Whether we look at the larger physical wholes, the azure heaven above us, the purple sea beneath us, and the green meadows by our side;—or at the smaller organic bodies, the brilliant flowers, the crimson foliage of autumn, the gaudily painted butterflies, the beetles clad in burnished gold, the peacock adorned with all the hues of the rainbow, and the humming-birds decked out in ruby, sapphire, and amethyst;—or again at the transient effects of light in the spectrum, the soap-bubble, the iridescent surface of the opal, the tints of eventide mirrored in the glassy lake;—in each and every case we feel a thrill of pure and unselfish enjoyment, which no other mere sensuous stimulation is capable of arousing in our breasts. The pleasure of colour is one which raises itself above the common level of monopolist gratification, and attains to the higher plane of æsthetic delight.
Nor is man the only creature who can appreciate and enjoy the lavish store of beauty which nature pours forth for his pleasure in the fields and the forest. We shall see reason to conclude, from the facts collected in this volume, that many of our dumb relations can fully enter into the love for exquisite colour, at least in its simplest and earliest forms. We shall find good ground for believing that the bird of paradise does not display its gorgeous plumage to the careless eyes of an unobservant mate; that the gaily painted butterfly is not insensible to the lovely tracery upon the wings of its fellow; and even that the tropical lizards or batrachians can duly admire the glistening coats, crimson crests, or golden pouches of their lissome helpmates. We shall further note certain habits which may lead us to suspect that birds and insects are pleasurably affected, not only by the colour of their own kind, but also by the delicate or brilliant tints of the fruits and flowers upon which they feed. In short, our object must be to trace back the pleasure which man experiences from the deft combination of red and green and violet, in painting or in decorative art, to a long line of ante-human ancestry, stretching back indefinitely through geological ages to the first progenitors of vertebrate life.
More than this we must attempt to show. If we would learn fully the whole history of the colour-sense, we must track it backward through the generations of the earlier earth, till we discover what were the circumstances by which it was first produced. We must find out how the various modes of æther-waves[2], which we now know as colours, came originally to be distinguished from one another by the nascent eyes of half-developed reptiles and insects. We must see by what steps the hues of flowers, and seeds, and fruits, and small animal prey caused the growth of a distinctive colour-perception in the creatures which fed upon them. And we shall probably conclude at the same time that the sense thus developed became in turn a source of new pleasure to its possessors, and a groundwork for more marvellous developments in future. The taste which was formed by the lilies and roses, the golden oranges and purple grapes, ended by producing the metallic lustre of the sun-birds and the daintily shaded ornamentation of the argus-pheasant.
We may hope to show, furthermore, that the existence of bright colouring in the world at large is almost entirely due to the influence of the colour-sense in the animal kingdom. I do not mean, of course, that animals have anything to do with the objective existence of those different æther-waves in the pencil of light which, when decomposed or separated, we perceive as colours; nor do I mean to include in this category the shades of earth, sea, sky, and other great inorganic masses. Obviously the human or animal eye could have no influence upon their origin or colouring. Even the green leaves of the trees and grasses seem quite independent of man or beast. But I still think that a vast mass of the coloured objects with which we are most familiar owe their hues to the perceptions of some insect, bird, or animal. If we look briefly at a few of the best-known cases, the reader will more clearly comprehend the line of argument which this book proposes to itself.
In the drawing-room where we sit, every object has obtained its colour entirely with reference to the likes and fancies of humanity. Not only have the pictures and ornaments been painted so as to please our eyes, but the carpets, the wall-paper, the curtains, the table-covers, the embroidery, the damask on the chairs and sofas, the clothing of the women and children, have all been dyed on purpose to stimulate and gratify the sense of sight. Indeed, there is scarcely an article of human use and manufacture, from the vermilion-stained earthenware of the prehistoric savage and the woad adornment of the Cymric warrior, to the Lambeth and Vallauris pottery, or the cretonnes and crewel-work of modern æsthetic designers, which has not received some special manipulation to add pleasing colour by means of dyes or pigments. The universal effect of the colour-sense on human products is too obvious to need further illustration.
A step lower down, we reach the actual bodies of men and animals themselves. It would seem at first sight as though the colour-sense could have nothing to do with the production of these. Yet the theory of sexual selection, into which we shall enter more fully hereafter, shows us how the long-continued choice of beautiful mates may have had the effect of encouraging the growth of bright-hued individuals, and the obsolescence of their less favoured fellows. I shall try to point out, also, an adjunct to this theory, which seems to have escaped even the keen eyes of Mr. Darwin, Mr. Wallace, and their German allies. I shall endeavour to prove that only those animals display beautiful colours, due to sexual selection, in whom a taste for colour has already been aroused by the influence of flowers, fruits, or brilliant insects, their habitual food. As the liking cannot have grown up without some groundwork of advantage to be gained by it, we might gather, even a priori, that such would be the case; and I hope, in the sequel, to adduce a sufficiently large array of positive instances to justify an inductive conclusion to the same effect.
Taking still another step backward, we arrive at the brilliantly coloured fruits and flowers, upon which these tastes were formed. And here we shall have reason to believe that the agency of insects has been most powerful in developing the hues of blossoms; while the fruits, as we shall see, are rather due to the selective action of birds and mammals. Between them almost all the colours of vegetal life, except the uniform green of the foliage, are probably produced, being due to the colour-sense of one or other of the great seeing classes, the vertebrate and the articulate.
Many lesser cases may be alleged, where colours have been acquired for purposes of protection or deception, and of such an abundance will be forthcoming in their proper place. But enough has doubtless been said to show the immense importance of the colour-sense in man or animals, and the conspicuous part which (as I believe) it has played in the moulding of organic forms. If I put in two antithetical paragraphs the various great classes of coloured objects which we do or do not owe to its operation, the reader will be able to see at a glance just how much influence I claim for it.
We do not owe to the colour-sense the existence in nature of the rainbow, the sunset, or the other effects of iridescent light; the blue sky, the green or purple sea, the red rocks, or the other great inanimate masses; the foliage of trees and shrubs, the hues of autumn, and the tints of precious stones or minerals generally.
But we do owe to the colour-sense the beautiful flowers of the meadow and the garden,—roses, lilies, carnations, lilacs, laburnums, violets, primroses, cowslips, and daisies; the exquisite pink of the apple, the peach, the mango, and the cherry, with all the diverse artistic wealth of oranges, strawberries, plums, melons, brambleberries, and pomegranates; the yellow, blue, and melting green of tropical butterflies; the magnificent plumage of the toucan, the macaw, the cardinal-bird, the lory, and the honeysucker; the red breast of our homely robin; the silver or ruddy fur of the ermine, the wolverine, the fox, the squirrel, and the chinchilla; the rosy cheeks and pink lips of English maidens; the whole catalogue of dyes, paints, and pigments; and, last of all, the colours of art in every age and nation, from the red cloth of the South Seas, the lively frescoes of the Egyptian, and the subdued tones of Hellenic painters, to the stained windows of Poitiers and the Madonna of the Sistine Chapel.
The origin and rise of this powerful sense, and the means by which it has effected all these marvellous reactions on the external world, form the text upon which we must string our discourse in the present volume. We shall begin with the nature of colour, viewed as an external and objective fact; we shall next look at the steps by which the various eyes of insects and animals became sensible to its diverse stimulations; we shall then proceed to ask what secondary effects the newly acquired sense produced upon the surrounding existences; and we shall finally examine its remote æsthetic results in the sphere of human activity. We shall thus have traced the perception of colour from its first faint beginnings in palæozoic seas or carboniferous forests down to its latest developments in the palaces or galleries of civilised man.
CHAPTER II.
ÆTHER-WAVES AND THEIR VARIETIES.[1]
Before we can investigate any sensation in men or animals, we must find out what is the external agency to which it corresponds. Every feeling answers to some outer fact, and in the development of life the fact must necessarily have preceded the feeling. Unless there had been matter there could never have been mind. Without resistance we could not experience touch; without air we could not possess hearing; without æther[3] we could not have developed the wonderful faculty of sight. Organic substances, acted upon by peculiar agencies in the inorganic world, give rise to the phenomena of sensation; but we cannot understand the existence of sensation unless we previously grant the existence of an influence capable of developing it. Idealism, which looks fallaciously plausible when applied to the fully evolved intelligence, becomes meaningless and self-contradictory when applied to the problem of its evolution.
We must begin, then, by allowing that, previous to all perception of colour by men or animals, colour itself existed as an agency in the external universe. The development of the colour-sense is equivalent to the growth of a mechanism by which this agency became capable of affecting organic matter. In the present chapter we will consider the nature of the objective agency, while in the next we shall have to look at the first and rudest form of the percipient mechanism.
Throughout the whole vast ocean of space in which suns, stars, and planets float like inconspicuous islets of light, modern science has taught us that an all-pervading element, known as æther, fills every available interstice. From constellation to constellation of sidereal bodies the æther spreads in wide expanses, which stretch uninterrupted over countless millions of miles. Between atom and atom of terrestrial substances the æther penetrates into tiny intervals whose minuteness the boldest mathematicians have only lately ventured to measure. Where-ever matter is not, æther is. Every sun and every molecule floats in a circumambient matrix of this unknown agent. If we could view the most solid body with a microscopic eye, magnifying some thousands of millions of diameters, we should see that it was composed of innumerable little masses, none of them in actual contact with its neighbours, but all bound to one another, as the earth is to the sun, by their mutual attractions extending over an intervening space. This space would be filled, in the one case as in the other, by the ubiquitous æther. And though we can never succeed in knowing its existence directly, yet we are every moment experiencing its effects in the most obvious and unmistakable manner. Just as we believe in air, which we never see, because we can feel it, so we believe in æther, which we can never handle, because we perpetually see by it and through it.
Æther, though infinitely light and elastic, is naturally a solid, or something very like one. But it shares the common property of other solids in its ability to transmit undulations from a centre of disturbance. We all know that if we set any body in motion, it imparts a portion of its motion to all other bodies with which it comes in contact. So, too, if we set up vibratory movements in a bell, we know that its particles knock up against the air-particles in their neighbourhood, and thereby send off into surrounding space a series of concentric air-waves, which, when they strike the appropriate human organ, are known to us in consciousness as sounds or tones. And inexactly the same way, when disturbances of a peculiar kind affect material particles of any sort, they set up a like series of concentric waves in the circumambient æther, which, falling in turn on their appropriate organs, are recognised in consciousness as heat, light, or colour. What is the exact nature of these waves and their differences we have next to inquire.
Apparently every movement of a material body or particle sets up more or less motion in the surrounding æther. We know now that every sound, every moving energy, every activity of any sort, as it dies away, is transferred by minute friction to the ætherial medium which bathes us on every side. But the stronger class of æther-waves, with which we have now to deal, is originated only in a single way. They all arise from the vibrations of a material body in that state of rapid molecular or atomic motion which we commonly know as red or white heat. The waves thus set up may be reflected, refracted, twisted about, and returned in varying proportions by other surrounding objects, but they all owe their original existence to a heated material mass, whether that mass be the sun, the dog-star, the drawing-room fire, or the flame of a candle. So we must look for a moment at the source of such æther-waves before we can comprehend the nature of the waves themselves.
Directly or indirectly, in every case, the vibration of the original heated body is due to the rushing together of masses, molecules, or atoms which were previously in a state of separation. In the heavenly bodies, the sun and the fixed stars, the attraction of gravitation (which affects masses) is drawing together their skirts; and under its influence the outlying matter of their systems is clashing with the central sphere and producing a terrific degree of heat; just as the continued clashing of hammers on an anvil will heat a piece of iron red-hot here on our little earth. In the grate and the candle, again, the attraction of chemical affinity (which affects atoms) is drawing together tiny particles of carbon and oxygen; and as the atoms clash against one another in the embers or the flame, they are put into a similar state of rapid vibration or heat. In physical language, the potential energy of their previous separation has become kinetic in the act of union, and is now being radiated off to surrounding objects. As the quickly vibrating little bodies, either in the sun or the flame, fly from side to side, they impart each second a portion of their moving energy to the æther about them; and each ætherial molecule continues to impart the communicated impulse to adjacent molecules, so that a series of spherical waves is set up in every direction from the central disturbance. If nothing intervenes to prevent them, these waves go on widening and weakening through all space ad infinitum, at least as far as human science or conjecture can follow them.
But all the æther-waves are not of exactly the same size, nor do they follow one another with exactly the same rapidity. When a material body vibrates with a comparatively slight motion (or, as we say in other words, is only slightly heated), the waves to which it gives rise are comparatively slow and voluminous: as the rate of vibration increases, more rapid waves succeed in the surrounding æther; and when the rapidity of vibration becomes very great, the resulting waves follow one another with an almost incredible speed. Three principal varieties of slower or quicker æther-waves are commonly distinguished, according to the effects which they produce upon the human organs.
The slowest undulations are known as heat-waves; those of intermediate rapidity as light-waves; and the quickest of all as chemical waves[5].
All three classes of waves are produced together by a body in a state of high molecular energy, such as the sun. Fortunately, we are able to separate the various kinds from one another, and to demonstrate their several properties, by means of a simple piece of triangular glass, known as a prism.
If we make a small slit in the shutter of a darkened room, and allow a few of the æther-waves, generated by the sun, to enter through this aperture, we can interpose the prism across their path, and project them sideways on to a screen. When we do so we find that the various waves are all bent upward, but not all equally. They occupy a broad space on the screen, the slowest waves striking the lowest portion, and the quickest falling at the top, while those of intermediate speed hit the middle space.[2] If we put a thermometer of very delicate construction (known as a thermopile[4]) at the lowest point where the waves surge against the screen, we shall find that, in this portion of the wave-bundle, the undulations possess great heating power. If we put a piece of specially prepared paper at the highest point where the weaves alight, we shall similarly find that the undulations of that region possess high chemical power. And if we look at the intermediate space, we shall see for ourselves that the waves of that part produce the greatest amount of light and colour. So here we learn that in every bundle of solar æther-waves these three classes of undulations are closely combined; but by the interposition of a proper medium they can be sifted and separated each into a place of its own.
Fundamentally, then, light and radiant heat are identical. And not only so, but a third order of rays—the chemical—is always bound up with them in the waves which come to us from the sun. Yet though in their objective nature these various agencies are so similar—differing not at all in kind, but only in degree—there is a very strange diversity in our subjective perception of their effects. The slowest æther-waves we perceive with every portion of our bodies, and know as heat; the intermediate æther-waves we perceive through a pair of small and special organs—the eyes—and know as light; while the fastest æther-waves we do not perceive at all, except by very roundabout and indirect means.
The reasons for this difference must surely be very striking ones. It seems curious that such similar agencies should be so diversely cognised, or should escape our cognisance altogether. And it is for the purpose of bringing into clear relief so strange a fact that I have chosen what doubtless seemed at first sight an awkward and unfamiliar mode of envisaging a well-known subject. The question why we have two distinct methods for perceiving two closely allied forms of æther-waves, and no method at all for perceiving the third, is a question which evolutionism is bound to answer before it proceeds to the minor discrimination of those lesser differences known as colours.
For when we look at the matter objectively, we see at once that each colour differs from its neighbour in just the same manner as heat differs from light, though only to a less degree. Accordingly, we must ask first, Why are the senses of animals so differently affected by the extremes and the mean of the solar undulations? And when we have answered that question we may go on to the next, How did the various minor undulations of mean rapidity come to have differential sensations attached to them in consciousness?
Fortunately, the answer is not a very difficult one. The slower and more massive undulations, which we know as heat-waves, produce very marked results even upon inorganic bodies, while their effects upon organic matter are obvious and enormously important. To the animal, cold is death and warmth is life. Hence it is not astonishing that animals should very early have developed a sense which informed them of the changes of temperature taking place in their vicinity; and that this sense should have been equally diffused over the whole organism. Æther-waves of slow vibration are capable of setting up motion in the molecules of all bodies upon which they impinge, as we know familiarly when we touch a stone on the summer beach, or grasp a poker which has lain long in front of the fire; and the motion so absorbed we call warmth: while, on the other hand, molecules in rapid motion give up their energy to the surrounding æther, as we also know when a red-hot poker cools, or when we expose our faces to the chilly wind of winter; and the loss of motion so induced we call cold. In either case, the immediate effects are so highly important to animal life, that we may well imagine the accompanying sensations to be amongst the earliest which evolution could have produced. As soon as moving creatures began to feel at all, they probably began to feel heat and cold.
The æther-waves of middle frequency, however, do not produce such plain and universal results. If we interpose a slab of rock-salt in the course of a solar beam, we can sift out of it all the slower undulations (or heat-waves), which are selected and absorbed by the salt itself. On placing our hands in the path of the remaining wavelets, we do not experience any feeling of heat whatsoever. And if we put a piece of inorganic matter—say a pebble—in the course of the sifted ray, we shall find that it is similarly unaffected in temperature or structure. The thermopile conclusively shows us that little or no immediate mechanical power is left in the wavelets which pass through the rock-salt. If we examine the results which these middle undulations produce upon the world at large, we shall arrive at similar conclusions. While to the heat-waves are due the conspicuous differences of summer and winter, ice, snow, and rain, the poles and the tropics, besides the great phenomena of ocean-currents, winds, evaporation, clouds, rainfall, and atmospheric disturbances generally; their companions, the light-waves, scarcely produce any noticeable effects at all. Falling upon the mass of the earth’s surface, they are not, like the slower undulations, absorbed and communicated through the substance on which they impinge, but are reflected and twisted back upon space in every possible direction. Even if they are partially taken in by the matter on which they fall, yet the greater portion of them are returned without effecting any change in its arrangement; and if, as in the case of what we call a black surface, a large number or the whole of them are absorbed and retained, they are yet degraded by the process into the form of heat-waves, from which they cannot be consciously discriminated except by indirect means. These middle waves could not, therefore, prove of any great importance to animal life in its earliest days; and we need not wonder that no sense for their perception was at first developed.
There is one conspicuous exception, however, to this comparative inertness of the light-waves—I mean the case of plants. In their leaves, the middle and quickest ætherial undulations become the agents for effecting great chemical and physical changes, upon which the whole course of mundane life entirely depends. But these facts, all-important in themselves, do not directly affect our present question. Light is essential to animal life, because it is essential to the plants upon which, mediately or immediately, animal life subsists. But a perception or discrimination of light is not at all necessary, except in a very roundabout and derivative way. Why it has arisen at all we may next briefly inquire.
The light-waves falling upon a body do not largely affect it, as a rule, in any way. They may occasionally be employed in bringing about slight changes of its superficial molecules, but they do not penetrate deeply or work conspicuous rearrangements of its whole substance. Nevertheless, the power of discriminating them may indirectly benefit an animal organism. If a jelly-fish, swimming at the water’s top, has eyelets upon which the incident light-waves produce distinct effects, it may be warned of the approaching enemy, or informed of passing prey, by having the path of the æther-waves cut off from above. Still more valuable will the nascent sense become, if, instead of being restricted to the full force of directly incident undulations, it is capable of being impressed by reflected waves. In this case, not only will the creature be conscious of objects passing between it and the source of light, but it will be able to receive varying stimulations from all surrounding objects upon which the light falls. The more highly developed its sight becomes (for we may now use the language of ordinary life without fear of ambiguity), the more clearly will it be affected by the beams which are twisted about and returned upon space from every neighbouring body. Until at last that very fact in the light-waves which made them originally so unimportant—the fact that they glance off every object they hit like a ball rebounding from a wall—gives them, in our eyes, the greatest value, by enabling us to discriminate from a distance the shape and texture of all we see, without the trouble of actual examination by the hands and fingers.
But this specialised sense is hardly likely to spread itself over the whole body, like the sense of heat and cold. Not only should we derive no advantage from being all eye, but we should be positively incommoded rather than benefited by such an arrangement. It will only be in certain special spots or ocelli that the perception of light will probably begin; and as the sense strengthens, we shall find these spots becoming fewer and fewer, until in the approximately perfect organisms they are reduced to the two conspicuous orbs which we commonly call eyes. All such questions, however, must be left over for a while, until we come to examine the development of the rudimentary vision. At present we must hurry on to reach our proper subject—the objective nature of colour.
