We have already remarked that our range of vision is comparatively narrow, the extreme portions of the spectrum making no impression on the retina. But we have no reason to think that these limits have been the same in all ages. The evidence would rather tend to show that the human eye is undergoing a slow and gradual development, which enables it to distinguish between colours which the ancients regarded as identical, and may in future render it able to perceive some portions at least of the parts of the spectrum which are now invisible. The Vedas of India, which are among the most ancient writings known, attest that in the most remote ages only white and black could be distinguished.
It would seem as if the perception of different degrees of intensity of light preceded by a long time the appreciation of various kinds of colours. After weighing the evidence, Magnus has come to the conclusion that red was the first colour to become visible, then yellow and orange; and afterwards, though at a considerable interval, green, blue, and violet in order. Various passages in the Old Testament have been cited as proof that the ancients failed to perceive all the colours seen by us, one of the most remarkable being in Ezekiel i. 27 and 28, where the prophet compares the appearance of the brightness round about the fire to that of the ‘bow that is in the cloud in the day of rain’—which passage has been cited by Mr Gladstone in his article in the Nineteenth Century for October 1877, as indicating a want of appreciation of distinct colours among the ancients. This is not quite clear, however, as the appearance round about the supernatural fire might have assumed auroral or rainbow tints. But the most important evidence on the apparent want of capacity among the ancients to discriminate between colours is that afforded by the writings of Homer, who, in the opinion of Magnus, could neither have perceived green nor blue. The point has been carefully examined by Mr Gladstone, who comes to the conclusion that this estimate is quite within the mark. Inquiring in detail into each of Homer’s colour-epithets, he shows that almost all must be in reality regarded as expressing degrees of intensity rather than of quality, and that the few exceptions are all confined to red and yellow. The brilliant blue sky of the southern climes where Homer lived must have appeared to him as of a neutral gray hue. Of course, the suggestion that the writings usually assigned to Homer were in reality the productions of many authors, does not invalidate the reasoning at all, as we do not attribute any defect in vision to the poet which was not equally manifested by his contemporaries.
It is curious that the distinction between green and blue is not yet perfectly developed in all nations. Travellers tell us that the Burmese often confuse these colours in a remarkable manner. This and other facts suggest that the development of the colour-sense is not yet completed; and that in the future our range of perception may be still further enlarged, so that the now invisible rays may be recognised by the eye as distinct colours.
‘SO UNREASONABLE OF STEP-MOTHER!’
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.
Not long before the death of George Eliot, on a return trip to London by the Midland route, I broke my journey at Leicester, to pay a flying visit to Coventry, where the great writer had spent many of her happiest days. There I was privileged by having for escort one of her most valued friends; and many interesting reminiscences were for our benefit called to mind, especially of a visit paid to Edinburgh, ‘mine own romantic town,’ and of the impression the beauty of its situation had made on her mind. Next morning, every favourite haunt of hers was searched out and commented on, as well as the interesting points of the quaint old city of Coventry; and bidding good-bye to our hospitable friends, I departed alone by the evening mail for Leicester, there to wait for the midnight train to Edinburgh, feeling satisfied that the hours had been well spent. Arrived in Leicester, I was fortunate in finding a fellow-countryman in one of the porters, who at once took me and my belongings under his especial protection, and when he had seen me comfortably ‘happit up’ on one of the sofas of the luxurious waiting-room, he retired, bidding me take a quiet forty winks, and keep my mind quite easy, for he would give me timely notice of the arrival of the Scotch train. Scarcely had I begun to feel the loneliness of my situation, when the door opened, and a female figure entered, rather unwilling, apparently; nay, seemed to be pushed in, while a deep male voice advised that she should rest by the fire, and not put herself about so. By a succession of jerks, she advanced to the chair by the fire opposite to my sofa; and finding that I was not asleep, as she had supposed, at once, and without any circumlocution, began to unburden her mind, her words flowing from her mouth at express speed, regardless of comma or full stop.
‘Not put myself about! Humph! That’s so like men.—Ain’t it now, miss? Ah, I dessay you’ve ’ad your own share of worriting before now, and know ’ow downright masterful and provoking they can be at times. I tell you w’at, miss, if you want to be at peace at all, you’ve got to say black is w’ite, if they ’ave a mind that it should be so.—Not put myself about! I’d like to know ’ow one with a ’eart and a soul in their body could ’elp being put about, as I am.’
I ventured to hope nothing serious had occurred to disturb her composure or to put her about, my voice at once disclosing that I hailed from the North, and also that I was of a sympathetic nature.
‘Put about!’ she once more exclaimed. ‘Why, I am put about; yes—no use trying to appear as if I was anything else. Yes; only think, miss! Not ’alf an hour gone, a telegram was brought to our ’ouse by the telegraph-boy. His mother, a widow, keeps a little bit of a shop not many doors from our own. Yes; he ’ands it in saying it was for father. I opened it; and there, staring me right in the eyes were them words: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.”—Not put about! I’d just like to know ’ow anybody could ’ave been anything else than put about, after that. Now, miss, you must understand that John—that’s my ’usband—is a great go-to-meeting-man. Why, at that very moment he might be at the church meeting, or he might ’ave been at the Building meeting, or he might ’ave been at a Masonic meeting, or he might ’ave been at any other meeting under the sun. And w’atever was I to do? for there was the telegraph-boy; there was the telegram, with the words as plain as plain: “Step-mother is lying a-dying.” I put on my bonnet and shawl; I ’urried to father’s office—he is a master-builder, is father, with sixteen men under him and three apprentices; and John, my son, for partner. I rushed in quite out of breath, not expecting to find any one there at that time of night; but there I found John—that’s my son—and says I, without taking time to sit down, though I was like to drop: “John, w’atever is to be done! Here’s a telegraph-boy has brought a telegram for father to say, step-mother is a-dying.’”