Delphi collected works o.., p.677
Delphi Collected Works of Grant Allen, page 677
Who came to seek and save the lost and erring;
Whose voice still speaks: Go thou and do likewise.
Bind up her wounds; pour in them oil and wine;
Wipe from her brimming eyes the dim hot brine;
Hold to her fainting lips one cup of water:
The Master’s little ones are kin of thine.
And if there be among the sons of men
Hearts that would scorn even Christ’s own Magdalen,
Then let them keep their saintly souls unsullied:
But we must do our Father’s work. Amen.
FORGET-ME-NOT
HER soft white hand lay tremulous, clasped in his;
Her soft grey eye with pearly dew was wet:
He said, ‘Though all things else, yet never this
Will I forget.’
He went his way, and seeking his own rest
Forgot love’s little tender, stifled sigh,
Forgot the upheaval of that throbbing breast
Once clasped so nigh.
And bending o’er an unmarked, uncared grave,
Too late for any penance save regret,
He said, ‘The single sin God ne’er forgave
Is, to forget.’
SUNDAY NIGHT AT MABILLE
(SECOND EMPIRE)
GOOD reader, let me preach one short half-hour:
I am no priest; but this is Sunday night;
And if I will, may I not pick a text
From squalid palimpsests laid open here,
To read a pensive sermon to myself,
And, if you will, to you?
Yes, Sunday night,
And here we are at Mabille! All the air
Dances with some droll tune of Offenbach’s,
Whose quaint notes caper round our startled ears
Like frolic imps that skip fantastic reels.
Bright forms are flitting through the shady alleys,
Festooned above with labyrinthine growth;
While from ten thousand jets of coloured flame
Stream floods of light that shame the pale white day.
It seems some vulgar fairyland, this Mabille,
All light and life and merriment: and yet
Our eyes, perchance, bedazzled with its glare,
Behold it steeped in crimson of its lamps,
Too roseate for the solemn thing it is.
But if we come to-morrow, when pale dawn
Lights with chill gleams of dank reality
The desolate walks and broken ends of glass
And dingy pasteboard walls, then shall we know
What manner of place this Mabille is.
Even so With those gay forms that flit through Mabille’s paths
This Sunday night: poor souls, right fair they look,
With bloom of Ninon on each painted cheek;
And easy seems their life to such as judge
By Sunday nights at Mabille. But we know
(Who view their stories by stern light of day)
How white those faces show without the rouge,
How sunk those shrivelled cheeks, how dull those eyes,
How sad those weary lives. Quick, here, at one,
Mimi, this tricksy blonde, whose own fair curls
Shine golden bright among the duller locks
Bought from some Norman head — as I can see
The fair fresh nature of the village maid
Shine bright amid the borrowed nonchalant air
Of these Parisian orgies. Mimi here,
Who looks so pretty and piquante a coquette,
Who flings a cancan with such saucy grace,
Who decks her in such rainbow silks and laces, —
Mimi is dying of the foulest death
That poisons earth.
I’ll light my cigarette,
And then we’ll sink on seats and watch the world,
And break a bottle of St. Peray.
Of old
One told us, ‘The dark places of the earth
Are full of wickedness.’ I am no priest,
But I could read a sermon on that text
(‘Dark places,’ quoth the innocent Hebrew bard!)
Beneath the dazzling lights that flood Mabille
This Sunday night. Ay, ‘full of wickedness,’
And fuller still of misery and pain.
The pulpit preacher, an we had him here,
Could spill cheap vials of wrath upon the heads
Of these poor blighted things that once were women:
But you and I, who know their desolate days
And dreary desolate nights — we who have seen
The white-faced corpses wasted to the bone,
Or laid in marble nakedness at the Morgue
(A sight for whoso dare to stand and gaze) —
We two, who know they find their hell on earth,
Have little need to scare them with a hell
Hotter and redder still to follow this:
And little need to cry ‘‘Ware sin!’ to those
Who know not if indeed it be a sin
To be betrayed by poverty or man
To deepest depths of fathomless despair,
But know at least that shame and scorn and pain
Are bitter morsels.
And these men who chat
So gaily with them, men with lives made bright
By mothers’ love and sisters’, ay, perchance
(Who knows?) and sweethearts’; happy men and young,
Oh, can they deem that they, who would not crush
One shard-mailed creeping thing for very pity,
Are lightly bargaining for women’s lives
And cheapening flesh and blood against champagne?
Good preacher, pour your choicest vial on these!
Y et am I no ascetic: I can spend
My Sunday night at Mabille, and enjoy
My cigarette and bottle of St. Peray
As well as you, good reader: ay, and love
A pretty face; I said I was no priest.
But he who truly loves a pretty face
Finds sight of pretty faces wan with care,
And happy hearts made sick with hope deferred,
And death that slowly creeps and still delays,
The saddest sight that darkens human eyes.
Why have I brought you then to see Mabille
This Sunday night? you ask. — To find my text
And point my sermon. Here you have its gist.
— You tell me we must shut our eyes to all
That turns this gaudy Mabille to a hell,
If we would keep our wives and daughters pure.
So be it: I know not. But if we must hold
So many hearts in anguish and despair,
So many lives that once were blithe and free
In tenfold slavery, to guard the rest
From some slight taint of ill; then, staring round
At all the hapless forms that crowd Mabille,
And knowing all that we have seen and said,
And feeling all this life in need of change,
One question ever rises to my lips,
One question that I scarcely dare to breathe: —
If woman’s virtue cost so much to keep,
Good friend, is woman’s virtue worth the price?
FORECAST AND FULFILMENT
SHE shall be tall and slight; of swanlike mien;
White brow, and melting tints upon her cheek;
Dusk tresses where the nestling sunbeams spread
A liquid halo: but with haughty eyes
And chiselled features of a high-born maid,
Bearing an awesome presence where she treads.
Her dainty lips shall utter ringing words,
High solemn talk of chastened love, and themes
That rouse a nobler swelling in the pulse,
Or quicken every nerve to quiver and leap:
A very queen of women, to rule my life
With royal dignity and royal grace.
Our souls shall dwell above the thoughts of men,
In Fancy’s high demesne; therein shall we
The livelong summer noontide weave sweet dreams,
In some dim alcove, where the crimson light
Through deep-embrasured oriels flickers down
To paint the oaken panels: happy dreams,
In unison of heart, where each may bare
The spirit’s inmost yearning, and in turn
Read its true image in a kindred soul.
No hunger there, nor wish insatiate,
But every chord shall wake a meet response.
So she and I, a single twinfold life,
Shall tread this dull earth with a mellow light
Shed round our happier heads; and, all absorbed
Each in the other, merge our several selves,
Clasped in one long embrace of wedded souls.
So in fantastic mood I idly muse
Beneath the budding chestnuts on the marge,
What time the wan leaves burst their dusky sheaths,
And herald May. Beside, the lazy boats
Glide down the crawling stream with regular dip,
Plashing their mimic ripplets in the flags;
And all around the lilacs’ fragrant mist
Hangs on the stagnant air. But Love stands by,
Smiling to watch the visions that I paint,
And, while my veins beat full with spring and youth,
Works out his own sweet will, his own sweet way.
Small is she, like some jewel; but passing fair;
Eyes soft and blue, wherein does laughter lurk,
And dimpled cheeks and chin. Two smiling lips,
Pout forth sweet, saucy words of petulant love;
And in my hand lies clasped a tiny hand,
So small, ’tis almost pity ’tis so small.
No queen of women she, but my true wife,
Who treads on solid earth, and breathes, and loves,
Even as others breathe and love. Her themes
No lofty phantasies or dreamy shadows,
But winsome words that cheer the wearied heart,
And happy plans for summer afternoon,
Or winter pastime: while her merry eyes
Flash laughter into mine, or, brimmed with mist,
Cast matron shadows on the sobered face,
Yet woo my lips to check the gathering drop.
Around my heart she twines her clinging arms,
And loves, and knows not why, nor doubts for love;
But only knows the world is great and cold,
And turns, and nestles closer by my side,
Secure in supreme faith. But on her lap,
More sweet than all, so love could find more sweet,
A tiny maiden sleeps, and sleeping smiles:
A waxen lily bud, with cheek and chin,
Dimple for dimple: and we watch and smile,
And catch the mutual sunbeams in our eyes;
And two hearts breathe one prayer to loving Heaven,
For Love’s sweet will is wrought his own sweet way.
The Non-Fiction
Allen, c. 1896
The Colour-Sense: Its Origin and Development
AN ESSAY IN COMPARATIVE PSYCHOLOGY.
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
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 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’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.
