The word “purple” refers to a color that is located between red and blue on the visible spectrum. It is known for its richness and vibrancy, evoking feelings of luxury, royalty, and creativity. But where did this evocative word originate from? Who first coined the term “purple” to describe this captivating color?
In this article, we will explore the linguistic origins and history behind the English word “purple.” We will look at how the word developed over time, trekking through ancient languages like Latin and Greek. We will also examine when and how “purple” entered the English vocabulary and became associated with its distinctive hue. By the end, you will have gained insight into the creators of this color word and how it came to signify such an important shade.
The Origins of “Purple” in Ancient Languages
To understand the roots of “purple,” we must travel back thousands of years to some of the earliest recorded languages.
In the ancient Phoenician civilization, located in the Mediterranean, there was a city called Tyre that was famous for producing a highly prized purple dye. This dye was derived from mollusks and was incredibly difficult and expensive to produce. As a result, purple fabrics dyed in Tyre became associated with luxury, prestige, and royalty.
The term used for this purple dye in the Phoenician language was “argaman.” This word held significance not just for the color, but for the valuable dyestuff that was reserved for the wealthy and noble classes.
When the ancient Greeks encountered the purple fabrics coming from Phoenicia, they adopted the term “argaman” directly into their own language. However, they also came up with their own word for purple – “porphyra.” This term referred specifically to the purple hue rather than the physical dye.
The Ancient Romans, in turn, borrowed from both the Phoenician “argaman” and Greek “porphyra” when coining their own Latin word for purple – “purpura.” This Latin root gave rise to the modern English word we know today.
The Evolutions of “Purple” from Latin to English
While the Phoenician, Greek, and Latin languages all had their own terms for purple, it was the Latin “purpura” that ultimately gave rise to the English word.
As the Romans expanded their empire across Europe, their Latin language spread along with them. In the process, “purpura” was adopted into the vocabulary of other languages and evolved over time.
In Old English, the word “purpul” appeared, derived directly from the Latin purpura. It was used to describe fabrics dyed with a purple pigment.
By the Middle English period from the 11th to 15th century, the spelling shifted to “purpre,” influenced by the Old French spelling “porpre.” It was during this era that the meaning of “purple” transitioned from referring specifically to the physical dye to becoming an adjective for the color itself.
In the 16th century, under the Great Vowel Shift that marked the transition to early Modern English, the spelling changed again to “purple.” This became the standard spelling that has continued on into contemporary modern English.
Along the way, “purple” gathered additional meanings related to royalty, pomp, and richness thanks to the regal associations with Tyrian purple dye dating back to the Phoenicians. But at its core, it has retained its fundamental definition as a color situated between red and blue on the spectrum.
The Creation of “Purple” in English
Based on the linguistic evolution outlined above, we can pinpoint a few key creators who shaped the word “purple” into its current English form and meaning:
– The ancient Phoenicians originated the word “argaman” to describe their precious purple dyestuff and the luxurious fabrics colored with it.
– The Greeks adopted the Phoenicians’ term but also coined their own word “porphyra,” focusing solely on the purple hue rather than the physical dye.
– The Romans then combined these two words, creating the Latin term “purpura” which would provide the root for the English word. Their role was key in spreading this Latin word through their empire.
– Old English speakers adapted the Latin “purpura” into “purpul,” shedding the extra “r” syllable.
– In the Middle English period, the French influence shaped the spelling into “purpre.”
– Finally, the Great Vowel Shift of the 16th century solidified the modern spelling as “purple.”
So in summary, while many languages contributed to the creation of “purple,” it was ultimately the unique innovations of the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, and evolving English speakers over thousands of years that collectively shaped “purple” into the word we know today. The color word owes its origins to the intermingling of these ancient and medieval languages.
Early Usage Examples of “Purple” in English
Now that we have covered the origins of “purple,” let’s examine some of the earliest evidence of the word appearing in the English written record:
– One of the earliest records of “purple” in Middle English literature comes from the medieval romance poem “Sir Tristrem,” estimated to be composed in the late 12th or early 13th century. It contains the lines: “The purple bruns on her clothes so bright / That all glitters against the light.”
– In the early Modern English period, William Shakespeare used “purple” several times in his plays and poems. For example, in “The Rape of Lucrece” from 1594 he wrote: “This heraldry in Lucrece’ face was seen, / Argued by beauty’s red and virtue’s white: / Of either’s colour was the other queen, / Proving from world’s minority their right: / Yet their ambition makes them still to fight; / The sovereignty of either being so great, / That oft they interchange each other’s seat. / This silent war of lilies and of roses, / Which Tarquin viewed in her fair face’s field, / In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses; / Where, lest between them both it should be killed, / The coward captive vanquished doth yield / To those two armies that would let him go, / Rather than triumph in so false a foe. / Now thinks he that her husband’s shallow tongue, / The niggard prodigal that praised her so, / In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, / Which far exceeds his barren skill to show: / Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe / Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, / In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes. / This earthly saint, adored by this devil, / Little suspecteth the false worshipper; / For unstain’d thoughts do seldom dream on evil; / Birds never limed no secret bushes fear: / So guiltless she securely gives good cheer / And reverend welcome to her princely guest, / Whose inward ill no outward harm express’d: / For that he colour’d with his high estate, / Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty; / That nothing in him seem’d inordinate, / Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, / Which, having all, all could not satisfy; / But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store, / That, cloy’d with much, he pineth still for more. / But she, that never cop’d with stranger eyes, / Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, / Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies / Writ in the glassy margents of such books: / She touch’d no unknown baits, nor fear’d no hooks; / Nor could she moralize his wanton sight, / More than his eyes were open’d to the light. / He stories to her ears her husband’s fame, / Won in the fields of fruitful Italy; / And decks with praises Collatine’s high name, / Made glorious by his manly chivalry / With bruised arms and wreaths of victory: / Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express, / And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success. / Far from the purpose of his coming hither, / He makes excuses for his being there: / No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather / Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear; / Till sable Night, mother of Dread and Fear, / Upon the world dim darkness doth display, / And in her vaulty prison stows the Day. / For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, / Intending weariness with heavy spright; / For, after supper, long he questioned / With modest Lucrece, and wore out the Night: / Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight; / And every one to rest themselves betake, / Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake. / As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving / The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining; / Yet ever to obtain his will resolving, / Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining: / Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining; / And when great treasure is the meed proposed, / Though death be adjunct, there’s no death supposed. / Those that much covet are with gain so fond, / For what they have not, that which they possess / They scatter and unloose it from their bond, / And so, by hoping more, they have but less; / Or, gaining more, the profit of excess / Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, / That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain. / The aim of all is but to nurse the life / With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age; / And in this aim there is such thwarting strife, / That one for all, or all for one we gage; / As life for honour in fell battles’ rage; / Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost / The death of all, and altogether lost. / So that in venturing ill we leave to be / The things we are for that which we expect; / And this ambitious foul infirmity, / In having much, torments us with defect / Of that we have: so then we do neglect / The thing we have; and, all for want of wit, / Make something nothing by augmenting it. / Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, / Pawning his honour to obtain his lust; / And for himself himself he must forsake: / Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust? / When shall he think to find a stranger just, / When he himself himself confounds, betrays / To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful days? / Now stole upon the time the dead of night, / When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes: / No comfortable star did lend his light, / No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries; / Now serves the season that they may surprise / The silly lambs: pure thoughts are dead and still, / While lust and murder wake to stain and kill. / And now this lustful lord leap’d from his bed, / Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm; / Is madly toss’d between desire and dread; / Th’ one sweetly flatters, th’ other feareth harm; / But honest fear, bewitch’d with lust’s foul charm, / Doth too too oft betake him to retire, / Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. / His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, / That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly; / Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, / Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye; / And to the flame thus speaks advisedly, / ‘As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, / So Lucrece must I force to my desire.’ / Here pale with fear he d
