Color (n.) as a genus says nothing about what white and red share, only the way they get into the mind, through the eyes.
Color (n.) and shape are so presumptive of species that in a good picture we say "a lion," "a rose," "a gold goblet" from nothing but the pencil's figures and tints.
Color (n.) is, in the body itself, only a certain bulk, figure and motion of insensible parts: what is blue in idea is nothing blue out there.
Color (n.) vanishes the moment no eye sees it: stop every sense, and all colours, tastes, odours and sounds cease and shrink back into bulk, figure and motion of parts.
Color (n.) leaves porphyry in the dark; the stone has no colour at night, only a texture that can produce red and white when light rebounds from it.
Color (n.) has no conceivable connexion with any size, figure or motion of particles — we cannot even imagine how any motion could produce yellow, sweetness or a sharp sound.
Color (n.) of a body tells us nothing certain of its smell, taste, sound or touch: no two secondary qualities can be known to go necessarily together.
Color (n.) is as much a mere power as opium's power to make us sleep — the yellow is no more in the gold than the sleep is in the poppy.
Color (n.) and the shining of bodies are probably nothing in them but the arrangement and refraction of their insensible parts, as velvet and watered silk suggest.
Color (n.) might look entirely different in another person's mind, yet he would sort things by it and name them as reliably as if it looked the same.