FORM AND COLOR IN NATURE. 



BY WILLIAM POTTS. 



THE subject seems a very simple one, but when I place it 

 before me and try to orient myself, the simplicity measurably 

 disappears. I am to deal with something which is both sub- 

 jective and objective, with something which is both cause 

 and effect, with that which is mental and that which is phys- 

 ical. And at the very outset of my exposition I am met with 

 the inquiry, " What is Nature ? " ' 



Should I ask you this question, you would probably reply 

 that I am absurd that I know perfectly well what Nature is ; 

 that it includes, for example, all the birds of the air. Very 

 good ; is a f antail pigeon, then, a part of Nature ? " Cer- 

 tainly," you would probably reply. Then I should say, But a 

 fantail pigeon is simply the result of man's ingenuity in the 

 application of the laws of selection and growth. What is the 

 Sistine Madonna but the result of man's ingenuity in a like 

 application of the laws of chemical and mechanical com- 

 bination ? Is there anything with which you deal which is 

 not a part of Nature ? Is there any power which you apply to 

 that with which you deal which does not come from Nature ? 

 " Even that art which you say adds to Nature is an art that 

 Nature makes." It seems to me not quite so easy a matter 

 arbitrarily to set aside a certain field and say, " This is Na- 

 ture," and another and say, " This is not Nature." 



I want to emphasize this a little in the interest of my mo- 

 nistic philosophy to enter a protest in advance, as it were. I 

 confess in very real earnest that I should not know where to 

 draw the line ; that I should only find myself limited by lack 

 of time and space. I suppose that, in the choice of the sub- 

 ject which has been given me, there was simply embodied an 

 intention to set aside, for future treatment, the arts of paint- 

 ing, sculpture, architecture, etc. I am to speak of such sim- 

 ple matters, for instance, as a flower. Ah ! how easy I 



" Flower in the crannied wall, 



I pluck you out of the crannies 

 Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

 Little flower but if I could understand 



