The realistic artist cannot accept the popular belief, whatever that may be, as to just where the dead line on the human body should be drawn that separates the sacred and profane. There are realists that look at all the beauty and loveliness of the world, and all its maladjustments, too, and do not seek to answer the old, old question whether back of this is any all-controlling and designing power; they do not answer, for they cannot know; but they strive to touch the subtle chord that makes their individual lives vibrate in harmony with the great heart of that nature which they love; and they cannot think but that all parts of life are good, and that, while men may differ, nature must know best.
Other realists there are that believe they see in nature the work of a divine maker, who created man in his own image, as the last and highest triumph of his skill; that the minutest portion of the universe exists because he wished it thus. To the realist that accepts this all-controlling power, any imputation against a portion of his master's work must reach back to the author that designed it all.
We need not say that the human body might not be better than it is; we need only to know that it is the best that man can have, and that its wondrous mechanism has been constructed
