Now there is Edgar Degas,--and it is a curious reflection that in comparison with the work of this pessimist genius who has deliberately brought cynicism to bear upon the female nude, photographs purporting (over their sneer) to be reflections of beauty, give by far the most distressing impression. In the painful realization that they have a kind of truth beyond human art these abominable humbugs are a kind of art. What (you exclaimed) was Schopenhauer's remark about the clouded intellect of _man_ which could give the name of the "fair sex" to "that under-sized, narrow-shouldered, broad-hipped, knock-kneed race"? It may be a long "drive," but it strikes you as a thoughtful observer that there is some biological analogy between "art photographs" and the photographs, to be seen in travel books, of native African women. What a philosopher the camera is! The French savant was very probably contemplating the photograph of some member of a savage tribe when he wrote, in "The Garden of Epicurus" (addressing modern ladies): "But never think too highly of yourselves, my sisters; you were not, at your first appearance in the world, perfect and fully armed. Your grandmothers in the days of the mammoth and the giant bear did not wield the same dominion over the prehistoric hunters and cave-men which you possess over us. You were useful then, and necessary, but you were not invincible. To tell the truth, in those far-off ages, and for long afterwards, you lacked charm. In those days you were like men, and men were like brutes. To make of you the fearful and wonderful thing you are today--veils: the Empire, crinoline, décolleté, tube, pannier." And, the sexless camera explains, the poetry of man. CHAPTER XXV I KNOW AN EDITOR I know a young woman--a very handsome young woman she is, too. (I have a decided penchant for handsome young women.) But that is beside the point. As I was about to say (when a pleasant but an extraneous idea interrupted me): this young woman the other day took her young husband by the hand and conducted him to the offices of a publisher. Here she mounted him upon a chair (very much, I fancy, as though the child were about to have his hair cut), and she said to the barber--I mean she said to the editor, with whom she had some acquaintance--she said: "This is my husband. He is just out of the army. I have brought him in to have his head shingled"---- No, no! that isn't what she said; I am getting my wires crossed. She said, "I have brought him in to get him a position here." Said the editor, "What would your son, I mean your husband, like to do?" "I want him," replied the young woman, "to be an editor." "Has he ever been an editor?" inquired the editor kindly, as he admired the shape of the young woman's nose. "No," she answered, stroking his hand (the hand, that is, of her husband), "why, no."