Not much, perhaps; not enough, certainly; yet still something.
For what are the aesthetic emotions about which we have been occupied in these pages? They are the highest members of a great class whose common characteristic is that they do not lead to action. It is their peculiarity and their glory that they have nothing to do with business, with the adaptation of means to ends, with the bustle and the dust of life. They are unpractical and purposeless. They serve no interest, and further no cause. They are self-sufficing, and neither point to any good beyond themselves, nor overflow except by accident into any practical activities.
This statement is no doubt open to many misunderstandings. I will mention some, though I will not dwell on them. It may be said, for instance, that the description is incomplete in that it refers only to those who enjoy works of art, not those who create them. It deals with readers, not authors; hearers, not musicians; those who look at pictures, not those who paint them. This is true, but is surely no objection. I am concerned here with the criticism of beauty—not with its production. These are separate matters, and should be separately considered.
Again, it may be asked—how can aesthetic feel-
