"And the other point which I want to make is, I think, clearer
still--that the Good of works of Art, that is to say their Beauty,
results from the very principle of their nature, and is not a mere
accident of circumstances."

"Of course," said Leslie, "their Beauty is their only _raison d'etre_?"

"And yet," I went on, "they are still Goods of sense, and so far
resemble the other Goods of which we were speaking before."

"Yes," said Dennis, "but with what a difference! That is the point I
have been waiting to come to."

"What point?" I asked.

"Why," he said, "in the case of what you call Goods of sense, in their
simplest and purest form, making abstraction from all aesthetic
and other elements--as in the example you gave of a cold bath--the
relation of the object to the sense is so simple and direct, that
really, if we were to speak accurately, we should have, I think, to
say, that so far as the perception of Good is concerned the object is
merged in the subject, and what you get is simply a good sensation."

"Perhaps," I agreed, "that is how we ought to put it. But at the time
I did not think it necessary to be so precise."

"But it has become necessary now, I think," he replied, "if we are to
bring out a characteristic of works of Art which will throw light, I
believe, on the general nature of Good."

"What characteristic is that?"

"Why," he replied, "when we come to works of Art, the important thing
is the object, not the subject; if there is any merging of the one in
the other, it is the subject that is merged in the object, not
_vice versa_. We have to contemplate the object, anyhow, as having a
character of its own; and it is to this character that I want to draw
attention."

"In what respect?"

"In respect that every work of Art, and, for that matter, every work
of nature--so far as it can be viewed aesthetically--comprises a number
of elements necessarily connected in a whole; and this necessary
connection is the point on which we ought to insist"

"But necessary how?" asked Wilson. "Do you mean logically necessary?"

"No," he replied, "aesthetically. I mean, that we have a direct
perception that nothing in the work could be omitted or altered
without destroying the whole. This, at any rate, is the ideal; and
it holds, more or less, in proportion as the work is more or less
perfect. Everyone, I suppose, who understands these things would agree
to that."

No one seemed inclined to dispute th