rule, that it is the faults of others that make us laugh, provided we add that they make us laugh by reason of their unsociability rather than of their immorality. What, then, are the faults capable of becoming ludicrous, and in what circumstances do we regard them as being too serious to be laughed at?
We have already given an implicit answer to this question. The comic, we said, appeals to the intelligence, pure and simple; laughter is incompatible with emotion. Depict some fault, however trifling, in such a way as to arouse sympathy, fear, or pity; the mischief is done, it is impossible for us to laugh. On the other hand, take a downright vice,—even one that is, generally speaking, of an odious nature,—you may make it ludicrous if, by some suitable contrivance, you arrange so that it leaves our emotions unaffected. Not that the vice must then be ludicrous, but it may, from that time forth, become so. It must not arouse our feelings; that is the sole condition really necessary, though assuredly it is not sufficient.
But, then, how will the comic poet set to work to prevent our feelings being moved? The question is an embarrassing one. To
