in matters of literature, is that species of writing which excites contempt with laughter.

The ridiculous, says Lord Kames, differs from the risible. A risible object produces an emotion of laughter merely; a ridiculous object is improper as well as risible, and produces a mixed emotion, which is vented by a laugh of derision or scorn.

Burlesque, though a great engine of ridicule, is not confined to that subject; for it is clearly distinguishable into burlesque that excites laughter merely, and burlesque that provokes derision or ridicule. A grave subject in which there is no impropriety, may be brought down by a certain colouring so as to be risible; which is the case of Virgil's Troades, and also the case of the Secchia Ropata; the authors laugh first, in order to make their readers laugh.

The Lutrin is a burlesque poem of the other sort, laying hold of a low and trifling incident, to expose the luxury, indolence, and contentious spirit of a set of monks. Boileau, the author, gives a ridiculous air to the subject, by dressing it in the heroic style, and affecting to consider it as of the utmost dignity and importance. In a composition of this kind, no image professedly ludicrous ought to find quarter, because such images destroy the contrast; and accordingly the author shows always the grave face, and never once betrays a smile.

Though the burlesque that aims at ridicule produces its effects by elevating the style far above the subject, yet it has limits beyond which the elevation ought not to be carried. The poet, consulting the imagination of his readers, ought to confine himself to such images as are lively and readily apprehended; a strained elevation, soaring above an ordinary reach of fancy, makes not a pleasant impression. The reader, fatigued with being always upon the stretch, is soon disgusted; and if he persevere, becomes thoughtless and indifferent. Further, a fiction gives no pleasure unless it be painted in colours so lively as to produce some perception of reality; which never can be done effectually where the images are formed with labour or difficulty. For these reasons, we cannot avoid condemning the Batrachomyomachia, said to be the composition of Homer: it is beyond the power of imagination to form a clear and lively image of frogs and mice acting with the dignity of the highest of our species; nor can we form a conception of the reality of such an action, in any manner so distinct as to interest our affections even in the slightest degree.

The Rape of the Lock is of a character clearly distinguishable from those now mentioned; it is not properly a burlesque performance, but what may rather be termed an heron-comical poem; it treats a gay and familiar subject with pleasantry, and with a moderate degree of dignity. The author puts not on a mask like Boileau, nor professes to make us laugh like Tasso. The Rape of the Lock is a genteel species of writing, less strained than those mentioned; and is pleasant or ludicrous without having ridicule for its chief aim; giving way, however, to ridicule, where it naturally arises from a particular character, such as that of Sir Plume.

Those who have a talent for ridicule, which is seldom united with a taste for delicate and refined beauties, are quick-sighted in improprieties; and these they eagerly grasp, in order to gratify their favourite propensity. Persons galled are provoked to maintain that ridicule is improper for grave subjects. Subjects really grave are by no means fit for ridicule; but then it is urged against them, that, when called in question whether a certain subject be really grave, ridicule is the only means of determining the controversy. Hence a celebrated question, whether ridicule be or be not a test of truth.

On one side it is observed that the objects of ridicule are falsehood, incongruity, impropriety, or turpitude of certain kinds; but as the object of every excited passion must be examined by reason before we can determine whether it be proper or improper, so ridicule must, apparently at least, establish the truth of the improprieties designed to excite the passion of contempt. Hence it comes in aid of argument and reason, when its impressions on the imagination are consistent with the nature of things; but when it strikes the fancy and affections with fictitious images, it becomes the instrument of deceit. But however ridicule may impress the idea of apparent turpitude or falsehood in the imagination, yet still reason remains the supreme judge; and thus ridicule can never be the final test or touchstone of truth and falsehood.

On the other side, it is contended that ridicule is not a subject of reasoning, but of sense or taste. Stating the question, then, in more accurate terms, whether the sense of ridicule be the proper test for distinguishing ridiculous objects from what are not so, they proceed thus. No person doubts that our sense of beauty is the true test of what is beautiful; and our sense of grandeur, of what is great or sublime. Is it more doubtful whether our sense of ridicule be the true test of what is ridiculous? It is not only the true test, but indeed the only test; for this subject comes not, more than beauty or grandeur, under the province of reason. If any subject, by the influence of fashion or custom, have acquired a degree of veneration to which it is not naturally entitled, what are the proper means for wiping off the artificial colouring, and displaying the subject in its true light? A man of true taste sees the subject without the disguise; but if we hesitate, let him apply the test of ridicule, which separates it from its artificial connections, and exposes it naked with all its native improprieties.