roperly employed are "generally short, expressive, and fitted to
correspond with great accuracy to the point which requires to be
illustrated" (pp. liii-liv). Second only to this consideration is that
of color, by which he means tone or emphasis, and here again with a view
toward the overall unity of the passions. It is perhaps worth noting
that both considerations are relevant to Ogilvie's sense of the
imagination as a judicious faculty operating independently of the
reason, but nevertheless obedient to the laws of logical form, organic
relationships, and proper successions, all of which imply an idea of
structure.

Much of the time Ogilvie is occupied with quite familiar and
conventional critical problems. The relation between regularity and
irregularity is one that he particularly stresses, and his resolutions
tend to allow a certain wildness as natural to the imagination, even as
evidence of the faculty. He is, however, more inclined to permit bold
and spirited transitions in the shorter ode than in the longer ode. As
usual Ogilvie's critical principles are related to the nature of the
work in question, and a greater irregularity is natural to the shorter
ode since it presumes the imitation of the passions. But it is important
to recognize that Ogilvie stresses not only the imitation of the
passions, but the exercise of them as well; and the relation between the
one and the other forms at bottom the larger principles on which his
second letter is based. We might wish to say that he has in view the
education of the passions, not merely by imitating them, but, as it
were, by drawing from the reader his own possibilities for sensible
response. It does not at all imply pre-romantic values to suggest that
Ogilvie's criticism is directed toward a frank exploitation of the
reader's emotion. As Maclean makes clear,[3] such interests are hardly
unique to romantic criticism. Bishop Lowth, for example, distinguished
between the internal source and the external source of poetry,
preferring the former because through it the mind is immediately
conscious of itself and its own emotions.[4] Ogilvie does not quite make
the same statement, but his position easily coincides with it; and if,
with John Crowe Ransom,[5] we consider romantic poetry as uniquely
directed toward the exploitation of the feelings, we shall be surprised
by any number of minor eighteenth-century critics who are unabashedly
interested in similar values. Ogilvie's