for the last three or four years, has been rapidly attaining
and this, evidently, with no effort at attaining it. She seems,
fact, to have no object in view beyond that of giving voice to the
or to the feelings of the moment. "Necessity," says the proverb,
"is the mother of Invention;" and the invention of Mrs. O., at least,
plainly from necessity — from the necessity of invention. Not
to write poetry — not to act it, think it, dream it, and be it, is
out of her power.
It may be
with more industry, more method, more definite purpose, more ambition,
Mrs. Osgood would have made a more decided impression on the public
She might, upon the whole, have written better poems; but the chances
that she would have failed in conveying so vivid and so just an idea of
her powers as poet. The warm abandonnement of her style-that
which now so captivates-is but a portion and a consequence of her
nature-of her disregard of mere fame; but it affords us glimpses, which
we could not otherwise have obtained, of a capacity for accomplishing
she has not accomplished, and in all probability never will. In the
of poetry, however, there is already more than enough of uncongenial
Mrs. Osgood has
taken no care
whatever of her literary fame. A great number of her finest
both in verse and prose, have been written anonymously, and are now
perdus about the country, in out-of-the way nooks and corners. Many a
reputation has been reared upon a far more unstable basis than her
and uncollected "fugitive pieces."
volume, I believe,
was published, seven or eight years ago, by Edward Churton, of London,
during the residence of the poetess in that city. I have now lying
me a second edition of it, dated 1842 — a beautifully printed book,
to the Reverend Hobart Caunter. It contains a number of what the
call "juvenile"' poems, written when Mrs. O., (then Miss Locke,) could
not have been more than thirteen, and evincing unusual precocity. The
piece is "Elfrida, a Dramatic Poem," but in many respects well entitled
to the appellation, "drama." I allude chiefly to the passionate
of particular portions, to delineation of character, and to occasional
scenic effect: — in construction, or plot — in [back
page:] — general conduct and
the play fails; comparatively, of course — for the hand of genius is
The story is
the well known
one of Edgar, Elfrida, and Earl Athelwood. The king, hearing of
extraordinary beauty, commissions his favorite, Athelwood, to visit her
and ascertain if report speaks truly of her charms. The earl, becoming
himself enamored, represents the lady as anything but beautiful or
The king is satisfied. Athelwood soon afterward woos and weds Elfrida —
giving Edgarto understand that the heiress' wealth is the object. The
state of the case, however, is betrayed by an enemy; and the monarch
to visit the earl at his castle and to judge for himself. Hearing of
resolve, Athelwood, in despair, confesses to his wife his duplicity,
entreats her to render null as far as possible the effect of her charms
by dressing with unusual plainness. This the wife promises to do; but,
fired with ambition and resentment at the wrong done her, arrays
in her most magnificent and becoming costume. The king is charmed, and
the result is the destruction of Athelwood and the elevation of Elfrida
to the throne.
are well adapted
to dramatic purposes, and with more of that art which Mrs. Osgood does
not possess, she might have woven them into a tragedy which the world
not willingly let die. As it is, she has merely succeeded in showing
she might, should and could have done, and yet, unhappily, did not.
of Elfrida is
the bright point of the play. Her beauty and consciousness of it her
and uncompromising ambition are depicted with power. There is a fine
of the poetry of passion and the passion of poetry, in the lines which
— — Why even now he bends
Very similar, but
even more glowing,
is the love-inspired eloquence of Edgar.
reverence to some mincing
Haply the star of
While I, with this
high heart and
Pine in neglect and
Shall I not rend my
Ay!-be the cooing
Safe in her own
On restless plumes
to meet the
And Edgar is my
day-star in whose
light [end of fragment]
proud wings shall
yet be furled to rest.
Why wedded I with
No — ; even at the
altar when I
My hand in his, his
gaze upon my
I did forget his
presence and the
A gorgeous vision
rose before mine
Of power and pomp
and regal pageantry;
A king was at my
feet and, as he
I smiled and,
turning, met — a
But still I smiled
— for in my
I blessed him as
the being by whose
I should be brought
within my idol's
Well I remember
when these wondering
first. I was a maiden
A dreaming child
— but from
that thrilling hour
I've been a
queen in visions!
language, love, befitting thee.
To this Elfrida
For its own
children it hath
And mortals know
to call a blossom
graceful, and a jewel
But thou! — oh,
teach me, sweet,
the angel tongue
They talked in
Heaven ere thou
didst leave its bowers
To bloom below!
If Athelwood should hear thee!
And to this, Edgar:
the felon knave
to me, Elfrida!
The answer of Elfrida at this point
true to nature, and would alone suffice to assure any critic of Mrs.
My soul is flame
whene'er I think
Thou lovest him
not? — oh, say
thou dost not love him!
but a child I saw thee in my dreams!
The woman's soul
from the direct avowal of want of love for her husband, and flies to
and appeals to fate, by way of excusing that infidelity which is at
her glory and her shame.
In general, the
of "Elfrida" are improbable or ultra-romantic, and its incidents
seldom furthering the business of the play. The denouement is feeble,
its moral of very equivocal tendency indeed — but I have already shown
that it is the especial office neither of poetry nor of the drama, to
truth, unless incidentally. Mrs. Osgood, however, although she has
failed in writing a good play, has, even in failing, given indication
dramatic power. The great tragic element, passion, breathes in every
of her composition, and had she but the art, or the patience, to model
or control it, she might be eminently successful as a playwright. I am
justified in these opinions not only by "Elfrida," but by "Woman's
a Dramatic Sketch," included, also, in the English edition.
A Masked Ball. Madelon
and a Stranger
in a Recess.
Mad — Why hast thou led me
My friends may deem it strange —
This lonely converse with an unknown
Yet in thy voice there is a thrilling
That makes me love to linger. It is
The tone of one far distant-only his
Was gayer and more soft.
Say thou wilt smile upon the
That thou alone canst waken! Let me
Mad. — Hush! hush! I may
not hear thee.
Know'st thou not I am betrothed?
Strang. — Alas! too well I
But I could tell thee such a tale of
Thine early love — 'twould fire those
With lightning pride and anger — curl
[[Here begins MS fragment
That gentle lip to passionate contempt
For man's light falsehood. Even now he bends —
Thy Rupert bends o'er one as fair as thou,
In fond affection. Even now his heart —
Mad. — Doth my eye flash? — doth my lip curl with
'Tis scorn of thee, thou perjured stranger, not —
Oh, not of him, the generous and the true!
Hast thou e'er seen my Rupert? — hast thou met
Those proud and fearless eyes that never quailed,
As Falsehood quails, before another's glance —
As thine even now are shrinking from mine own —
The spirit beauty of that open brow —
The noble head — the free and gallant step —
The lofty mien whose majesty is won
From inborn honor — hast thou seen all this?
And darest thou speak of faithlessness and him
In the same idle breath? Thou little know'st
The strong confiding of a woman's heart,
When woman loves as — I do. Speak no more!
Strang. — Deluded girl! I tell thee he is false —
False as yon fleeting cloud!
True as the sun!
Strang. — The very wind less wayward than his
Mad. — The forest oak less firm! He loved me not
For the frail rose-hues and the fleeting light
Of youthful loveliness — ah, many a cheek
Of softer bloom, and many a dazzling eye
More rich than mine may win my wanderer's gaze.
He loved me for my love, the deep, the fond —
For my unfaltering truth; he cannot find —
Rove where he will — a heart that beats for him [back
With such intense, absorbing tenderness —
Such idolizing constancy as mine.
Why should he change, then? — I am still the same.
Strang. — Sweet infidel! wilt thou have ruder
Rememberest thou a little golden case
Thy Rupert wore, in which a gem was shrined?
A gem I would not barter for a world —
An angel face: — its sunny wealth of hair
In radiant ripples bathed the graceful throat
And dimpled shoulders; round the rosy curve
Of the sweet mouth a smile seemed wandering ever;
While in the depths of azure fire that gleamed
Beneath the drooping lashes, slept a world
Of eloquent meaning, passionate yet pure —
Dreamy — subdued — but oh, how beautiful!
A look of timid, pleading tenderness
That should have been a talisman to charm
His restless heart for aye. Rememberest thou?
Mad. — (impatiently) I do — I do remember
— 'twas my own.
He prized it as his life-I gave it himWhat of it!-speak!
Strang. — (showing a miniature) Lady, behold that
Mad — (clasping her hands) Merciful Heaven! is my
(After a pause, during which she seems overwhelmed
How died he? — when? — oh, thou wast by his side
In that last hour and I was far away!
My blessed love!-give me that token! — speak!
What message sent he to his Madelon?
Strang. — ( Supporting her and strongly
He is not dead, dear lady!-grieve not thus!
[[Here ends MS fragment 1.]]
Mad. — He is not false, sir
For thy sake,
Would he were worthier! One other
I'll give thee, loveliest! if thou
I'll not believe thee woman. Listen,
A faithful lover breathes not of his
To other ears. Wilt hear a fable,
stranger details some
incidents of the first wooing of Madelon by Rupert, and concludes with,
Lady, my task is o'er-dost doubt me still?
thee, my Rupert!
ah, I know thee now.
The "Miscellaneous Poems" of the
volume — many of
them written in childhood — are, of course, various in character and
"The Dying Rosebud's Lament," although by no means one of the best,
very well serve to show the earlier and most characteristic manner of
Fling by that hateful mask! — let me unclasp it!
No! thou wouldst not betray thy Madelon.
Ah, me! — ah wo is me
reader will agree
with me that few things have ever been written (by any poet, at any
more delicately fanciful than the passages italicised — and yet they
the work of a girl not more than fourteen years of age. The clearness
force of expression, and the nice appositeness of the overt and
meaning, are, when we consider the youth of the writer, even more
than the fancy.
That I should
With the dear sunlight just let
Upon my balmy
My leaves, instinct with
quivering to unclose:
My happy heart with love was
I was almost
Nerved by a hope, warm, rich,
Already I had
Above my cage's curving fence
My green and
My pouting lips, by Zephyr
prepared to part
And whisper to the wooing wind
of my heart.
In new-born fancies revelling,
My mossy cell
Each thrilling leaflet seemed a
To bear me
How oft, while yet an
cheek I've laid
Against the green bars of my
And, pressing up and peeping
Its small but
Sighed for the lovely light and
my elder sisters.
I saw the sweet breeze
that loved the
Though the light thief stole all
Of dew-drop gems
I thought how happy I should be
wreaths to wear,
And frolic with a rose's glee
bird and air.
Ah, me! — ah, wo is me, that I,
Ere yet my
With all my wealth of sweets must
Before I am a
I cannot speak
of Mrs. Osgood's
poems without a strong propensity to ring the changes upon the
word "grace" and its derivatives. About every thing she writes we
this indescribable charm-of which, perhaps, the elements are a vivid
and a quick sense of the proportionate. Grace, however, may be most
defined as " a term applied, in despair, to that class of the
of Beauty which admit of no analysis." It is in this irresoluble effect
that Mrs. Osgood excels any poetess of her country — and it is to this
easily appreciable effect that her popularity is owing. Nor is she more
graceful herself than a lover of the graceful, under whatever guise it
is presented to her consideration. The sentiment renders itself
in innumerable instances, as well throughout her prose as her poetry.
be her theme, she at once extorts from it its whole essentiality of
Fanny Ellsler has been often lauded; true poets have sung her praises;
but we look in vain for anything written about her, which so distinctly
and vividly paints her to the eye as the half dozen quatrains which
They are to be found in the English volume:
? — the spirit
of the dance!
This is, indeed,
poetry — and
of the most unquestionable kind-poetry truthful in the proper
is to say, breathing of Nature. There is here nothing forced or
hardly sustained enthusiasm. The poetess speaks be cause she feels, and
what she feels; but then what she feels is felt only by the truly
The thought in the last line of the quatrain will not be so fully
by the reader as it should be; for latterly it has been imitated,
repeated ad infinitum: — but the other passages italicized have still
them all their original effect. The idea in the two last lines is
naive and natural; that in the two last lines of the second quatrain,
beyond measure; that of the whole fifth quatrain, magnificent —
in the entire compass of American poetry. It is instinct with the
poetical requisite — imagination. Of the same trait I find, to my
one of the best exemplifications among the "Juvenile Rhymes."
And but for
those large, eloquent eyes,
speaks in every glance,
She'd seem a
wanderer from the skies.
So light that, gazing
celestial dream should go,
You'd think the
music in the
fair vision to and fro,
Or think the
melody's sweet flow
radiant creature played,
And those soft
sylph feet the music made.
Now gliding slow
with dreamy grace,
Her eyes beneath
their lashes lost,
with lifted face,
And small hands
on her bosom crossed.
And now with
flashing eyes she
bright figure raised in air,
As if her soul
had spread its
her one wild instant there!
She spoke not —
but, so richly fraught
are her glance and smile,
That, when the
She had been
talking all the while.
is a fairy that
[[Here begins MS fragment 2:]]
Ever, the melody of
And see all lovely
She drew a
picture of a beauteous
With plumes of
and gold inwoven,
its beloved resting
in vain hope
from tree to tree,
And bade us
think how, like
it, the sweet season
From one bright
shelter to another
First from the
maple waved her
still upon the
oak and elm,
by rude breezes
even from them,
sigh she moaned
her sad farewell.
The little poem called "The Music
Box" has been as
widely circulated as any of Mrs. Osgood's compositions — but I will be
pardoned for quoting it in farther exemplification of her ruling
Your heart is a music-box, dearest,
The melody and harmony of this jeu d'esprit are
and there is in it a rich tint of that epigrammatism for which the
is noted. Some of the intentional epigrams interspersed through
works are peculiarly happy. Here is one which, while replete with the
"spirit of point," is yet something more than pointed.
With exquisite tunes at command
Of melody sweetest and clearest
If tried by a delicate hand;
But its workmanship, love, is so fine,
At a single rude touch it would break;
Then oh, be the magic key mine
Its fairy-like whispers to wake!
And there's one little tune it can play
That I fancy all others above —
You learned it of Cupid one day —
It begins with and ends with "I love — " I love"
It begins with and ends with "I love."
TO AN ATHEIST POET.
Here, again, is something very similar:
Lovest thou the music of the sea?
Callest thou the sunshine bright?
HIS voice is more than melody
HIS smile is more than light.
Fanny shuts her smiling eyes, [back
Is it not a little surprising, however, that a
capable of so much precision and finish as the author of these epigrams
must be, should have failed to see how much of force is lost in the
of "the sinner vain?" Why not have written "Fanny's like the silly
if "silly" be thought too jocose, "the blinded sinner?" The rhythm, at
the same time, would thus be much improved by bringing the lines,
Then, because she cannot see,
Thoughtless simpleton! she cries
"Ah! you can't see me."
Fanny's like the sinner vain
Who, with spirit shut and dim,
Thinks, because he sees not Heaven,
Heaven beholds not him.
Fanny's like the silly
into exact equality.
Thinks because he sees not Heaven,
In mingled epigram and espieglerie
Mrs. Osgood is
even more especially at home. I have seldom seen anything in this way
happily done than the song entitled "If He Can."
Let me see him once more
"The Unexpected Declaration" is, perhaps, even a
specimen of the same manner. It is one of that class of compositions
Mrs [Here ends MS fragment 2, next page:] Osgood
has made almost exclusively her own. Had I seen it without her name, I
should have had no hesitation in ascribing it to her; for there is no
person — in America certainly — who does anything of a similar kind
anything like a similar piquancy:
For a moment or two;
Let him tell me himself
Of his purpose, dear, do!
Let him gaze in these eyes
While he lays out his plan
To escape me an then
He may go — if he can.
Let me see him once more!
Let me give him one smile!
Let me breathe but one word
Of endearment the while!
I ask but that moment-
My life on the man!
Does he think to forget me?
He may — if he can.
beauty is thine;
The point of all
might have been sharpened, and the polish increased in lustre, by the
of the emory of brevity. From what the lover says much might well have
been omitted; and I should have preferred leaving out altogether the
comments; for the story is fully told without them. The "'Why do you
"Why do you frown?" and "Why do you smile?" supply all the imagination
requires; to supply more than it requires, oppresses and offends it.
more deeply grieves it or more vexes the true taste in general, than
of any kind. In Germany, Wohlgeborn is a loftier title than Edelgeborn;
and in Greece, the thrice-victorious at the Olympic games could claim a
statue of the size of life, while he who had conquered but once was
only to a colossal one.
Passion kneels to thee and calls
Minstrels awaken the lute with thy
Poets have gladdened the world with
Painters half holy thy loved image
Eloise, why do you weep?"
Still bows the lady her light
Fast the warm tears from her veiled
"Sunny-haired Eloise, wealth is
Rich is thy silken robe; bright is
Proudly the jewel illumines thy way;
Clear rubies rival thy ruddy lips'
Diamonds like star-drops thy silken
Pearls waste their snow or, thy
Luxury softens thy pillow for sleep;
Angels watch over it;-why do you
Still bows the lady her light
Faster the tears from her veiled
"Gifted and worshipped one!
genius and grace
Play in each motion and beam in thy
When from thy rosy lip rises the
Hearts that adore thee the echo
Ne'er in the festival shone an eye
Ne'er in the mazy dance fell a foot
One only spirit thou'st failed to
Exquisite Eloise! why do you frown?"
Swift o'er her forehead a dark
Sent from the tempest of pride in
"Touched by thy sweetness, in
love with thy grace,
Charmed with the magic of mind in
Bewitched by thy beauty, e'en his
The strength of the stoic is
conquered at length,
Lo! at thy feet see him kneeling
the while —
Eloise! Eloise! why do you smile?
The hand was withdrawn from her
happy blue eyes;
She gazed on her lover in laughing
While the dimple and blush,
stealing soft to
Told the tale that her tongue was
too timid to
collection of which
I speak was entitled "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England." It
with a really cordial reception in Great Britain-was favorably noticed
by the "Literary Gazette," " Times," " Atlas," "Monthly Chronicle;" and
especially by the Court Journal," " The Court and Ladies' Magazine,"
Belle Assemblee," and other similar works. "We have long been
says the high authority of the "Literary Gazette," "with the name of
fair author.... Our expectations have been fulfilled, and we have here
a delightful gathering of the sweetest of wild flowers, all looking as
fresh and beautiful as if they had grown in the richest of English
in place of having been 'nursed by the cataract.' True the wreath might
have been improved with a little more care — a trifling attention or
paid to the formation of it. A stalk here and there that obtrudes
between the bells of the flowers, might have become so interwoven as to
have been concealed, and the whole have looked as if it had grown in
perfect and beautiful form. Though, after all, we are perhaps too
for in Nature every leaf is not ironed out to a form, nor propped up
a wiry precision, but blown and ruffled by the refreshing breezes, and
looking as careless and easy and unaffected as a child that bounds
with its silken locks tossed to and fro just as the wind uplifts them.
Page after page of this volume have we perused with a feeling of
and admiration." The "Court Journal" more emphatically says: — " Her
is one of violets, sweet-scented, pure and modest; so lovely that the
that wove it should not neglect additionally to enrich it by turning
love and kindness to things of larger beauty. Some of the smaller
in the volume are perfectly beautiful — beautiful in their
and exquisite simplicity and the perfect elegance of their
In fact, there was that about "The Wreaths of Wild Flowers" — that
grace of thought and manner — which never fails to find ready echo in
hearts of the aristocracy and refinement of Great Britain; — and it was
here especially that Mrs. Osgood found welcome. Her husband's merits as
an artist had already introduced her into distinguished society, (she
petted, in especial, by Mrs. Norton and Rogers,) but the publication of
her poems had at once an evidently favorable effect upon his fortunes.
His pictures were placed in a most advantageous light by her poetical
of New York, have lately issued another, but still a very incomplete
of "Poems by Frances S. Osgood." In general, it includes by no means
best of her works. "The Daughter of Herodias" — one of her longest
and a very noble poem, putting me in mind of the best efforts of Mrs.
— is omitted: — it is included, however, in the last edition of Doctor
Griswold's " Poets and Poetry of America." In Messrs. C. and A.'s
there occur, too, very many of those half sentimental, half allegorical
compositions of which, at one period, the authoress seemed to be
fond — for the reason, perhaps, that they afforded her good opportunity
for the exercise of her ingenuity and epigrammatic talent: — no poet,
can admit them to be poetry at all. Still, the volume contains some
which enable us to take a new view of the powers of the writer. A few
years, with their inevitable sorrow, appear to have stirred the depths
of her heart. We see less of frivolity-less of vivacity — more of
— earnestness — even passion — and far more of the true imagination as
distinguished from its subordinate, fancy. The one prevalent trait,
alone distinctly remains. "The Spirit of Poetry," "To Sybil," "The
of the Callitriche," and " The Child and its Angel-Playmate" would do
to any of our poets. "She Loves Him Yet," nevertheless, will serve,
than either of these poems, to show the alteration of manner referred
loves him yet!
The following stanzas are in a somewhat similar tone, but are more
for their terse energy of expression:
I know by the blush that rises
Beneath the curls
That shadow her soul-lit cheek.
She loves him yet!
Through all Love's sweet disguises,
In timid girls,
A blush will be sure to speak.
But deeper signs
Than the radiant blush of beauty,
The maiden finds.
Whenever his name is heard
Her young heart thrills,
Forgetting herself — her duty —
Her dark eye fills,
And her pulse with hope is stirred.
She loves him yet!
The flower the false one gave her
When last he came
Is still with her wild tears wet.
She'll ne'er forget
However his faith may waver.
Through grief and shame,
Believe it, she loves him yet!
His favorite songs
She will sing; — she heeds no other.
With all her wrongs
Her life on his love is set.
Ah, doubt no more!
She never can wed another.
Till life be o'er
She loves — she will love him yet!
Yes! lower to the level
In not presenting to the public at one view all that
she has written in verse, Mrs. Osgood has incurred the risk of losing
credit to which she is entitled on the score of versatility-of variety
in invention and expression. There is scarcely a form of poetical
in which she has not made experiment; and there is none in which she
not very respectably succeeded. Her defects are chiefly negative and by
no means numerous. Her versification is sometimes exceedingly good, but
more frequently feeble through the use of harsh consonants, and such
as "thou'dst" for "thou wouldst," with other unnecessary
contractions, inversions, and obsolete expressions. Her imagery is
mixed; — indeed it is rarely otherwise. The epigrammatism of her
gives to her poems, as wholes, the air of being more skilfully
than they really are. [next page, and the MS
fragment 4:] On the other hand, we look in vain throughout her
works for an offence against the finer taste, or against decorum — for
a low thought or a platitude. A happy refinement — an instinct of the
and delicate — is one of her most noticeable excellences. She may be
commended, too, for originality of poetic invention, whether in the
of a theme or in the manner of treating it. Consequences of this trait,
are her point and piquancy. Fancy and naivete appear in all she writes.
Regarding the loftier merits, I am forced to speak of her in more
terms. She has occasional passages of true imagination-but scarcely the
glowing, vigorous, and sustained ideality of Mrs. Maria Brooks-or even,
in general, the less ethereal elevation of Mrs. Welby. In that
something, however, which, for want of a more definite term, we are
to call "grace" that charm so magical, because at once so shadowy and
potent-that Will o' the Wisp which, in its supreme development. may be
said to involve nearly all that is valuable in poetry — she has,
no rival among her countrywomen.
Of those who laud thee now!
Go, join the joyous revel
And pledge the heartless vow!
Go, dim the soul-horn beauty
That lights that lofty brow!
Fill, fill the bowl! — let burning wine
Drown in thy soul Love's dream divine!
Yet, when the laugh is lightest —
When wildest flies the jest —
When gleams the goblet brightest,
And proudest heaves thy breast,
And thou art madly pledging [back of page:]
Each gay and jovial guest —
A ghost shall glide amid the flowers —
The shade of Love's departed hours.
And thou shalt shrink in sadness
From all the splendor there,
And curse the revel's gladness,
And hate the banquet's glare,
And pine 'mid passion's madness,
For true love's purer air,
And feel thou'dst give their wildest glee
For one unsullied sigh from me.
Yet deem not this my prayer, love!
Ah, no! if I could keep
Thy altered heart from care, love,
And charm its grief to sleep,
Mine only should despair, love,
I — I alone would weep —
I — I alone would mourn the flowers
That bloom in Love's deserted bowers.
[[Here ends MS fragment 4 and
begins MS fragment
Of pure prose —
of prose proper
— she has, perhaps, never written a line in her life. Her usual
papers are a class by themselves. She begins with a resolute effort at
being sedate — that is to say, sufficiently prosaic and matter-of-fact
for the purpose of a legend or an essay; but, after a few sentences, we
behold uprising the leaven of the Muse; then, with a flourish and some
vain attempts at repression, a scrap of verse renders itself manifest;
then comes a little poem outright; then another and another and
with impertinent patches of prose in between — until at length the mask
is thrown fairly off and far away, and the whole article — sings.
[[The remaining setences are missing from the
Upon the whole,
I have spoken
of Mrs. Osgood so much in detail, less on account of what she has
done than on account of what I perceive in her the ability to do.
she is ardent
and sensitive, impulsive — the very soul of truth and honor; a
of the beautiful, with a heart so radically artless as to seem abundant
in art; universally admired, respected, and beloved. In person, she is
about the medium height, slender even to fragility, graceful whether in
action or repose; complexion usually pale; hair black and glossy; eyes
a clear, luminous grey, large, and with singular capacity for