his and said, with a splendid smile, "What, my little woman who likes sea-weed!"
The next day my father took me to Mrs. Webster's reception. The house of the Secretary of State was the great attraction; it was full of brilliant company. Mrs. Webster's nieces and some other fashionable ladies from New York were there, many of the diplomatic circle, and a number of literary women — Miss Sedgwick, Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, our New England poetess, "that woman," as Judge Wayne said, "who will die guiltless of anything but a false quantity." I was more pleased with them than with any other part of the show, for I had already written Mrs. Sigourney a letter (anonymously) admiring her poem, "On a Shred of Linen." How I wanted to ask her if she had ever received it, and whether she had enjoyed it! but I remembered just in time that the character of the anonymous admirer forbade that. Suddenly there was a stir in the room, and all these ladies rose.
A young Englishman, named Charles Dickens, entered the room. Then my heart stopped beating.
I had read Pickwick and several of his novels, and, like all the world, I admired and wondered how a genius looked. I can see him now, overdressed, with billows of green-satin necktie, long hair, a rather handsome face, and hanging on his arm a pretty little fat, rosy-cheeked wife.
I also remember (and I fear no one else does) what I wore on this momentous occasion: a black-velvet tight-fitting jacket with gold buttons down the front, and a skirt of deep blue, heavily flounced. I fear this fashion was stolen from Fanny Elssler, but the dress was "made in Boston." I saw that other ladies wore this tight jacket with tight sleeves, so I knew I was correct. We
