success of society, and I had certainly some years of its triumph and
eclat. I was courted, followed, flattered, and sought by the most
envied and fastidious circles in England and even in Paris; for
society, so indifferent to those who disdain it, overwhelms with its
gratitude--profuse though brief--those who devote themselves to its
amusement. The victim to sameness and ennui, it offers, like the
pallid and luxurious Roman, a reward for a new pleasure: and as long
as our industry or talent can afford the pleasure, the reward is ours.
At that time, then, I reaped the full harvest of my exertions: the
disappointment and vexation were of later date.

I now come to the great era of my life,--Love. Among my acquaintance
was Lady Mary Walden, a widow of high birth, and noble though not
powerful connections. She lived about twenty miles from London in a
beautiful retreat; and, though not rich, her jointure, rendered ample
by economy, enabled her to indulge her love of society. Her house was
always as full as its size would permit, and I was among the most
welcome of its visitors. She had an only daughter: even now, through
the dim mists of years, that beautiful and fairy form rises still and
shining before me, undimmed by sorrow, unfaded by time. Caroline
Walden was the object of general admiration, and her mother, who
attributed the avidity with which her invitations were accepted by all
the wits and fine gentlemen of the day to the charms of her own
conversation, little suspected the face and wit of her daughter to be
the magnet of attraction. I had no idea at that time of marriage,
still less could I have entertained such a notion, unless the step had
greatly exalted my rank and prospects.

The poor and powerless Caroline Walden was therefore the last person
for whom I had what the jargon of mothers term "serious intentions."