ion,
all he does is right. It was infinite pleasure to me to find my own
fashion and popularity. I was sent for to all parties of pleasure, both
of men or women; where, in some measure, I gave the 'ton'. This gave me
the reputation of having had some women of condition; and that
reputation, whether true or false, really got me others. With the men I
was a Proteus, and assumed every shape, in order to please them all:
among the gay, I was the gayest; among the grave, the gravest; and I
never omitted the least attentions of good-breeding, or the least offices
of friendship, that could either please, or attach them to me: and
accordingly I was soon connected with all the men of any fashion or
figure in town.

To this principle of vanity, which philosophers call a mean one, and
which I do not, I owe great part of the figure which I have made in life.
I wish you had as much, but I fear you have too little of it; and you
seem to have a degree of laziness and listlessness about you that makes
you indifferent as to general applause. This is not in character at your
age, and would be barely pardonable in an elderly and philosophical man.
It is a vulgar, ordinary saying, but it is a very true one, that one
should always put the best foot foremost. One should please, shine, and
dazzle, wherever it is possible. At Paris, I am sure you must observe
'que chacun se fait valoir autant qu'il est possible'; and La Bruyere
observes, very justly, qu'on ne vaut dans ce monde que ce qu'on veut
valoir': wherever applause is in question, you will never see a French
man, nor woman, remiss or negligent. Observe the eternal attentions and
politeness that all people have there for one another. 'Ce n'est pas pour
leurs beaux yeux au moins'. No, but for their own sakes, for
commendations and applause. Let me then recommend this principle of
vanity to you; act upon it 'meo periculo'; I promise you it will turn to
your account. Practice all the arts that ever coquette did, to please. Be
alert and indefatigable in making every man admire, and every woman in
love with you. I can tell you too, that nothing will carry you higher in
the world.

I have had no letter from you since your arrival at Paris, though you
must have been long enough there to have written me two or three. In
about ten or twelve days I propose leaving this place, and going to
London; I have found considerable benefit by my stay here, but not all
that I want. Make my compliments to L