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Oct. 3rd. I have only written to you once my dear Dot, since I have been here, but pray do not accuse me of neglect. I have had the inclination but not the power, our time is so constantly occupied, that whole days pass, without my knowing how they went, & yet I have never a moment's leisure. Our visit is now to my sorrow drawing to a close, & in a fortnight I shall be in England. I have been very happy here & I look forward to quitting it with great regret. There are so many people I like so excessively that I shall never see again & parting with even a person one does not care for, with the idea of never again beholding them is to me a melancholy feeling. I am growing still more of a philosopher than ever I was, since I came to Paris, & it is rather ridiculous that the most dissipated of all places, the city where vice is not only [[underline]] tolerated [[/underline]] but [[underline]] applauded [[/underline]], where you cannot go into society without meeting men stained with every crime, that can disgrace Human Nature, & women devoid of every proper feeling, & every virtuous principle, should have had the affect of giving me more serious ideas than ever I had before, of creating in me a greater horror of impropriety & irreligion, & of obtaining for me, half in jest, half in earnest, the appellations of [[underline]] Prude [[/underline]] & [[underline]] Methodist [[/underline]]. Do not fancy that my moralising spirit arises from disappointment for vanity apart, I never recollect having had so much [[Foreign: French]] succès [[/foreign]] anywhere since I first began my career. All nations I can number amongst my flirts