LETTER XIV.
O FAITH, young women, I have sent my letter N. 13, without one crumb of an answer to any of MD's there is for you now; and yet Presto ben't angry faith, not a bit, only he will begin to be in pain next Irish post, except he sees MD's little hand writing in the glass frame at the bar of St. James's coffeehouse, where Presto would never go but for that purpose. Presto's at home, God help him every night from six till bedtime, and has as little enjoyment or pleasure in life at present as any body in the world, although in full favour with all the ministry. As hope saved, nothing gives Presto any sort of dream of happiness but a letter now and then from his own dearest MD. I love the expectation of it, and when it does not come, I comfort myself, that I have it yet to be happy with. Yes faith, and when I write to MD, I am happy too; it is just as if methinks you were here and I prating to you, and telling you where I have been: Well, says you, Presto, come, where have you been to day? come, let's hear now. And so then I answer; Ford and I were visiting Mr. Lewis, and Mr. Prior, and Prior has given me a fine Plautus, and then Ford would have had me dine at his lodgings, and so I would not; and so I dined with him at an eatinghouse; which I have not done five times since I came here; and so I came home, after visiting Sir Andrew Foun-
