call to mind; and
I fear I have already tired your lordship. I shall only add one
circumstance, that on his death-bed he declared himself a Nonconformist,
and had a fanatic preacher to be his spiritual guide. After half an
hour's conversation I took my leave, being half stifled by the closeness
of the room. I imagined he could not hold out long, and therefore
withdrew to a little coffee-house hard by, leaving a servant at the house
with orders to come immediately and tell me, as nearly as he could, the
minute when Partridge should expire, which was not above two hours after,
when, looking upon my watch, I found it to be above five minutes after
seven; by which it is clear that Mr. Bickerstaff was mistaken almost four
hours in his calculation. In the other circumstances he was exact
enough. But, whether he has not been the cause of this poor man's death,
as well as the predictor, may be very reasonably disputed. However, it
must be confessed the matter is odd enough, whether we should endeavour
to account for it by chance, or the effect of imagination. For my own
part, though I believe no man has less faith in these matters, yet I
shall wait with some impatience, and not without some expectation, the
fulfilling of Mr. Bickerstaff's second prediction, that the Cardinal do
Noailles is to die upon the 4th of April, and if that should be verified
as exactly as this of poor Partridge, I must own I should be wholly
surprised, and at a loss, and should infallibly expect the accomplishment
of all the rest.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

_Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid_.

In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happened on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begged from door to door in vain;
Tried every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints in woeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village passed,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good honest old yeoman,
Called, in the neighbourhood, Philemon,
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable Sire
Bid goody Baucis mend t