And, after such barbarous treatment as this, can the world blame me, when I ask, What is become of the freedom of an Englishman? And where is the liberty and property that my old glorious friend came over to assert? We have drove popery out of the nation, and sent slavery to foreign climes. The arts only remain in bondage, when a man of science and character shall be openly insulted in the midst of the many useful services he is daily paying to the publick. Was it ever heard, even in Turkey or Algiers, that a state- astrologer was banter’d out of his life by an ignorant impostor, or bawl’d out of the world by a pack of villanous, deep-mouth’d hawkers? Though I print almanacks, and publish advertisements; though I produce certificates under the ministers and church-wardens hands I am alive, and attest the same on oath at quarter-sessions, out comes a full and true relation of the death and interment of John Partridge; Truth is bore down, attestations neglected, the testimony of sober persons despised, and a man is looked upon by his neighbours as if he had been seven years dead, and is buried alive in the midst of his friends and acquaintance. Now can any man of common sense think it consistent with the honour of my profession, and not much beneath the dignity of a philosopher, to stand bawling before his own door? – Alive! Alive ho! The famous Dr. Partridge! No counterfeit, but all alive! – As if I had the twelve celestial monsters of the zodiac to shew within, or was forced for a livelihood to turn retailer to May and Bartholomew Fairs. Therefore, if Her Majesty would but graciously be pleased to think a hardship of this nature worthy her royal consideration, and the next parliament, in their great wisdom cast but an eye towards the deplorable case of their old philomath, that annually bestows his poetical good wishes on them, I am sure there is one Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq; would soon be truss’d up for his bloody predictions, and putting good subjects in terror of their lives: And that henceforward to murder a man by way of prophecy, and bury him in a printed letter, either to a lord or commoner, shall as legally entitle him to the present possession of Tyburn, as if he robb’d on the highway, or cut your throat in bed

when you should have been in your coffin this three hours? In short, what

with undertakers, imbalmers, joiners, sextons, and your damn’d elegy hawk-

ers, upon a late practitioner in physick and astrology, I got not one wink

of sleep that night, nor scarce a moment’s rest ever since. Now I doubt not

but this villainous ‘squire has the impudence to assert, that these are en-

tirely strangers to him; he, good man, knows nothing of the matter, and

honest I

saac Bickerstaff, I warrant you, is more a man of honour, than to be

an accomplice with a pack of rascals, that walk the streets on nights, and

disturb good people in their beds; but he is out, if he thinks the whole world

is blind; for there is one John Partridge can smell a knave as far as Grubstreet,

– tho’ he lies in the most exalted garret, and writes himself ‘Squire: – But

I’ll keep my temper, and proceed in the narration.

I could not stir out of doors for the space of three months after this, but

presently one comes up to me in the street; Mr Partridge, that coffin you

was last buried in I have not been yet paid for: Doctor, cries another dog,

How d’ye think people can live by making of graves for nothing? Next

time you die, you may e’en toll out the bell yourself for Ned. A third

rogue tips me by the elbow, and wonders how I have the conscience to

sneak abroad without paying my funeral expences. Lord, says one, I durst

have swore that was honest Dr. Partridge, my old friend; but poor man,

he is gone. I beg your pardon, says another, you look so like my old ac-

quaintance that I used to consult on some private occasions; but, alack,

he’s gone the way of all flesh – Look, look, look, cries a third, after a

competent space of staring at me, would not one think our neighbour the

almanack-maker, was crept out of his grave to take t’other peep at the stars

in this world, and shew how much he is improv’d in fortune-telling by

having taken a journey to the other?

Nay, the very reader, of our parish, a good sober, discreet person, has

sent two or three times for me to come and be buried decently, or send

him sufficient reasons to the contrary, if I have been interr’d in any other

parish, to produce my certificate, as the act requires. My poor wife is

almost run distracted with being called Widow Partridge, when she knows

its false; and once a term she is cited into the court, to take out letters of

administration. But the greatest grievance is, a paultry quack, that takes

up my calling just under my nose, and in his printed directions with N.B.

says, He lives in the house of the late ingenious Mr. John Partridge, an

eminent practitioner in leather, physick and astrology.

But to show how far the wicked spirit of envy, malice and resentment

can hurry some men, my nameless old persecutor had provided me a

monument at the stone-cutter’s and would have erected it in the parish-church; and this piece of notorious and expensive villany had actually

succeeded, had I not used my utmost interest with the vestry, where it was

carried at last but by two voices, that I am still alive. That stratagem fail-

ing, out comes a long sable elegy, bedeck’d with hour-glasses, mattocks,

sculls, spades, and skeletons, with an epitaph as confidently written to

abuse me, and my profession, as if I had been under ground these twenty

years

 

I shall demonstrate to the judicious, that France and Rome are at the bottom of this horrid conspiracy against me; and that culprit aforesaid is

a popish emissary, has paid his visits to St. Germains, and is now in the measures of Lewis XIV. That in attempting my reputation, there is a general massacre of learning designed in these realms; and through my sides

there is a wound given to all the Protestant almanack-makers in the universe.

Vivat Regina.