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I had some other discourse with him, which now I cannot 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 fanatick 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 imagine 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 near 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 confess’d the matter is odd enough, whether we should endeavour to account for it by chance, or the effect of imagination: For my own part, tho’ 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 de Noailles is to die upon the fourth of April, and if that should be verified as exactly as this of poor Partridge, I must own I should be wholly surprized, and at a loss, and should infallibly expect the accomplishment of all the rest.

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An Elegy on the supposed Death of Partridge, the Almanack-Maker.

Well, ’tis as Bickerstaff has guess’d,
Tho’ we all took it for a jest;
Partridge is dead, nay more, he dy’d
E’re he could prove the good ‘Squire ly’d.
Strange, an Astrologer shou’d die,
Without one Wonder in the Sky!
Not one of all his Crony Stars
To pay their Duty at his Herse?
No Meteor, no Eclipse appear’d?
No Comet with a flaming Beard?
The Sun has rose, and gone to Bed,
Just as if partridge were not dead:
Nor hid himself behind the Moon,
To make a dreadful Night at Noon.
He at fit Periods walks through Aries,
Howe’er our earthly Motion varies;
And twice a Year he’ll cut th’ Equator,
As if there had been no such Matter.

Some Wits have wonder’d what Analogy
There is ‘twixt Cobbling* and Astrology:
How Partridge made his Optics rise,
From a Shoe-Sole, to reach the Skies.

A List of Coblers Temples Ties,
To keep the Hair out of their Eyes;
From whence ’tis plain the Diadem
That Princes wear, derives from them.
And therefore Crowns are now-a-days
Adorn’d with Golden Stars and Rays,
Which plainly shews the near Alliance
‘Twixt cobling and the Planets Science.

Besides, that slow-pac’d Sign Bootes,
As ’tis miscall’d, we know not who ’tis?
But Partridge ended all Disputes,
He knew his Trade, and call’d it **Boots.

The Horned Moon, which heretofore
Upon their Shoes the Romans wore,
Whose Wideness kept their Toes from Corns,
And whence we claim our Shooing-Horns;
Shows how the Art of Cobling bears
A near Resemblance to the Spheres.

A Scrap of Parchment hung by Geometry
(A great Refinement in Barometry)
Can, like the Stars, foretel the Weather;
And what is Parchment else but Leather?
Which an Astrologer might use,
Either for Almanacks or Shoes.

Thus Partridge, by his Wit and Parts,
At once did practise both these Arts;
And as the boading Owl (or rather
The Bat, because her Wings are Leather)
Steals from her private Cell by Night,
And flies about the Candle-Light;
So learned Partridge could as well
Creep in the Dark from Leathern Cell,
And, in his Fancy, fly as fair,
To peep upon a twinkling Star.