Having through all the village pass'd,
To a small cottage came at last!
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,
Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;

Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,-What ar't!
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their errand:
Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints, the hermits said;
No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft

The roof began to mount aloft;

Aloft rose every beam and rafter;

The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher;

Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,

And there stood fastened to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below:

In vain; for a superior force,
Applied at bottom, stops its course:
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden Jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower;

The flier, though 't had leaden feet,

'Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't;
But, slacken'd by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares;
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance changed,
Were now but leathern buckets ranged.
The ballads, pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter
And, high in order placed, describe
The heraldry of every tribe.1

A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep,
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage by such feats as these
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon, having paused a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style:
Then said, My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson, if you please.

He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels;
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assumed a sable hue;

1 The tribes of Israel are sometimes distinguished in country churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.

But, being old, continued just

As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues:
He smoked his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Against dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a system:
But classic authors,-he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edged with colberteen ;
Her petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black satin flounced with lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down:
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amazed to see her look so prim;
And she admired as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life
Were several years this man and wife;
When on a day, which proved their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,

They went by chance, amidst their talk,
To the churchyard, to take a walk;

When Baucis hastily cried out,

My dear, I see your forehead sprout!

Sprout! quoth the man; what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous!

But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really yours is budding too—
Nay, now I cannot stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root.

Description would but tire my muse;
In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight:
On Sundays, after evening-prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew,
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew;
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was grieved,
Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted;
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.

THOMAS YALDEN. 1671-1736.

THOMAS YALDEN was born in the city of Exeter, in 1671, and in 1690 was admitted in Magdalen College, Oxford. His first public appearance as a poet was in an "Ode to St. Cecilia's Day," published in 1693, which was followed by several other poems. Having entered the ministry, he succeeded Atterbury, in 1698, as lecturer at Bridewell Hospital, and in 1707 received the degree of Doctor of Divinity. Having received various preferments in the church, he died July 16, 1736; having to the end of his life, as Dr. Johnson remarks, "retained the friendship and frequented the conversation of a very numerous and splendid set of acquaintances.'

Yalden's poetry may be found in the collections of Johnson and Chalmers, but it has very little merit. As a prose writer, however, he has great humor, being the author of the paper entitled "'Squire Bickerstaff detected; or the Astrological Impostor convicted, by John Partridge, Student in Physic and Astrology," which he drew up on Partridge's application, and which that person is said to have printed and published without perceiving the joke.

JOHN PARTRIDGE'S DEFENce.

It is hard, my dear countrymen of these united nations, it is very hard, that a Briton born, a protestant astrologer, a man of revolution principles, an assertor of the liberty and property of the people, should cry out in vain for justice against a Frenchman, a papist, and an illiterate pretender to science, that would blast my reputation, most inhumanly bury me alive, and defraud my native country of those services, which, in my double capacity, I daily offer the public.

It was towards the conclusion of the year 1707, when an impudent pamphlet crept into the world, intituled, Predictions, etc., by Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq. Amongst the many arrogant assertions laid down by that lying spirit of divination, he was pleased to pitch on the Cardinal de Noailles and myself, among many other eminent and illustrious persons that were to die within the compass of the ensuing year; and peremptorily fixes the month, day, and hour of our deaths. This, I think, is sporting with great men, and public spirits, to the scandal of religion and reproach of power; and if sovereign princes and astrologers must make diversion for the vulgar why then farewell, say I, to all governments, ecclesiastical and civil. But, I thank my better stars, 1 am alive to confront this false and audacious predictor, and to make him rue the hour he ever affronted a man of science and resentment and I shall here present the public with a faithful narrative of the ungenerous treatment and hard usage I have received from the virulent papers and malicious practices of this pretended astrologer.

The 28th of March, A. D. 1708, being the night this shamprophet had so impudently fixed for my last, which made little impression on myself; but I cannot answer for my whole family,

for my wife, with a concern more than usual, prevailed on me to take somewhat to sweat for a cold, and between the hours of eight and nine, to go to bed. The maid, as she was warming my bed, with a curiosity natural to young wenches, runs to the window, and asks of one passing the street, whom the bell tolled for? Dr. Partridge, says he, the famous almanac-maker, who died suddenly this evening: the poor girl, provoked, told him, he lied like a rascal; the other very sedately replied, the sexton had so informed him, and if false, he was to blame for imposing upon a stranger. She asked a second, and a third, as they passed, and every one was in the same tone. Now, I do not say these are accomplices to a certain astrological 'squire, and that one Bickerstaff might be sauntering thereabouts; because I will assert nothing here but what I dare attest, for plain matter of fact. My wife, at this, fell into a violent disorder; and I must own I was a little discomposed at the oddness of the accident. In the mean time one knocks at my door; Betty runs down, and opening, finds a sober grave person, who modestly inquires, if this was Dr. Partridge's? She taking him for some cautious city patient that came at that time for privacy, shows him into the dining-room. As soon as I could compose myself, I went to him, and was surprised to find my gentleman mounted on a table with a two-foot rule in his hand, measuring my walls, and taking the dimensions of the room. "Pray, sir," says I, "not to interrupt you, have you any business with me?" "Only, sir," replies he, "order the girl to bring me a better light, for this is but a very dim one. "Sir," says I, "my name is Partridge." "Oh! the doctor's brother, belike," cries he; "the stair-case, I believe, and these two apartments hung in close mourning, will be sufficient, and only a strip of bays round the other rooms. The doctor must needs die rich, he had great dealings in his way for many years: if he had no family-coat, you had as good use the escutcheons of the company; they are as showish, and will look as magnificent, as if he was descended from the blood-royal." With that I assumed a greater air of authority, and demanded who employed him, or how he came there? Why, I was sent, sir, by the company of undertakers," says he, “and they were employed by the honest_gentleman, who is executor to the good doctor departed: and our rascally porter, I believe, is fallen fast asleep with the black cloth and sconces, or he had been here, and we might have been tacking up by this time." Sir," says I, "pray be advised by a friend, and make the best of your speed out of my doors, for I hear my wife's voice, (which, by the by, is pretty distinguishable,) and in that corner of the room stands a good cudgel, which some body has felt before now; if that light in her hands, and she know

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