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 acquaintance 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.
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