Now I mention no Mr. BICKERSTAFF, nor do I say that a certain star-gazing Squire has been a playing my executor before his time:  but I leave the World to judge, and if it puts things to things fairly together, it won’t be much wide of the mark.

Well, once more I get my doors closed, and prepare for bed, in hopes of a little repose, after so many ruffling adventures.  Just as I was putting out my light in order to it, another bounceth as hard as he can knock.

I open the window and ask, “Who is there, and what he wants?”

“I am NED the Sexton,” replies he, “and come to know whether the Doctor left any orders for a Funeral Sermon? and where he is to be laid? and whether his grave is to be plain or bricked?”

“Why, Sirrah!” says I, “you know me well enough.  You know I am not dead; and how dare you affront me after this manner!”

“Alack a day, Sir,” replies the fellow, “why it is in print, and the whole Town knows you are dead.  Why, there’s Mr. WHITE the joiner is but fitting screws to your coffin!  He’ll be here with it in an instant.  He was afraid you would have wanted it before this time.”

“Sirrah! sirrah!” saith I, “you shall know to-morrow to your cost that I am alive! and alive like to be!”

“Why, ’tis strange, Sir,” says he, “you should make such a secret of your death to us that are your neighbours.  It looks as if you had a design to defraud the Church of its dues:  and let me tell you, for one who has lived so long by the heavens, that is unhandsomely done!”

“Hist! hist!” says another rogue that stood by him, “away, Doctor! into your flannel gear as fast as you can! for here is a whole pack of dismals coming to you with their black equipage; how indecent will it look for you to stand frightening folks at your window, when you should have been in your coffin this three hours!”

In short, what with Undertakers, Embalmers, Joiners, Sextons, and your Elegy hawkers upon a late practitioner in Physic 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 villanous Squire has the impudence to assert that these are entirely strangers to him; he, good man! knoweth nothing of the matter! and honest ISAAC 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 Grub street, although he lies in the most exalted garret, and writeth himself “Squire”!  But I will 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 were last buried in, I have not yet been paid for.”

“Doctor!” cries another dog, “How do you think people can live by making graves for nothing?  Next time you die, you may even toll out the bell yourself, for NED!”