d that Partridge's predictions were the
theme at the coffeehouses. He saw men argue and wax wroth, grow red in
the face as they talked loud and long about nothing--just nothing. The
whole thing struck Swift as being very funny; and he wrote an
announcement of his intention to publish a rival almanac. He explained
that he, too, was an astrologer, but an honest one, while Partridge was
an impostor and a cheat; in fact, Partridge foretold only things which
every one knew would come true. As for himself, he could discern the
future with absolute certainty, and to prove to the world his power he
would now make a prophecy. In substance, it was as follows: "My first
prediction is but a trifle; it relates to Partridge, the almanac-maker. I
have consulted the star of his nativity, and find that he will die on the
Twenty-ninth day of March, next." This was signed, "Isaac Bickerstaff,"
and duly issued in pamphlet form. It had such an air of sincerity that
both the believers and the scoffers read it with interest.

The Thirtieth of March came, and another pamphlet from "Isaac
Bickerstaff" appeared, announcing the fulfilment of the prophecy. It
related how toward the end of March Partridge began to languish; how he
grew ill and at last took to his bed, and, his conscience then smiting
him, he confessed to the world that he was a fraud and a rogue, that all
his prophecies were impositions; he then passed away.

Partridge was wild with rage, and immediately replied in a manifesto
declaring that he was alive and well, and moreover was alive on March
Twenty-ninth.

To this "Bickerstaff" replied in a pamphlet more seriously humorous than
ever, reaffirming that Partridge was dead, and closing with the statement
that, "If an uninformed carcass still walks about calling itself
Partridge, I do not in any way consider myself responsible for that."

The joke set all London on a grin. Wherever Partridge went he was met
with smiles and jeers, and astrology became only a jest to a vast number
of people who had formerly believed in it seriously.

When Benjamin Franklin started his "Poor Richard's Almanac," twenty-five
years later, in the first issue he prophesied the death of one Dart who
set the pace at that time as almanac-maker in America. The man was to
expire on the afternoon of October Seventeenth, Seventeen Hundred
Thirty-eight, at three twenty-nine o'clock.

Dart, being somewhat of a joker himself, came out with an announcement
that