传说在古代，圣人经常离开他们的牢房，四处游荡，但隐藏他们的品质，去试探善良人们的热情好客。故事发生在一个冬夜，正如这个传说的作者所写的，两个兄弟隐士，以职业为圣徒，带着他们的假面旅行，穿着破烂的衣服，去了肯特郡的一个小村庄;在那里，在漫步者的苦口婆心中，他们挨家挨户地乞求，却徒劳无功;用尽一切怜悯的语气，却没有一个人愿意接纳。我们流浪的圣徒们，在悲惨的处境中，受到如此恶劣的待遇，走过了整个村庄，最后来到一间小茅屋，那里住着一个善良诚实的老自耕农，在附近叫菲利蒙，这些圣徒们好心地邀请他在他的破茅屋里过夜;然后，热情好客的西比德·古德·柏西斯在补火;当他从烟囱里从钩子上取下一小片培根时，随意地从最肥的一边切下大片来煎;然后走到一边去给他们拿水，把一大壶水倒到河边，看了整整两圈;然而(真奇妙)，他们发现水还是满的，好像一滴也没有沾过似的。这对善良的老夫妇感到很惊奇，他们常常互相凝视;因为两个人都被吓得心惊胆战，大哭起来。什么艺术! Then softly turned aside to view, Whether the lights were burning blue. The gentle pilgrims soon aware on't, Told 'em their calling, and their errant; '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 drowned; 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 climbed slowly after. The chimney widened, 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 coarse, Doomed 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 flyer, though 't had leaden feet, Turned round so quick, you scarce could see 't; But slackened 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 reared, 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 seemed to look abundance better, Improved in picture, size, and letter; And high in order placed, describe The heraldry of every tribe. 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, Returned 'em 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; 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, Vamped in the preface and the text; At christenings well could act his part, And had the service all by heart; Wished women might have childre