“The village affords,” says Mr. Thornber,[128] “an example of covetousness seldom equalled. John Bailey, better known by the name of the Layton miser, resided in a cottage near the market-house. His habits were most frugal, enduring hunger and privation to hoard up his beloved pelf. Once, during every summer, his store was exposed to the beams of the sun, to undergo purification, and he might be seen, on that occasion, with a loaded gun, seated in the midst of his treasure, guarding it with the eyes of Argus, from the passing intruder. Notwithstanding all this vigilance, upwards of £700 was stolen from his hoard; and this ignorant old man journeyed to some distance to consult the wise man in order to regain it; his manœuvre to avoid the income-tax also failed, for although he converted his landed property into guineas, concealing them in his house, and then pleaded that he possessed no _income_, but a _capital_ only, the law compelled him to pay his due proportion. In the midst of his savings, death smote this wretched being, and even then his ruling passion was strong in the very agony of departing nature. His gold watch, the only portion of his property which remained unbequeathed, hung within his reach; his greedy eye was riveted upon it; no he could not part with that dear treasure—and, with an expiring effort, he snatched it from the head of his bed, and it remained clenched in his hand and convulsed fingers long after warmth had forsaken his frame. Alas! His hidden store, all in gold, weighing 65lb, was discovered at the close of a tedious search, in a walled up window, to which the miser had had access from without, and was carried home in a malt sack, a purse not often used for such a purpose.” [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. BLACKPOOL.