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addition was an improvement, for the new brim was a jet black, whilst the old head was of a most dingy brown. As to his coat, it was a miracle of art; if Joseph's coat surpassed it in the variety of its colours, it was nothing to it in the multiplicity of its patches. There never was a coat so twisted and turned, so doctored and repaired, so altered in its fashion, or so metamorphosed in its shape, as the coat of the Rev. Mr. Jones. The life of that coat would have been an entertaining history; it would have taught those who wish to make a surtout, do double duty, how to achieve their end. When he first went to Blewbury, it was then the worse for wear, and after some considerable time, when it had become threadbare, and of the hue of russet, he had it turned inside out, and converted into a dress coat. This napless garment soon became dangerously thin, and subject to incessant rents, and tears, which continually kept its reverend owner employed; it was the practice of this thrifty curate to borrow needle and thread on these occasions of the neighbouring farmers, for to have invested any capital in the purchase of such articles, would have been a serious and weighty consideration. But at last, in spite of all his care and patching, pieces fell out, and were lost; to repair these dilapidations, he cut fragments off the tail, and sewed them in neatly himself. At last, this system of robbing one part to repair another, became so frequent, and the tails

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HOW TO REPAIR OLD GARMENTS,

were so reduced, that the coat became a jacket, and certainly there never was a garment that so disgraced "the cloth," as that worn by this most reverend miser; old crones used to envy it as a piece of ingenious patchwork, and youthful rustics used to wonder, whether it could be Joseph's coat-grown dingy, and discoloured by time, which the curate would sometimes tell them about in his morning lesson; indeed, so much amazement and consternation did the tailless jacket produce, that Mr. Jones was at last compelled to refrain from appearing in it before the public eye; but he was constantly decorated in this strange garment when at home. In other articles of his apparel the curate was equally parsimonious. He had a great store of new shirts, neatly folded up, and locked within his drawers; but, with the exception of one solitary shirt, they were never allowed to part company; when he had it washed, which was only once in two or three months, he went about without a shirt at all, rather than take one of the new ones into use. He always took it off at night, that it might last clean the longer; and when it became worn, he always mended it himself, and repaired it on the same plan that he repaired his coat; the consequences were of course the same; the shirt became tailless, and no longer reached down to his knees. Sorely was the reverend miser tempted to disturb his hoarded linen, and to take a new

AND MAKE TWO ENDS MEET.

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one into use; but after a diligent search, he found in one of his drawers the top of a shirt, with a frill on, which had lain by ever since his gay and youthful days; this, with his usual sagacity, he tacked into the old shirt, with the frill hanging downwards, which embellished that useful garment with a novel and elegant appearance. In his diet Mr. Jones was as singular and as penurious as in his dress. On a Saturday he purchased the food which was to last him during the ensuing week, and he cooked the whole of his provisions on the Sunday. His meals were never varied, and he never purchased but three articles, bread, bacon, and tea, which he used to term two necessaries, and one luxury. This was invariably his diet all the year round; if his bread became dry, or his bacon " boardy," it was all the same; he rather, in fact, encouraged within himself a dislike for his meals, because he found it a saving; and it was always his aim to make one week's allowance, if possible, suffice for two; this he would sometimes manage by dining gratuitously with a neighbour. It was remarked, that although he was frequently entertained by his parishioners, only one person during ten years had ever been known to have sat at his table: this was a particular friend, and he only obtained a crust of bread, after much difficulty and importunity. In fact, the larder never contained anything but bread, and a piece of unsavoury bacon;

cup

no meat, sugar, coffee, cheese, milk, or such class of common provisions, ever entered his house; yet our parsimonious curate always manifested the utmost pleasure when he could partake of such luxuries free of expense. His common beverage was water, and at breakfast and supper he indulged in a cup of weak tea, unflavoured with milk or sugar. Few liked a glass of ale more than did the Rev. Mr. Jones, and yet he never spent but a single sixpence in that liquor during the whole time that he was curate of Blewbury. The farmers would occasionally, however, treat him to a glass, which formerly he used never to refuse; but being invited to a rustic wedding, about ten years before his death, he drank so freely of strong ale, and made so many grimaces, and played such unaccountable tricks for a parson, that the parishioners talked about it for some days, which so mortified this reverend gentleman, that he made a vow never to indulge in any stronger drink than his diluted tea; a vow which, it is said, he piously and scrupulously observed. Mr. Jones never lit a fire, however cold the weather, except on a Sunday, for the purpose of cooking his bacon, and brewing his tea; this was usually one of sticks and rubbish, which he was often seen busily collecting in the churchyard; he never could persuade himself to use coal, although he had a shed at the back of his house full of that article.

On cold winter evenings he would beg a

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seat by the cheerful fire of a neighbour, and after warming his shivering limbs return, and immediately get to bed, to keep in the heat. It was one night returning thus that the old man died, comfortless, and alone; after having deprived himself of every comfort, and denied himself many of the necessaries of life, that he might leave thousands to relatives whom he had

never seen.

CHAPTER VI.

NOTICES OF JEMMY TAYLOR, THE BOROUGH
USURER.

Curious anecdotes of his life-His penurious habits-- His tempting cookery-His companions-The Earl of Northumberland and the money-lender—His pleasure in hoarding—His first and only act of charity-His death-Curious epitaph.

JEMMY TAYLOR, called by his contemporaries the Southwark miser, was a native of Leicestershire; he was brought up to the trade of a weaver, but he forsook it for the more lucrative one of stockbroker. He was an acute and cunning man, and soon became a successful adept on 'Change. He could fabricate news, spread false reports, excite distrust, or inspire confidence, with