"Nay, friends," continued the Squire humbly, and in one of those illustrative aphorisms which, if less subtle than Riccabocca's were more within reach of the popular comprehension; "nay--we are all human; and every man has his hobby: sometimes he breaks in the hobby, and sometimes the hobby, if it is very hard in the mouth, breaks in him. One man's hobby has an ill habit of always stopping at the public house! (Laughter). Another man's hobby refuses to stir a peg beyond the door where some buxom lass patted its neck the week before--a hobby I rode pretty often when I went courting my good wife here! (Much laughter and applause). Others have a lazy hobby, that there's no getting on; others, a runaway hobby that there's no stopping: but to cut the matter short, my favorite hobby, as you well know, is always trotted out to any place on my property which seems to want the eye and hand of the master. I hate (cried the Squire warming) to see things neglected and decayed, and going to the dogs! This land we live in is a good mother to us, and we can't do too much for her. It is very true, neighbors, that I owe her a good many acres, and ought to speak well of her; but what then? I live among you, and what I take from the rent with one hand, I divide among you with the other (low, but assenting murmurs). Now the more I improve my property, the more mouths it feeds. My great-grandfather kept a Field-Book, in which were entered, not only the names of all the farmers and the quantity of land they held, but the average number of the laborers each employed. My grandfather and father followed his example: I have done the same. I find, neighbors, that our rents have doubled since my great-grandfather began to make the book. Ay--but there are more than four times the number of laborers employed on the estate, and at much better wages, too! Well, my men, that says a great deal in favor of improving property, and not letting it go to the dogs. (Applause). And therefore, neighbors, you will kindly excuse my hobby: it carries grist to your mill. (Reiterated applause). Well--but you will say, 'What's the Squire driving at?' Why this, my friends: There was only one worn-out, dilapidated tumble-down thing in the Parish of Hazeldean, and it became an eyesore to me; so I saddled my hobby, and rode at it. O ho! you know what I mean now! Yes, but neighbors, you need not have taken it so to heart. That was a scurvy trick of some of you to hang me in effigy, as they call it." "It warn't you," cried a voice in the crowd, "it war Nick Stirn." The Squire recognized the voice of the Tinker; but though he now guessed at the ringleader--on that day of general amnesty, he had the prudence and magnanimity not to say, "Stand forth, Sprott: thou art the man." Yet his gallant English spirit would not suffer him to come off at the expense of his servant.