MARCH 26, 1857. _My Dear Sir_,—Your mangold is remarkably fine. I must, of course, visit Stratton, to vote for Robartes; and I do wish I could be told how far a few votes would throw out Kendall by helping Carew, then I would give the latter one. If I can contrive to call at Flexbury, I will; but Mrs. Hawker is so worried by bad eyes that she will not risk the roads. Last time we were annoyed by some rascals, who came after the carriage, shouting, “Kendall and protection!” It will be a dark infamy for Cornwall if Nick, the traitor to every party, should get in. Tom S—— has been out to-day, blustering for Nick, but, when asked what party he belonged to, could not tell. How should he? A note from M—— to-night, dated Bude, informs me that he is there. I am glad to find that, though not yet registered as a Cornish voter, his heart and wishes are for Robartes. It will always be to me a source of pride, that I was the first, or well-nigh, I think, the only clergyman in this deanery who voted for a Free-trade candidate. Yours, my dear sir, faithfully, R. S. HAWKER. J. CARNSEW, Esq. ... I cannot conclude without a word about the mighty theme of elections. When Carew’s address arrived, and I read it to Mrs. Hawker, her remark was: “It doesn’t ring well.” Nor did it. There were sneaky symptoms about it. S—— writes that “sinister influence, apart from political, has been brought to bear against Carew.” We save a breakfast by this; for Mrs. Hawker had announced her intention to give one, as she did last time, to Mr. Robartes’ voters; and I save what is to me important—a ride. When I was in Oxford, there was a well-known old man, Dr. Crowe, public officer, etc. He had risen from small beginnings, and therefore he was a man of mind. Somewhat rough, and so much the better, as old wine is. Him the young, thoughtless fellows delighted to tease after dinner in the common-room, over their wine at New College. (N.B.—The rumour used to run, that, when the fellows of the college retired from the hall, the butler went before, with a warming-pan, which he passed over the seat of every stuffed chair, that the reverend fogies might not catch cold as they sat down.) Well, one day, said a junior to old Crowe: “Do you know, Dr. C., what has happened to Jem Ward?”—“No, not I. Is he hanged?”—“Oh, no! they say he is member of Parliament.”—“Well, what of that?”—“Oh, but consider what a thing for a fellow like that to get into the House of Commons—such a _blackguard_!”—“And pray, young man, where should a blackguard go, but into the House of Commons, eh?” Good-night, dear sir, good-night. Yours faithfully, R. S. HAWKER.