Mr. Platt, the Gentleman who was shot, lingered some time, but eventually died of his wound, and, on the 12th of March, 1817, his murderer, Cashman, was hanged in front of Mr. Beckwith's shop. His end was not edifying. The Mob was howling at him, "and Cashman joined his voice to the shouts, crying out, 'Hurrah! my Boys, I'll die like a man.' On his quitting the Cart, and mounting the Scaffold, the groans were redoubled; he seemed to enter into the spirit of the Spectators, and joined in their exclamations with a terrific shout.... He now turned towards Mr. Beckwith's house, in an angry manner, and, shaking his head, said: 'I'll be with you,---- there'; meaning that he would haunt the house after his death. The executioner having quitted the platform, the unfortunate wretch addressed the crowd nearest them, and exclaimed: 'Now, you----, give me three cheers when I trip.' And then, calling to the executioner, he cried out: 'Come, Jack, you----, let go the jib-boom.' He was cheering at the instant the fatal board fell." The fullest details of the King's life and illness are given us in January. After the usual bulletin, dated January 5th, _The Gentleman's Magazine_ gives us as follows:--"The public bulletins which have been issued for some months past, have all stated that his Majesty's disorder remains undiminished; and we understand that it is the opinion of the medical gentlemen attending him, that nothing far short of a miracle can bring about a recovery from his afflicting malady. At times, we are happy to learn, he is tolerably composed. The number of persons specially appointed by the doctors is reduced from six to two, and his principal pages are admitted, and have been for some time, to attend upon him, as when he enjoyed good health.--His Majesty dines at half-past one o'clock, and, in general, orders his dinner: he invariably has roast beef upon the tables on Sundays. He dresses for dinner, wears his orders, &c.