The match for Lord Granville, which I announced to you, is not concluded:  the flames are cooled in that quarter as well as in others.

I begin a new sheet to you, which does not match with the other, for I have no more of the same paper here.  Dr. Cameron is executed, and died with the greatest firmness.  His parting with his wife the night before was heroic and tender:  he let her stay till the last moment, when being aware that the gates of the Tower would be locked, he told her so; she fell at his feet in agonies:  he said, “Madam, this was not what you promised me,” and embracing her, forced her to retire:  then with the same coolness looked at the window till her coach was out of sight, after which he turned about and wept.  His only concern seemed to be at the ignominy of Tyburn:  he was not disturbed at the dresser for his body, or at the fire to burn his bowels.[1] The crowd was so great, that a friend who attended him could not get away, but was forced to stay and behold the execution; but what will you say to the minister or priest that accompanied him?  The wretch, after taking leave, went into a landau, where, not content with seeing the Doctor hanged, he let down the top of the landau for the better convenience of seeing him embowelled!  I cannot tell you positively that what I hinted of this Cameron being commissioned from Prussia was true, but so it is believed.  Adieu! my dear child; I think this is a very tolerable letter for summer!

[Footnote 1:  “The populace,” says Smollett, “though not very subject to tender emotions, were moved to compassion, and even to tears, by his behaviour at the place of execution; and many sincere well-wishers of the present establishment thought that the sacrifice of this victim, at such a juncture, could not redound either to its honour or security.”]

[Illustration:  GEORGE MONTAGU.]

NO NEWS FROM FRANCE BUT WHAT IS SMUGGLED—­THE KING’S DELIGHT AT THE VOTE FOR THE HANOVER TROOPS—­BON MOT OF LORD DENBIGH.

TO GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.

ARLINGTON STREET, May 19, 1756.

Nothing will be more agreeable to me than to see you at Strawberry Hill; the weather does not seem to be of my mind, and will not invite you.  I believe the French have taken the sun.  Among other captures, I hear the King has taken another English mistress, a Mrs. Pope, who took her degrees in gallantry some years ago.  She went to Versailles with the famous Mrs. Quon:  the King took notice of them; he was told they were not so rigid as all other English women are—­mind, I don’t give you any part of this history for authentic; you know we can have no news from France but what we run.[1] I have rambled so that I forgot what I intended to say; if ever we can have spring, it must be soon:  I propose to expect you any day you please after Sunday se’nnight, the 30th:  let me know your resolution, and pray tell me in what magazine is the Strawberry ballad?  I should have proposed an earlier day to you, but next week the Prince of Nassau is to breakfast at Strawberry Hill, and I know your aversion to clashing with grandeur.