Three men traversed that morning the painful way from Newgate to Tyburn. It was a dreary, wet, November morning, but the streets were crowded, and from the windows were thrust faces of sympathisers with one of those three doomed men. The young printer was ignominiously drawn on a sledge, as one guilty of High Treason. A petty larceny rascal, a blind man named Moore, who had stolen some mean coverlet from his shabby lodgings, followed in a cart. A saucy highwayman, named Constable, went to be hanged in prouder state: he rode in a coach, as became a gentleman of the road. The sauciness, however, had left him. The blind thief rolled his sightless orbs, as if he would fain see if the horrid reality was in truth before him. The young Jacobite was calm and composed. One account of them quaintly states that ‘they were all as sorrowful as the circumstances warranted.’ [Sidenote: _A LAST REQUEST._] When the condemned three had been transferred into the cart beneath the gallows, Matthews placed a written paper in the hands of someone near him. The Sheriff, supposing it to be a speech, forbade it to be read, and snatched it away, that it might not be printed. It proved to be merely some directions by the young Christian Jacobite, that such remains as there might be of him after the sentence was executed, might be buried in St. Botolph’s, Aldersgate. At the supreme moment, young Matthews, believing that the whole of his horrible sentence would be executed, said steadily to the hangman at his side, ‘Grant me one favour; do not burn my heart; a friend will come for it, I pray you, let him have it away with him.’ The fellow hurriedly replied that he need not fear, as he was only to be hanged; and with that grim comfort for the boy, he jumped down from the cart in which the three patients had been placed beneath the beam, and drew the vehicle from under them. Thief, highwayman, and young Jacobite were thus, in the yet new slang phrase of Poet Laureate Rowe, ‘launched into eternity.’ The sympathy of some of the news writers on this occasion took a curious turn. ‘The Gentlewoman,’ they said, ‘who tenanted the house near Tyburn, made ten guineas by letting her windows to spectators; but, how much more she would have made, but for the heavy rain!’ Truer sympathy was felt by the Jacobites, of course, for the cruelly fated Matthews. As in October a procession of six-and-twenty Nonjuring clergymen had gone in public procession from Orrery Street, Red Lion Square, to St. Andrew’s, Holborn, to bury the Rev. Mr. Maddison, their brother, so by the side of the grave of young Matthews, at night, there assembled a large body of sympathisers, by way of demonstration against those who had flung him to the hangman. ‘Sneaking Jacks,’ was the civil phrase applied to them; but it behoved them to be prudently demonstrative. [Sidenote: _AN APOLOGETIC SERMON._]