The idea of a prison had often struck me with horror; but I have always found, through many changes, we want a mind to our situation—as we shall never get a situation fully to our minds till we get to heaven. When I arrived, every fear respecting my treatment was banished; gloomy as it had appeared, all was to the contrary. I was received with the greatest civility by the unhappy company I met with there. A young man who had been an officer’s servant, proffered his services to wait on me, and rendered me very comfortable. The kind governor gave me one of the best rooms, and permitted me to have every convenience for sleeping I could desire, and all the books I chose to send for.—This alleviated my mind; and, altogether, at times I was nearly distracted with grief, the Lord held me up, kept me in my senses, and blest me in my soul. I cannot help here remarking, that, many months previous to this, I had dreamed of the very room I was put into, with the kind attention of my wife, who had not long been dead at the time I had the dream, and which was, I believe, two years before the trouble took place. But this was allotted to another, who was very kind and attentive on that painful occasion. A variety of most distressing thoughts, at times, overwhelmed me. A separation from the house of God, the perplexities of the church, the hypocrisy of some of the preachers, the grief of my family, the loss of liberty, the company around me, the joy of my foes, and fearing the truth should suffer by my supposed and reported faults, with the length of time appointed me—these things, it was natural to suppose, must have created the most poignant distress. The many months before me seemed so many years; but this led me to reflect on an eternity of joy or woe, the final doom of the righteous and the wicked. _Eternity_! _Eternity_!—a pleasing and dreadful thought. This brought to my mind the solemn description of eternity, us written by the excellent Ralph Erskine, in his “Description of the Misery of the Wicked.” “Gospel Sonnets,” p. 62.— “Ah I must I live in torturing despair, As many years as atoms in the air; When these are spent, as many thousands more, As grains of sand which crowd the ebbing shore; When these are done, as many yet behind, As leaves of forest, shaken with the wind; When these are done, as many to ensue, As stems of grass on hills and dales that grew; When these run out, as many on the march, As starry lamps that gild the spangled arch; When these expire, as many millions more, As moments in the million, past before; When all these doleful years are spent in pain, And multiplied by myriads again?— ’Tis numbers drown the thought. Could I suppose, That then my wretched years were at a close, This would afford some ease; but, ah! I shiver, To think upon the dreadful sound—_for ever_.”