I had weight of guilt upon me enough to sink any creature who had the
least power of reflection left, and had any sense upon them of the
happiness of this life, of the misery of another; then I had at first
remorse indeed, but no repentance; I had now neither remorse nor
repentance. I had a crime charged on me, the punishment of which was
death by our law; the proof so evident, that there was no room for me
so much as to plead not guilty. I had the name of an old offender, so
that I had nothing to expect but death in a few weeks' time, neither
had I myself any thoughts of escaping; and yet a certain strange
lethargy of soul possessed me. I had no trouble, no apprehensions, no
sorrow about me, the first surprise was gone; I was, I may well say, I
know not how; my senses, my reason, nay, my conscience, were all
asleep; my course of life for forty years had been a horrid
complication of wickedness, whoredom, adultery, incest, lying, theft;
and, in a word, everything but murder and treason had been my practice
from the age of eighteen, or thereabouts, to three-score; and now I was
engulfed in the misery of punishment, and had an infamous death just at
the door, and yet I had no sense of my condition, no thought of heaven
or hell at least, that went any farther than a bare flying touch, like
the stitch or pain that gives a hint and goes off. I neither had a
heart to ask God's mercy, nor indeed to think of it. And in this, I
think, I have given a brief description of the completest misery on
earth.
All my terrifying thoughts were past, the horrors of the place were
become familiar, and I felt no more uneasiness at the noise and
clamours of the prison, than they did who made that noise; in a word, I
was become a mere Newgate-bird, as wicked and as outrageous as any of
them; nay, I scarce retained the habit and custom of good breeding and
manners, which all along till now ran through my conversation; so
thorough a degeneracy had possessed me, that I was no more the same
thing that I had been, than if I had never been otherwise than what I
was now.
In the middle of this hardened part of my life I had another sudden
surprise, which called me back a little to that thing called sorrow,
which indeed I began to be past the sense of before. They told me one
night that there was brought into the prison late the night before
three highwaymen, who had committed robbery somewhere on the road to
Windsor, Hounslow Heath, I think it was, and were pursued to Uxbridge
by the country, and were taken there after a gallant resistance, in
which I know not how many of the country people were wounded, and some
killed.