Bad as were all eighteenth century jails, the one-room building in Culpeper where Ireland lay from November until April was on of the worst, its keeper the most heartless and his persecutors the most outrageous. They abused him with the vilest epithets, reached through the bars to take hold of him and practiced unmentionable obscenity to his face as he preached through teh little iron gate. They filled the jail with fumes of burning sulphur and pepper, they exploded gun powder under it and formed a plot to poison him. His health was permanently injured.
A fellow prisoner, who at first threatened his life, became his devoted body-gaurd and protector. A period of spiritual despondence passed away and he had do strong a sense of the divine presence that he headed his letters, "From my Palace in Culpeper.