THRICE, during my incarceration at Spielberg, there arrived persons of
high rank to inspect the dungeons, and ascertain that there was no abuse
of discipline. The first visitor was the Baron Von Münch, who, struck
with compassion on seeing us so sadly deprived of light and air, declared
that he would petition in our favour, to have a lantern placed over the
outside of the pane in our dungeon doors, through which the sentinels
could at any moment perceive us. His visit took place in 1825, and a
year afterwards his humane suggestion was put in force. By this
sepulchral light we could just catch a view of the walls, and prevent our
knocking our heads in trying to walk. The second visit was that of the
Baron Von Vogel. He found me in a lamentable state of health; and
learning that the physician had declared that coffee would be very good
for me, and that I could not obtain it, as being too great a luxury, he
interested himself for me, and my old, delightful beverage, was ordered
to be brought me. The third visit was from a lord of the court, with
whose name I am not acquainted, between fifty and sixty years of age, and
who, by his manners as well as his words, testified the sincerest
compassion for us; at the same time lamenting that he could do nothing
for us. Still, the expression of his sympathy—for he was really
affected—was something, and we were grateful for it.
How strange, how irresistible, is the desire of the solitary prisoner to
behold some one of his own species! It amounts almost to a sort of
instinct, as if in order to avoid insanity, and its usual consequence,
the tendency to self-destruction. The Christian religion, so abounding
in views of humanity, forgets not to enumerate amongst its works of mercy
the visiting of the prisoner. The mere aspect of man, his look of
commiseration, and his willingness, as it were, to share with you, and
bear a part of your heavy burden, even when you know he cannot relieve
you, has something that sweetens your bitter cup.
Perfect solitude is doubtless of advantage to some minds, but far more so
if not carried to an extreme, and relieved by some little intercourse
with society. Such at least is my constitution. If I do not behold my
fellow-men, my affections become restricted to too confined a circle, and
I begin to dislike all others; while, if I continue in communication with
an ordinary number, I learn to regard the whole of mankind with
affection.
Innumerable times, I am sorry to confess, I have been so exclusively
occupied with a few, and so averse to the many, as to be almost terrified
at the feelings I experienced. I would then approach the window,
desirous of catching some new features, and thought myself happy when the
sentinel passed not too closely to the wall, if I got a single glance of
him, or if he lifted up his head upon hearing me cough—more especially if
he had a good-natured countenance; when he showed the least feeling of
pity, I felt a singular emotion of pleasure, as if that unknown soldier
had been one of my intimate friends.
If, the next time, he passed by in a manner that prevented my seeing him,
or took no notice of me, I felt as much mortified as some poor lover,
when he finds that the beloved object wholly neglects him.