The director once wondered at one of the
better educated prisoners, who would not
become a joiner or learn any trade, but
was content to do nothing nobler than
French-polish chairs. I understand this
prisoner quite well. If common work must
be done by a well educated man, who
could perform the highest things perhaps,
a pure mechanical employment not too tiring
would be the most welcome, because it
alone allows a free play to the thoughts.
It is very disagreeable to have work which
is too trivial to interest the worker, but
which cannot be done without constant
attention. My own, for instance—shoemaking
—was of this kind; and irritable as I was
made by hunger, hot air, and bad smells, I
became still more so on this account.

Of course I felt my solitude deeply, but it
was not so oppressive to me as the society
of common prisoners had been; and the
visits of the officers of the house were quite
sufficient for my general want of society.
By the regulations of the house, drawn up
by the ministry, which understands nothing
at all of prison and prisoners, every
prisoner is to receive daily six visits by officers
and persons employed in the house. This
is impracticable. Six visits a day would
have driven me mad, and I was contented
that the director came to see me once a
week, the parson as often, the doctor every
fortnight, and the administrator, teachers,
and head overseers sometimes. These visits
would have been more agreeable, if one had
not always been compelled to think that
they were made for government purposes,
I knew that official reports were always
wandering from Bruchsal to Carlsruhe. The
officers, who did not like such business,
although it formed a regular part of their
office, were very agreeable to me, and I
expected their visits with pleasure; but
our conversation moved in very narrow
bounds; not only political intelligence, but
even the supply of the most innocent news
concerning things that had occurred since
eighteen hundred and forty-nine being
prohibited.

There were a small number of books in
the library of the house, which were lent to
the prisoners, who were not suffered to have
more volumes in a cell than five, including
the Bible and the schoolbooks. Most of these
books were of that kind of popular literature
produced by talkative village parsons, who
almost make Christianity itself a weariness.
There were, however, other books which had
been presented to the house by several
booksellers when, in eighteen hundred and forty-
eight, so many political prisoners were awaiting
trial. Among these were some very good
books—German, English, and French—
although the wiseacres in Carlsruhe had
rejected some of the most valuable.

After sundry changes from permission to
restriction, I myself was allowed to receive
from Frankfort English and French books,
but no German books, and no newspapers, or
even reviews, "Dingler's Polytechnic Journal
(German) being an exception. My chief
political intelligence I got in the last half
year (eighteen hundred and fifty-five), from
Household Words, of which I perused thirty
volumes of the Tauchnitz edition with an
eagerness that made me sometimes ill. Books
in these foreign languages were permitted to
me as being necessary to a useful study;
German books would have been regarded as
a mere pleasure.

But books were not enough to stay the
craving of the mind for occupation.
Sometimes I amused myself with the mental
execution of some difficult plan. I was a
very long time occupied over the arrangement
of a colony in South America, founded
upon moderate communistic principles; then
I had very much to do with air-balloons, and
invented a new manner of steering them.
Always having meddled a little with chemistry,
electrotype, &c., I was indefatigable
in inventing new things, and I have no less
than five hundred ideas of this kind set down.
If I would give myself a great treat, I
indulged in day-dreams, supposing this or that
situation, and spinning it out through all its
consequences. I was often so much excited
by these idle fancies, that the perspiration
stood upon my forehead, if it were in summer
time.

We were permitted to write one, or, in
urgent cases, two, letters a month, and to
receive also. These letters were indeed a
great comfort; but the thought that they
would be read, not only by those persons
to whom they were addressed, but also by
the director, and the parson, and all other
prison officers who had a mind to do so, made
me always so angry, that I could not forbear
writing things very disagreeable to intrusive
eyes. It was very unwise, doubtless; for
such letters as bred much objection by the
nature of their contents, were sent, not to my
wife, but to the ministry at Carlsruhe. But
no doubt I had the spirit of a rebel.

Out of the prison we were very poor; we
had lost all. My wife had sold her trinkets
during the vain effort to free me. Even
upon a heritage of my aunt, who died at
this time, the government of Baden laid its
hand. My wife was compelled, therefore,
to try her little dexterities, and painted
flowers on china, and worked with her skillful
tapestry-needle like a grisette. At last
she accepted a place in a family of many
children, who had lost both parents. She
tried to replace the lost mother, and won
very soon the love and respect of her pupils,
and of their relations. In this position she
was, at least, sheltered against want. She
came to see me sometimes,—every year
once; for, the journey from Berlin was
costly; and although we could not deny
ourselves this interview of half-an-hour a year,