The distaste for
all food grows upon you, till it becomes a loathing not to be driven
away by bitters or quinine: there is no savor in the smoke of
Kinnekinnick, nor any flavor in the still waters of Monongahela.
Physical prostration of necessity speedily ensues. Let me mention one
fact--not in vaunting, but in proof that I do not speak idly. When we
were trying those athletics at Greenland, the day after my capture, I
could rend a broad linen band fastened tightly round my upper arm by
bending the _biceps_: when I had been a month in Carroll place I had to
halt, at least once, from absolute breathlessness and debility, on the
stairs leading from the yard to the third story; my pulse was almost
imperceptible. By this time my sight had become so seriously affected
that I was absolutely unable to read the clearest print; even now, a
month after my enfranchisement, though keen Atlantic breezes and home
comforts have worked wonders, I cannot write five consecutive sentences
without a respite.
I am forced to quote my own experience; but I know that it could be
matched, if not exceeded, by very many cases of equal or worse
suffering.
Long confinement falls, of course, intensely harder on a stranger than
on a native. The latter, I suppose, can never quite divest himself of an
interest in passing events, which the former, at the best of times, can
but faintly share: besides which, most Americans--not purely political
prisoners--have either a definite term of captivity to look forward to,
or are, in one way or other, subject to the chances of exchange.
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