I have ever held that truth is stronger than falsehood, that an honest man has but to sit still, let the storm blow over, and bide his time. It does not shake this doctrine that things have fallen out differently with me. For some time I had seen the cloud gathering; caught evil reports flying about; noticed that in society or in public meetings, now and then an acquaintance gave me the "cold shoulder." Also, what troubled me more, for it was a hindrance felt daily, my influence and authority in the gaol did not seem quite what they used to be. I met no tangible affront, certainly, and all was tolerably smooth sailing, till I had to find fault, and then, as you know, a feather will show which way the wind blows! It was a new experience, for, at the worst of times, in camp or hospital, my poor fellows always loved me--I found it hard. More scurrilous newspaper paragraphs, the last and least obnoxious of which I sent you lest you might hear of it in some other way, followed those proceedings of mine concerning reformatories. Two articles--the titles, "Physician, heal thyself," and "Set a thief to catch a thief," will give you an idea of their tenor--went so far as to be actionable libels. Several persons here, our chaplain especially, urged me to take legal proceedings in defence of my character, but I declined. One day, arguing the point, the chaplain pressed me for my reasons, which I gave him, and will give you, for I have since had only too much occasion to remember them literally. I said I had always had an instinctive dislike and dread of the law; that a man was good for little if he could not defend himself by any better weapons than the verdict of an ignorant jury, and a specious, sometimes lying, barrister's tongue. The old clergyman, alarmed, "hoped I was not a duellist," at which I only smiled. It never occurred to me to take the trouble of denying any such ridiculous purpose. I knew not how, when once the ball is set rolling against a man, his lightest words are made to gather weight and meaning, his very looks are brought in judgment upon him. It is the way of the world. You see I can moralize, a sign that I am recovering myself; I think, with the relief of telling all out to you. "But," reasoned the chaplain, "when a man is innocent, why should he not declare it? Why sit tamely under calumny? It is unwise,--nay, unsafe. You are almost a stranger here, and we in the provinces like to find out everything about everybody. If I might suggest," and he apologized for what he called the friendly impertinence, "why not be a little less modest, a little more free with your personal history, which must have a remarkable one, and let some friend, in a quiet, delicate way, see that the truth is as widely disseminated as the slander? If you will trust me--" "I could not choose a better pleader," said I, gratefully; "but it is impossible." "How so? A man like you can have nothing to dread--nothing to conceal."