reason from a ghoul, as in the event of open insurrection in our city, to
have looked to Wilbur F. Story, editor of the _Times_, to have endeavored
to suppress the flames his incendiary print had for years been fanning
into a blaze. And yet, citizens of Chicago and the West, this same Chicago
_Times, now_, after the occupation of Richmond by our forces, and the
surrender of Lee and all his forces, and the end of the rebellion is at
hand, this same Chicago _Times_ pretends to rejoice in our success, and
some days turns a cold shoulder upon its old friend and patron, who has
contributed to its circulation and prosperity for years--Jeff Davis--and
really declares that his master's cause is hopeless. Most noble Story,
most patriotic Story, most consistent Story! Rather weep with the fallen
fortunes of your masters. Flatter not yourself that the cloak of loyalty,
which you have found it so convenient to fling around you, as our Union
processions come marching along with thundering tread, that they will
believe your conversion sincere and lasting; the cloak is not long enough
to conceal your feet, and Union men will recognize the same Wilbur F.
Story, and none will be so obtuse as not to discover under any disguise
Bottom, the tailor. In the position of that Copperhead print, the state of
mind of the _Times_ man reminds us of an instance of what may be called
poor consolation, A soldier of a division, after the command had run two
days from the scene of an engagement, had thrown away his gun and
accouterments, and alone in the woods sat down and commenced thinking--the
first opportunity he had for doing so. Rolling up his sleeves, and looking
at his legs and general physique, he thus gave utterance to his feelings:
"I am whipped--badly whipped--and somewhat demoralized, but no man, thank
God, can say I'm scattered!" And so, the Chicago _Times_, though kicked out
of respectable society long ago, continues to print its daily issues,
while from the scarcity of Copperheads all at once, since our recent
glorious victories, we infer that _they_ have been "scattered;" and as
snakes cast their skins in the spring, so the Copperhead _Times_ seems to