All this while that contemptible print, the Chicago _Times_, was instilling treason into the minds of its readers, and doing all that it could to embarrass the Government, discourage patriotism, and to give aid and comfort to the rebels; our victories, with that sheet, were always unimportant; our cause was unholy; our President a despot; our Union soldiers were hirelings; our Union-loving citizens were abolition fanatics; Jeff Davis was a master spirit of the age; his generals the heroes of the _Times_; and rebel victories were events cheering and hope giving, as they presaged the close of the war and peace; peace at the sacrifice of the Union, of national honor, of national dignity and national interests. Such was the Chicago _Times_ at that period--the darkest era in our history--and as well might we have looked for mercy from a hyena, or 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