en established at the telegraph office, and he has wisely suppressed every dispatch saying a word about the war. But a servant girl comes in with a hurried scrawl on a torn sheet of delicately-scented French paper, in a lady's hand:
"George H. Montgomery, Fifth Avenue Hotel New York.
Do come home at once — Mary cannot live twenty-four hours longer.
How can be stop, that?
But George H. Montgomery is a myth, and Mary's illness means Hooker's defeat, and the hotel George H. Montgomery is a myth, and Mary's illness means Hooker's defeat, and the hotel clerk has been instructed to send any such dispatch by the speediest means to somebody's bank down town; and the firm makes the money, and the Government censors keeps blinking like an owl over the dispatches, and rigidly stopping "everything relating to the war;" and Mr. Stanton felicitate himself over having made those newspaper pests send their accounts by mall rather than by telegraph! "How little sense it takes to run a Government," said some wise man.
Once, during last summer, a leadi