I countered with a telegram to one or more newspapers in every city and large town in the United States: “The Seven” are trying to cut the wires between the truth and the public. If you wish my daily letter, telegraph me direct and I will send it at my expense. The response should have warned “The Seven.” But it did not. Under their orders the telegraph companies refused to transmit the letter. I got an injunction. It was obeyed in typical, corrupt corporation fashion--they sent my matter, but so garbled that it was unintelligible. I appealed to the courts. In vain. To me it was clear as sun in cloudless noonday sky that there could be but one result of this insolent and despotic denial of my rights and the rights of the people, this public confession of the truth of my charges. I waited for the cataclysm. Thursday--Friday--Saturday. Apparently all was tranquil; apparently the people accepted the Wall Street theory that I was an “exploded sensation.” “The Seven” began to preen themselves; the strain upon them to maintain prices, if no less than for three months past, was not notably greater; the crisis would pass, I and my exposures would be forgotten, the routine of reaping the harvests and leaving only the gleanings for the sowers would soon be placidly resumed. Sunday. Roebuck, taken ill as he was passing the basket in the church of which he was the shining light, died at midnight--a beautiful, peaceful death, they say, with his daughter reading the Bible aloud, and his lips moving in prayer. Some hold that, had he lived, the tranquillity would have continued; but this is the view of those who can not realize that the tide of affairs is no more controlled by the “great men” than is the river led down to the sea by its surface flotsam, by which we measure the speed and direction of its current. Under that terrific tension, which to the shallow seemed a calm, something had to give way. If the dam had not yielded where Roebuck stood guard, it must have yielded somewhere else, or might have gone all in one grand crash. Monday. You know the story of the artist and his statue of Grief--how he molded the features a hundred times, always failing, always getting an anti-climax, until at last, in despair, he gave up the impossible and finished the statue with a veil over the face. I have tried again and again to assemble words that would give some not too inadequate impression of that tremendous week in which, with a succession of explosions, each like the crack of doom, the financial structure that housed eighty millions of people burst, collapsed, was engulfed. I cannot. I must leave it to your memory or your imagination.