There was, you remember, one battle in the late Civil War called the Seven Days’ Battle. Mark the dates very carefully: June 25 to July 1, 1862—seven days—a bloody, horrible week. For several reasons this battle was regarded as most critical; many thoughtful people, North and South, believed the Union would stand or fall with this battle. President Lincoln ordered General McClellan to capture the Confederate capital, Richmond, or hurry north and protect Washington. As the conflict came closer and closer capitalists and statesmen grew busier—timing a master stroke. June 24, the nation watched Virginia: one of the most prolonged and savage struggles in the whole history of mankind was imminent. June 24, therefore, was, for certain men, the last day of special preparation. The cannon would surely begin next day to roar around Richmond. All was ready (in Washington).... The understanding was perfect (in Washington). “_Without a single syllable of debate_,” a certain bill (precisely as it had been handsomely amended by the Senate) was passed by the House by a vote of 104 to 21. The finishing touch was thus put upon a carefully constructed trap, a trap set by “leading citizens,” a trap for big game. Next day—June 25—the cannon did begin to boom around the Confederate capital. The first day’s struggle—June 25—was awful. The news flashed through the land. Millions turned pale. But the bandits in Washington were cool. The trap was set. They waited. The second day was a slaughter. More smiles and confidence in the best Washington hotels. The third day of the battle was a butchering contest. The whole people watched, listened. The news flamed north and south. Millions, terrified, read the dead roll. But the broadcloth gentlemen wept not. They waited—patriotically. The fourth day was a storm of blood and iron. But the eminent business men, bankers, statesmen, promoters and other patriotic looters, safe in Washington—far from the firing line—waited, drank fine wine and very confidently waited—waited as lions wait—to spring to the throats of their victims. Mr. Lincoln held back his signature from that “certain Bill.” He was doing his best for the boys in the trenches, and was justly suspicious of the promoter-banker patriotism in Washington. The fifth day millions looked toward Virginia—and were sickened with grief. But certain prominent gentlemen in Washington cheerfully jested, ate the best food on earth, lolled in easy chairs, gracefully reclined on elegantly upholstered sofas, craftily plotted—and waited, in calm confidence waited. The sixth day of the battle was “Death’s feast.” The nation, North and South, was stupefied with the horror of the war. But certain “highly respected leading citizens,” Christian business men—flag-waving patriots all of them—quaffed their wine, chatted gaily, plotted, and, like reptiles, coiled to strike—waited, confident.