Through dissatisfaction about wages, or from any cause, men have a right
to stop work, and to stop in bands and bodies until their labour shall
be appreciated; but when by violence, as in the summer of 1877, they
compel others to stop, or hinder substitutes from taking the places,
then the act is Communistic, and ought to be riven of the lightnings of
public condemnation. What was the matter in Pittsburg that summer? What
fired the long line of cars that made night hideous? What lifted the
wild howl in Chicago? Why, coming toward that city, were we obliged to
dismount from the cars and take carriages through the back streets? Why,
when one night the Michigan Central train left Chicago, were there but
three passengers on board a train of eight cars? What forced three rail
trains from the tracks and shot down engineers with their hands on the
valves? Communism. For hundreds of miles along the track leading from
the great West I saw stretched out and coiled up the great reptile
which, after crushing the free locomotive of passengers and trade, would
have twisted itself around our republican institutions, and left them in
strangulation and blood along the pathway of nations. The governors of
States and the President of the United States did well in planting the
loaded cannon at the head of streets blocked up by desperadoes. I felt
the inspiration of giving warning, and I did.

But the summer came, August came, and after a lecture tour through the
far West I was amazed and delighted to find there a tremendous harvest
in the grain fields. I had seen immense crops there about to start on
their way to the Eastern sea-boundary of our continent. I saw then that
our prosperity as a nation would depend upon our agriculture. It didn't
make any difference what the Greenback party, or the Republican and
Democratic parties, or the Communists were croaking about; the immense
harvests of the West indicated that nothing was the matter. What we
needed in the fall of 1878 was some cheerful talk.

During this summer two of the world's celebrities died: Charles Mathews,
the famous comedian, and the great American poet, William Cullen Bryant.
Charles Mathews was an illustrious actor. He was born to make the world
laugh, but he had a sad life of struggle.

While Charles Mathews was performing in London before immense audiences,
one day a worn-out and gloomy man came into a doctor's shop, saying,
"Doctor, what can you do for me?" The doctor