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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 344/416
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“
They
own
us
,
these
task
-
masters
of
ours
;
they
own
our
homes
,
they
own
our
legislatures
.
We
cannot
escape
from
them
.
There
is
no
redress
.
We
are
told
we
can
defeat
them
by
the
ballot
-
box
.
They
own
the
ballot
-
box
.
We
are
told
that
we
must
look
to
the
courts
for
redress
;
they
own
the
courts
.
We
know
them
for
what
they
are
,
—
ruffians
in
politics
,
ruffians
in
finance
,
ruffians
in
law
,
ruffians
in
trade
,
bribers
,
swindlers
,
and
tricksters
.
No
outrage
too
great
to
daunt
them
,
no
petty
larceny
too
small
to
shame
them
;
despoiling
a
government
treasury
of
a
million
dollars
,
yet
picking
the
pockets
of
a
farm
hand
of
the
price
of
a
loaf
of
bread
.
“
They
swindle
a
nation
of
a
hundred
million
and
call
it
Financiering
;
they
levy
a
blackmail
and
call
it
Commerce
;
they
corrupt
a
legislature
and
call
it
Politics
;
they
bribe
a
judge
and
call
it
Law
;
they
hire
blacklegs
to
carry
out
their
plans
and
call
it
Organisation
;
they
prostitute
the
honour
of
a
State
and
call
it
Competition
.
“
And
this
is
America
.
We
fought
Lexington
to
free
ourselves
;
we
fought
Gettysburg
to
free
others
.
Yet
the
yoke
remains
;
we
have
only
shifted
it
to
the
other
shoulder
.
We
talk
of
liberty
—
oh
,
the
farce
of
it
,
oh
,
the
folly
of
it
!
We
tell
ourselves
and
teach
our
children
that
we
have
achieved
liberty
,
that
we
no
longer
need
fight
for
it
.
Why
,
the
fight
is
just
beginning
and
so
long
as
our
conception
of
liberty
remains
as
it
is
to
-
day
,
it
will
continue
.
“
For
we
conceive
of
Liberty
in
the
statues
we
raise
to
her
as
a
beautiful
woman
,
crowned
,
victorious
,
in
bright
armour
and
white
robes
,
a
light
in
her
uplifted
hand
—
a
serene
,
calm
,
conquering
goddess
.
Oh
,
the
farce
of
it
,
oh
,
the
folly
of
it
!
Liberty
is
NOT
a
crowned
goddess
,
beautiful
,
in
spotless
garments
,
victorious
,
supreme
.
Liberty
is
the
Man
In
the
Street
,
a
terrible
figure
,
rushing
through
powder
smoke
,
fouled
with
the
mud
and
ordure
of
the
gutter
,
bloody
,
rampant
,
brutal
,
yelling
curses
,
in
one
hand
a
smoking
rifle
,
in
the
other
,
a
blazing
torch
.
“
Freedom
is
NOT
given
free
to
any
who
ask
;
Liberty
is
not
born
of
the
gods
.
She
is
a
child
of
the
People
,
born
in
the
very
height
and
heat
of
battle
,
born
from
death
,
stained
with
blood
,
grimed
with
powder
.
And
she
grows
to
be
not
a
goddess
,
but
a
Fury
,
a
fearful
figure
,
slaying
friend
and
foe
alike
,
raging
,
insatiable
,
merciless
,
the
Red
Terror
.
”
Presley
ceased
speaking
.
Weak
,
shaking
,
scarcely
knowing
what
he
was
about
,
he
descended
from
the
stage
.
A
prolonged
explosion
of
applause
followed
,
the
Opera
House
roaring
to
the
roof
,
men
cheering
,
stamping
,
waving
their
hats
.
But
it
was
not
intelligent
applause
.
Instinctively
as
he
made
his
way
out
,
Presley
knew
that
,
after
all
,
he
had
not
once
held
the
hearts
of
his
audience
.
He
had
talked
as
he
would
have
written
;
for
all
his
scorn
of
literature
,
he
had
been
literary
.
The
men
who
listened
to
him
,
ranchers
,
country
people
,
store
-
keepers
,
attentive
though
they
were
,
were
not
once
sympathetic
.
Vaguely
they
had
felt
that
here
was
something
which
other
men
—
more
educated
—
would
possibly
consider
eloquent
.
They
applauded
vociferously
but
perfunctorily
,
in
order
to
appear
to
understand
.
Presley
,
for
all
his
love
of
the
people
,
saw
clearly
for
one
moment
that
he
was
an
outsider
to
their
minds
.
He
had
not
helped
them
nor
their
cause
in
the
least
;
he
never
would
.
Disappointed
,
bewildered
,
ashamed
,
he
made
his
way
slowly
from
the
Opera
House
and
stood
on
the
steps
outside
,
thoughtful
,
his
head
bent
.
