of government. What you wanted was the minimum of government, always less government. Liberty, what we believed in, now the name of a MacFadden publication. We believed in that although they had not found a new name for it yet. But what was the real one? What was the real, the actual, opium of the people? He knew it very well. It was gone just a little way around the corner in that well-lighted part of his mind that was there after two or more drinks in the evening; that he knew was there (it was not really there of course). What was it? He knew very well. What was it? Of course; bread was the opium of the people. Would he remember that and would it make sense in the daylight? Bread is the opium of the people.
“Listen,” Mr. Frazer said to the nurse when she came. “Get that little thin Mexican in here, will you, please?”
“How do you like it?” the Mexican said at the door.
“Very much.”
“It is a historic tune,” the Mexican said. “It is the tune of the real revolution.”
“Listen,” said Mr. Frazer. “Why should the people be operated on without an anæsthetic?”
“I do not understand.”
“Why are not all the opiums of the people good? What do you want to do with the people?”
“They should be rescued from ignorance.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Education is an opium of the people. You ought to know that. You’ve had a little.”
“You do not believe in education?”
“No,” said Mr. Frazer. “In knowledge, yes.”
“I do not follow you.”
“Many times I do not follow myself with pleasure.”
“You want to hear the Cucaracha another time?” asked the Mexican worriedly.
“Yes,” said Mr. Frazer. “Play the Cucaracha another time. It’s better than the radio.”
Revolution, Mr. Frazer thought, is no opium. Revolution
