To the cry of ingratitude Peter thus replies.--There is a
village, he says, in which, once a year, the inhabitants sit down to a
dinner provided at the common expense. A hundred years ago the inhabitants
of three of the streets seized the inhabitants of the fourth street, bound
them hand and foot, laid them on their backs, and compelled them to look on
while the majority were stuffing themselves with beef and beer--and this,
although they had contributed an equal quota to the expense. Next year the
same assault was perpetrated. It soon grew into a custom; and, as years
went on, the village came to look on the annual act of tyranny as the most
sacred of its institutions. Unfortunately, however, for the tyrannical
majority, the inhabitants of the persecuted street increased in numbers,
determination, and public spirit. They murmured, protested, and resisted,
till the oppressors, "more afraid of injustice, were now disposed to be
just." On the next occasion of the annual dinner, the victims were unbound.
The year after, they were allowed to sit upright. Then they got a bit of
bread and a glass of water. Finally, after a long series of small
concessions, they grew so bold as to ask that they might sit down at the
bottom of the table, and feast with their grander neighbours. Forthwith, a
general cry of shame and scandal.--
"Ten years ago, were you not laid upon your backs? Don't you remember
what a great thing you thought it to get a piece of bread? How
thankful you were for cheese-parings? Have you forgotten that
memorable aera, when the lord of the manor interfered to obtain for you
a slice of the public pudding? And now, with an audacity only equalled
by your ingratitude, you have the impudence to ask for knives and
forks, and to request, in terms too plain to be mistaken, that you may
sit down to table with the rest, and be indulged even with beef and
beer.
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