[Illustration: 212]
Sir Robert Peel was never more triumphant than when, in the last session
of Parliament, he rebuked his followers for a casual defection in the
support of Government, by asking them what they had to complain of. Are
_we_ not on the Treasury benches? said the Right Honourable Baronet.
Do not my friend Graham and myself guide and direct you?--do we not
distribute the patronage and the honours of the government,--take
the pay--and rule the kingdom--what more would you have? Ungrateful
bucolics, you know not what you want! The apostrophe was bold, but not
original. I remember hearing of a West country farmer having ridden a
long day's journey on a poor, ill-fed hack, which, as evening drew near,
showed many symptoms of a fatal knock-up. The rider himself was well
tired, too, and stopped at an ale-house for a moment's refreshment,
while he left the jaded beast standing at the door. As he remounted his
saddle, a few minutes after, he seized his reins briskly, flourished his
whip (both like Sir Robert), and exclaimed:--“I 've had two glasses of
spirits.--Let us see if you won't go after that.”
[Illustration: 213]
“THE INCOME TAX.”
Among the many singular objections which have been made to the new
property tax, I find Mr. C. Buller stating in the House, that his
greatest dislike to the project lay in the exceedingly small amount of
the impost. “My wound is great because it is so small,” might have
been the text of the honourable and learned gentleman's oration. After
setting forth most eloquently the varied distresses of the country--its
accumulating debt and heavy taxation--he turns the whole weight of his
honest indignation against the new imposition, because, forsooth, it
is so “little burdensome, and will inflict so slight an additional load
upon the tax-payer.” There is an attempt at argument, however, on the
subject, which is somewhat amusing; for he continues not only to lament
the smallness of the new tax, but the “slight necessity that exists”
even for that. Had we some great national loss to make up, the
deficiency of which rendered a call on the united people necessary,
then, quoth he, how happily we should stand forward in support of the
Constitution. In fact, he deplores, in the most moving terms, that ill
off as the country is, yet it is not one-half so bad as it might be, or
as he should like to see it. Ah! had we only some disastrous Continental
war, devastating our commerce--ruining our Colonies, and eating into
the very heart of our national resources--how gladly I should pay this
Income Tax; but to remedy a curable evil--to restore, by prompt and
energetic measures, the growing disease of the State--is a poor,
pettifogging practice, that has neither heroism nor fame to recommend
it. I remember hearing that at one of those excellent institutions, so
appropriately denominated Magdalen Asylums, a poor, but innocent girl,
presented herself for admission, pleading her lonely and deserted
condition, as a plea for her reception. The patroness, an amiable and
excellent person--but somewhat of the complexion of the honourable and
learned Member for Liskeard--asked at once, whether she had resolved
on a total reformation of her mode of life. The other replied that her
habits had been always chaste and virtuous, and that her character had
been invariably above reproach. “Ah, in that case,” rejoined the lady,
“we can't admit you; this institution is expressly for the reception
of penitents. If you could only qualify for a week or so, there is no
objection to your admission.”
Is not this exactly Mr. Buller's proposition? “Let us have the Whigs
back for a few years longer; let us return to our admirable foreign
policy; and when we have successfully embroiled ourselves with
America, lost Canada, been beaten in China, driven out of our Eastern
possessions, and provoked a war with France, then I 'm your man for an
Income Tax; lay it on only heavily; let the nation, already bowed
down under the heavy burden of its calamities, receive in addition the
gracious boon of enormous taxation.” Homoeopathy teaches us that
nothing is so curative in its agency, as the very cause of our present
suffering, or something as analogous to it as possible; and, like
Hahnemann, Mr. Buller administers what the vulgar call “a hair of the
dog that bit us,” as the most sovereign remedy for all our evils.
The country is like a sick man with a whitlow, for the cure of which his
physician prescribes a slight, but clearly necessary, operation. Another
medical Dr. Buller is, however, standing by. He at once insinuates his
veto; remarks upon the trivial nature of the disease--the un-painful
character of the remedy; “but wait,” adds he--“wait till the
inflammation extends higher; have patience till the hand becomes swollen
and the arm affected; and then, when your agony is beyond endurance, and
your life endangered, then we 'll amputate the limb high up, and mayhap
you may recover, after all.”
As for me, it is the only occasion I 'm aware of, where a successful
comparison can be instituted between honour and the Whigs; for assuredly
neither have “any skill in surgery.”