Punch or The London charivari: Punch or The London charivari (2.1842)

138

PUNCH, OR THE

LONDON CHARIVARI.

THE INCOME INQUISITION.

OUBTLESS the Inquisition of
Spain was a terrible institution,
but nothing to the Income-tax
of Sir Robert Peel. It must
have been sufficiently disagree-
able to have one's legs and arms
stretched upon the rack—with
nippers now and then biting
one's flesh ; the whole toconclude
Iwith an auto dafe,—the principal
(performer to be supplied at our
'own physical cost. All this must
have been very inconvenient to
[heretical tradesmen and others
[of Catholic Spain—but all as no-
rthing to the institution about to
be established by the Premier,
for the coercion of English shop-
keepers. What is straining and
snapping a muscle or two, to the desecration of a man's purse-strings?
What the finger of the surgeon on the pulse of the sufferer, to learn
what greater degree of torture the victim will bear—to the ruthless
handof the Income Commissioner, turning over the sheets of the ledger
to learn the fiscal strength of the tradesman ? What's bleeding to
death at once for some fantastic heresy—to being continually bled
for Sir Robert's sevenpence ? Speculative philosophers have
declared the soul of man to be placed in the pineal gland. Men of
the world know better : the true home of the soul is—the breeches'
pocket ?

The Income-tax is a prying, meddlesome tax; a scoundrel busy-
body, poking his nose into every man's concerns, and with a lament-
able ignorance of the first principles of social life, destroying a
deceit that civilisation has made as necessary to the decent people
of this world as their coats or nether garments. As things are at
present, a man without a shilling shall trade upon the simplicity of
his fellows ; shall have " a bold and swashing outside" upon credit,
and by the very fiction of appearance, «arry on a life of successful
imposition. Who shall say he is not a creature of ingots ? Alas !
hereupon comes Income-tax, and in the market-place publishes the
said outside adventurer to be a man of chaff—a thing of straw !
This is evidently a great wrong done to that commercial spirit of the
country which, possessing nothing, realises upon the duplicity of
others a considerable profit by its stock in hand!

The Income-tax is inquisitorial! In consequence of its operation,
every man must inevitably have some knowledge of the true means
of his neighbour. Why, if society were regulated by just principles
—if honesty, and nought but honesty, traded in the market—bar-
tered in the warehouse, and sold behind the counter—a man would
no more seek to mask his means from the world than he now seeks
to mask his face. We suspect that the cry against the inquisitorial
nature of the Income-tax is raised chiefly by those persons who, on
being searched—with all their outside promise—will be found to
have nothing upon them !

We all of us profess ourselves Christians. Yet—(we have in a pre-
vious article touched upon the theme)—what a social revolution, if
for one week only, London—mercantile, moral London—wrere regu-
lated by purely Christian principles ! We all of us repudiate the
charge of social hypocrisy—we deny with uplifted hands the accu-
sation of the slanderer, who would insinuate that our whole trading
life is a long deceit—an acted duplicity to deceive the world about
us,—and yet we raise our voices, and clamour about the wrong that
would test the purity of our motives, the truth of our assertions.
On this principle, hypocrisy is the tutelar spirit of society—the foun-
dations of all cities are lies.

Was it not Momus who would have had man with a window in his
breast, that his fellow-men might at a glance see all that was passing
therein ? Now, if it were possible, on a petition to Jupiter, to have
all men so constructed, and the petition lay, for instance, at Exeter
Hall for signatures, how many of the oldest and purest visitors to that
tabernacle of benevolence would be found to write their names upon
the sheepskin ? We will take a grand day ; a day on which are as-
sembled meek, good, pious, charitable men, with" their wives, their
sons, and their daughters. How many of such folks—if you will only take
their self-valuation—are speckless as ermine ; in whose bosoms re-
side all that is pure, and gracious, and gentle—would vote for the

pane of glass, that the treasure might be exhibited ? How many,
with an angel of goodness in their breast, would choose to have the
much-vaunted angel glazed ? No, on a show of hands, we do not for
an instant doubt that the pane of glass would be voted very inconve-
nient—extremely inquisitorial!

What Momus would have done for the breasts of men, our mirth-
ful Premier would do for their breeches' pockets. Whereupon Jex-
kins, who has long had the reputation of wealth, refuses to let men
have the most passing glance at his property. His pocket is bursting
—plethoric with bank-paper ; but that's his business : he's above the
vanity of wishing to show it. He'll have no plate-glass let into his
kerseymere—'twould be so very inquisitorial!

The debates on the Income Tax have produced the publication oi
some odd theories. It is not often that we differ with Mr. Charles
Buller. He is, for the most part, a straightforward, practical man;
but he has on the present matter shown some odd notions of the philo-
sophy of taxation. For instance, he would have men juggled out of
their money without knowing by what process, and with also a per-
fect ignorance of the amount of money they pay. " For he must say
it did appear to him a very unwise thing in a country where so large
a portion of every man's income was taken from him for public pur-
poses, to let each individual know the exact amount of his contribution."

In some countries where a large quantity of blood is taken from
the inhabitants, the vital principle is so adroitly subtracted whilst
the sufferers are asleep, that they know not the " exact" numbei
of ounces they have lost, but—and the knowledge is doubtless suffi-
cient—only know themselves weak, enervated, unfit for labour
The vampire-bat is the tax-gatherer on these occasions. For we
are told that the creature in the silence of night fixes itself upon the
toes of the sleeper, and drinks and drinks its greedy draughts of
blood ; and while it drinks, benevolently fans its victim with its
wings, and so the sleeper—i. e. the tax-payer—sleeps on, until the
vampire is gorged ; and then the creature goes away, leaving the
man in perfect ignorance of the amount of income he has in his
slumber subscribed. Now this is the sort of tax-gatherer proposed
by Mr. Charles Buller. Doctor Peel, however, says, "No; I
want so many ounces of blood from every man, according to his
capabilities of losing the same : I will take them, weigh them fairly,
so hold out your arm, and—where's the basin ?"

Mr. Charles Buller also observes in favour of indirect tax-
ation—

" It was paid by the tradesman you dealt with, being virtually charged
in the bills—prices, too, varying much more from other causes than the
amount imposed by taxes (at least, except in the cases of sugar, tobacco,
tea, &c.)—so that when the price of an article rose, and you complained,
you were convinced that it could not be owing to the tax, which had
remained stationary ; and the rise of price being besides far greater than
the amount perhaps of the tax, you would naturally complain probably of
your tradesmen, and say, ' What a cheat that butcher is !' (a laugh), but
you would never complain of the Government on account of such casual
rises in price."

But wherefore blame the " butcher !" When the Government
bleeds us, why place our loss of blood to the man of carcases ? Why
blame honest Knucklebone, when we should denounce the vampire-
bat of a Minister ? Q.

SIBTHORP'S SYMPATHIES.

There are many rumours abroad respecting Sir Robert Peel and
Colonel Sibthorp. Some folks declare that the Premier, imitating
Prince Hal with Falstaff, has, without knowing it, given the member
for Lincoln "medicines to make him love him." It is plain—plain as
the Colonel's face—that some witchery, some potent conjuration, has
been unwittingly exercised by Peel, that works incessantly upon
the gallant legislator. How the Colonel lets fall his eloquent jaw, as
though hungering for the pearls continually dropping from the Pre-
mier ! How his eyes sparkle, and his whole anatomy sublimates,
when Sir Robert rises ; and with what impetuous force he pours
forth the lava of his eloquence, scorching into cinders the hapless
Lord Russell, denouncing him as one "obliged to stick to a tail for the
want of a head," and then warbling forth praises of Sir Robert as
"manly—upright—immaculate—magnificent,"—Sir Robert all the
while wincing under the melodious tongue of the Colonel as though
it was a currycomb ! A few nights since, on the Committee of Ways
and Means, the anguish of Sir Robert Peel beneath the Colonel's
eulogy seemed intolerable. He reminded us of the suffering of the
Clown as promised by Autolycus ; a hapless creature " smeared with
honey," and then set over a wasp's apst. We understand that Sir
Robert, in despair, has offered any sum of money to whomsoever