The motion was rejected.
At the next stage of the bill Mr. Sumner renewed his motion to strike out the tax on books, and then said:—
Mr. President,—I am sorry to occupy the attention of the Senate, even for a moment, especially at this late stage of a protracted debate. But I feel that the question which I have presented is not adequately appreciated. I venture to say, that, in point of principle, few questions of equal importance have arisen on this bill.
The tax on books is peculiar, and, so far as I know, without precedent in other countries. In England paper has been taxed, but books not; here paper is to be taxed, and books too. For instance, there is to be a tax of three per cent on paper, and then five per cent additional on books, making a sum-total of eight per cent on books.
The tax of three per cent on paper seems contrary to sound policy. But the additional tax of five per cent on books is more indefensible still. I have already likened it to a tax on wheat or flour or bread, which you do not think of imposing. More than either of these is a book “the staff of life.” It may be likened also to a tax on the light of day, like the English window-tax, which you do not think of imposing. Better shut out the light of day than the light of books.
The book in some cases may be a luxury, but in most cases it is a necessary, while always the handmaid of civilization. It is for all ages and all conditions,—for young and old, for rich and poor, for the family circle as well as the library,—but it is especially for the school. In all these places you will enter and demand eight per cent on every book. Every book, if it had a voice, would repel the demand.
Why not be instructed by the example of England, when taxing everything taxable? Read the extensive list of articles taxed at the period of most searching and wide-spread taxation, and you do not find books. Read that marvellous enumeration made by the genius of Sydney Smith, and you do not find books.
“Taxes upon every article which enters into the mouth, or covers the back, or is placed under the foot; taxes upon everything which it is pleasant to see, hear, feel, smell, or taste; taxes upon warmth, light, and locomotion; taxes on everything on earth and the waters under the earth, on everything that comes from abroad or is grown at home; taxes on the raw material; taxes on every fresh value that is added to it by the industry of man; taxes on the sauce which pampers man’s appetite, and the drug that restores him to health,—on the ermine which decorates the judge, and the rope which hangs the criminal,—on the poor man’s salt, and the rich man’s spice,—on the brass nails of the coffin, and the ribbons of the bride,—at bed or board, couchant or levant,—we must pay. The school-boy whips his taxed top; the beardless youth manages his taxed horse with a taxed bridle on a taxed road; and the dying Englishman, pouring his medicine which has paid seven per cent into a spoon that has paid fifteen per cent, flings himself back upon his chintz bed which has paid twenty-two per cent, and expires in the arms of an apothecary who has paid a license of a hundred pounds for the privilege of putting him to death. His whole property is then immediately taxed from two to ten per cent. Besides the probate, large fees are demanded for burying him in the chancel; his virtues are handed down to posterity on taxed marble; and he is then gathered to his fathers, to be taxed no more.”[345]
A passage so exquisite in wit and language is seasonable here, especially when considering what shall be taxed; but I ask you to bear in mind that the English tax-gatherer never laid his hand on a book. Everything else he might touch,—a book never.