We are often told of the great reduction of taxation which has been effected—to the amount, it is said, of £12,000,000 sterling—since Free Trade was introduced; but this statement is grossly exaggerated. The following tables, taken from a late parliamentary paper, shows that the reduction of taxation under Protection has been nearly SEVEN TIMES GREATER than under Free Trade; for in the former period the reduction was £41,000,000, in the latter only £6,500,000:—
| 1816. Property Tax, £15,500,000.——War Malt, £2,100,000. | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Year. | Revenue. | Surplus. | Deficiency. | Taxes repealed. | Taxes imposed. |
| Before 1822 | £17,600,000 | ||||
| 1822 | £54,135,743 | £4,744,518 | 2,139,101 | ||
| 1823 | 52,755,564 | 4,300,747 | 4,050,250 | £18,596 | |
| 1824 | 54,416,230 | 3,888,172 | 1,704,724 | 49,605 | |
| 1825 | 52,347,674 | 3,049,150 | 3,639,551 | 48,100 | |
| 1826 | 50,241,408 | £645,920 | 1,973,812 | 188,725 | |
| 1827 | 50,241,658 | 826,675 | 84,038 | 21,402 | |
| 1828 | 52,104,643 | 3,246,994 | 51,998 | 1,966 | |
| 1829 | 50,786,682 | 1,711,550 | 126,406 | ||
| 1830 | 50,056,615 | 2,913,672 | 4,093,955 | 696,004 | |
| 1831 | 46,424,440 | 698,858 | 1,623,536 | 627,586 | |
| 1832 | 46,988,755 | 614,759 | 747,264 | 44,526 | |
| 1833 | 46,271,326 | 1,513,083 | 1,532,128 | ||
| 1834 | 46,509,856 | 1,608,155 | 2,066,116 | 199,594 | |
| 1835 | 46,043,663 | 1,620,941 | 165,877 | 5,575 | |
| 1836 | 48,702,654 | 2,130,092 | 1,021,786 | 3,991 | |
| 1837 | 46,475,194 | 655,760 | 234 | 630 | |
| 1838 | 47,333,460 | 345,227 | 289 | 8,423 | |
| 1839 | 47,844,898 | 1,512,793 | 63,418 | ||
| 1840 | 47,567,565 | 1,593,971 | 1,258,959 | 2,274,240 | |
| 1841 | 48,084,359 | 2,101,370 | 27,170 | ||
| 1842 | 46,965,630 | 3,979,539 | 1,596,366 | 5,629,989 | |
| 1843 | 52,582,817 | 1,443,304 | 411,821 | ||
| 1844 | 54,003,753 | 3,356,105 | 458,810 | ||
| 1845 | 53,060,354 | 3,817,642 | 4,535,561 | 23,720 | |
| 40,963,170 | £9,840,768 | ||||
| 9,840,768 | |||||
| Net reduction of taxation before Free Trade, | £30,922,802 | ||||
| Taxes repealed since Free Trade. | |||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| Year. | Revenue. | Surplus. | Deficiency. | Taxes repealed. | Taxes imposed. |
| 1846 | £53,790,138 | £2,846,308 | £1,151,790 | £2,000 | |
| 1847 | 51,546,264 | £2,956,684 | 344,886 | ||
| 1848 | 53,388,717 | 796,419 | 585,968 | ||
| 1849 | 52,951,749 | 2,098,126 | 388,798 | ||
| 1850 | 52,810,680 | 2,578,806 | 1,310,151 | ||
| 1851 | 52,233,006 | 2,726,396 | 2,679,864 | 600,000 | |
| 6,462,457 | £602,000 | ||||
| 602,000 | |||||
| Net reduction of taxation since Free Trade, | £5,860,457 | ||||
Further, how has this reduction of £5,860,457 been effected? Simply by the previous imposition of the income-tax, which produced £5,629,000 before Free Trade began. That is, Sir R. Peel took taxes off the shoulders of the whole community, when it was so generally diffused that it was not felt, and laid it as an exclusive burden upon less than 300,000 individuals in it! This is not reduction of taxation; it is shifting the burden, for the sake of popularity, from one class to another, on whom it falls with crushing severity.
The Free-Traders boast of a surplus of above £2,500,000 annually under the operation of their system. But for the income-tax it would not be a surplus at all, but a deficit of £3,000,000 annually. So oppressive, however, vexatious, and unjust is that tax, and so enormous the severity with which it presses upon agricultural industry compared to commercial, that its continuance cannot much longer be endured. It has been truly described as an “impost on the landed interest, and a contribution by the commercial.” And that really is its character, so flagrant are the frauds and evasions by which the unscrupulous among the trading classes evade its operation. The present high state of the public funds, owing to the long continuance of peace, the destruction of a large part of the trading classes by Sir Robert Peel’s monetary system, and the impulse given to industry by the repeal of that system, by the opening of the great banks of issue by Providence in California and Australia, has now raised the 3 per cents above 100, and gives a fair prospect of the Chancellor of the Exchequer being able to save £1,500,000 to the nation annually, by converting the 3 per cents into a 2½ per cent stock. Should he effect this, and, by the aid of that reduction and the surplus, succeed in taking off the income-tax, he will confer the greatest boon ever bestowed on his country since the former tax of 10 per cent was repealed, and do more to establish the popularity of his administration, than by any other measures that could possibly be devised.
THE MOOR AND THE LOCH.[[9]]
By many who are fond of excitement, and by some who require it, a general election may be considered as rather a pleasant event. It certainly does break in upon the monotony of everyday existence, and gives a strong fillip to the latent energies of the people. The burly energetic patriot, who can spout, and bellow, and declaim, now becomes a man of mark and likelihood—a very Saul among his brethren. The aged plotter of the clique—“Sesina, that old negotiator”—as he shuffles past, with a dodge evidently concealed beneath the grizzly penthouse of his eyebrows, is regarded with mysterious awe as the hierophant of electioneering wiles. Even the veriest noodle finds his value rising in the market; for, if he is fit for nothing else, he can at least call at the electors’ houses, and leave cards for the candidates. Ever open from morning to night are the doors of the committee-rooms, vomiting forth shoals of canvassers, and reabsorbing them on their return with the reports of their daily mission. All this, we allow, may be agreeable to those whose blood, in ordinary times, is wont to stagnate; but, for our part, we do not scruple to confess that such an occasion as the present is exceedingly distracting and inconvenient. Our political principles, we take it, are tolerably well known; nor is it likely that, at the eleventh hour, we should change the tenor of our opinions: yet, in the course of the last two days, we have been waited on by no less than six separate sets of canvassers, “respectfully soliciting,” as they phrase it, our interest and vote in favour of Radicals of every dye, rank Whigs, and rampant Sectarians. In the streets no man is safe. Second votes are esteemed of more value than the first; and every third man you meet is intent upon nailing you for a pledge. Under these circumstances, availing ourselves of the plea that the weather is too sultry to admit of our stirring abroad, we have deserted our study, and emigrated to the attics, from the windows of which we can command a wide view of the distant Highland hills. Safe, therefore, we trust we may consider ourselves, for an hour or so at least, from all interruption, save the twittering of the swallows bringing food to their young in the nest at the upper corner of the window.
Beautiful in their disarray, and recalling many memories of forest, lake, and hill, are the implements of sylvan sport that our silent attic contains. There, in one corner, are our rods, six in number, from Behemoth, with which we slew the giant salmon of the Ness, to Spirling, the liveliest little wand that ever struck midge into the tongue of a Yarrow trout. What would we not give at this moment for a day’s fishing! O for a fairy car to waft us away bodily from the din of cities and hustings to the lovely bosom of Loch Awe! Soft and green wave the beeches in the summer breeze on those islands where the wood-hyacinth is so blue, and the honeysuckle so flush and fragrant; from the dark woods of Innistrynich you hear the doling of the cushat; while, nearer at hand, the mavis breaks out into a burst of melody. But there is a breeze on the loch, and the boat is on the shore, and Dugald opines that it is time to be up and doing. At the first cast, up rises a whopper, visibly yellow about the fin, and weighing, we shall suppose, by the way the line runs out, at least a pound and three quarters. Never did Limerick steel encounter a worthier foeman. At length, in the experienced hands of Dugald, the landing-net does its duty; and there he lies at the bottom of the boat, in all the lustre of his stars. Are the trout not rising to-day? With two pounders simultaneously upon your line, you may confidently answer—Yes; indeed, there would seem to be no end at all to their leaping. Towards evening we shall go down the loch, and try for a salmo ferox in Castle Connal bay; in the mean time, let us keep to the islands. But who is that in the boat contending, if we mistake not, with a salmon? Ha, Dugald! is it so indeed?—the author of the Moor and the Loch!
Hark! there goes the bell, recalling us at once from our day-dream. Who the mischief can have come to trouble us just now? What is this? Fire and faggots! “Your vote and interest are respectfully solicited in favour of Mr Macwheedle.” Why, the man is a rank Radical, and moreover coquetting with the Papists! John, fling this card into the waste-basket, and tell the gentlemen who brought it, with our compliments, that we are particularly engaged at present, but shall not fail to give our earnest attention to the subject. And stay, as the day is hot, you may as well offer them a glass of beer. No one shall say that we were guilty of discourtesy, though we were very nearly on the point of desiring them to go to Jericho. For have they not cost us a long journey, in bringing us back from Loch Awe before our time?
Vain would it be for us to retrace our steps, and conjure up again the eidolon of Mr Colquhoun in desperate battle with the fish. More happy than ourselves, he is doubtless at breezy Sonachan, whilst we are in the city, panting for a mouthful of refreshing air. But though we cannot remember him in person, we have his book beside us; and a better, more useful, or more entertaining companion for a sportsman cannot anywhere be found. Sporting treatises ought, generally speaking, to be received with considerable caution. Let any man, who is either an angler or a shot, reflect seriously on the enormous amount of exaggeration in which he has indulged whilst detailing the particulars of his prowess, and he will, if he has in him any candour at all, understand the force of our observation. Almost every one of us—and we are no exception—are in the habit of viewing our own exploits through the medium of powerful magnifying glasses. In doing so, we merely obey a law of nature which exhorts men to maintain their dignity and reputation; and there is no point whatever upon which people are so touchy as their success in sporting. To doubt, far less contradict, a gentleman who proffers for your acceptance the narrative of an enormous basketful killed a fortnight ago in the Tweed; or that of a red-deer, stopped at full speed in the Athole forest, at a distance of four hundred yards, by the rifle of the historian, and so huge that Crerar absolutely swooned at the sight of it; or of myriads of grouse, brought down right and left, without a single failure, is a hideous breach of manners. If, in your heart, you believe that your informant is a much inferior sportsman to yourself, you must meet him by overpowering statements; and it is very singular that, after having twice told a fabulous Iliad of your exploits, you end by thoroughly believing it. The boundary line between the realm of fact and that of fiction is very indistinct; we ought rather to say that it is nowhere absolutely marked, and that there exists a large tract of debatable land which may be plausibly claimed for either. For example, we are not at this moment certain whether we ever shot a hooper or not. We have, indeed, in our mind, a dream or vision of a star lit loch, with six beautiful white creatures feeding in a bay. We remember how we crept along, behind a dyke, our heart throbbing so hard as almost to choke us; and we can recall the agonising moment when a stick broke beneath the pressure of our knee, before we came within gunshot, and when the sentinel bird looked up as if conscious of the approach of an intruder. We remember how we levelled and fired. We remember also the dash in the water, and the whirr of wings; and if we do not remember having brought down a second swan, as it wheeled in circle, it is simply because we are somewhat dubious as to the real existence of the first. We should cut but a poor figure if we were questioned on oath as to that transaction. Sometimes the vision comes so clear that we have no doubt whatever that we killed both the swans. One lay dead-still in the bay, its wings distended, and its long neck sunk below the surface. The other fluttered a little way out, but we recovered him by means of a retriever. Then the question rises—which retriever was it, for we have had four of them in our day? Was it Neptune, unparalleled among the reeds at the divine season of the flappers? Or was it Grog, who was never known to lose a wounded hare? Or was it Cato, the curly, who could do everything but speak? Or was it Captain, who is at this moment the inheritor of our best affections? We cannot tell. It is impossible for us to say when or where it occurred. Sometimes we think it was in the Highlands, and then we fix upon Loch Sloy. At other times, it seems to us that we slew the swans in Saint Mary’s Loch, just below the Coppercleugh. Occasionally we are inclined to think that we only shot one of them; and, when very much out of spirits, we have seriously asked ourselves, whether we ever saw a wild swan, except stuffed, in a museum. Being in this state of perplexity, our practice is to split the difference of belief, and to maintain, on ordinary occasions, that we have shot one hooper. Of course, after a few tumblers with a sporting friend, we have no hesitation in bringing forward the second bird; but never, in any instance, have we violated our convictions by increasing the number to three. With this example in our mind, we always deal leniently with sportsmen. If a gentleman is so enthusiastic as to go out to Caffraria, Upper Egypt, or the Cordilleras, solely for the purpose of killing rhinoceroses, crocodiles, or condors, why should we doubt the truth of any narrative which he may be pleased to compile? How do you know that he did not shoot fifteen lions in the course of a summer’s evening, or that he did not ride across the Nile on the back of an enormous crocodile. To question his veracity is simply to commit that impertinence which we have seen practised by snobs, who, not content with your statement of the day’s sport, make a point of peering into your pannier, or examining the contents of your game-bag. Such hounds were intended by nature never to rise above the rank of a water-bailiff. They ought to be summarily dealt with, and dismissed to their kennel, with the reverse of a benison on their heads, and perhaps with a hint to their rear.