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THE UNITED AMERICAN
and 'scandals, instead of reducing taxes.
What’s a Congress for ? We’d be better
off without it. Very well. Let us drop
Bill in a land; that (has no Congress to
milk the taxpayer by ¿fixed and painful
contributions. We’ll put him down in
a country where the King 'selects his
favorite ward boss —called a Farmer-
General of Taxes — who either slips
His Majesty a lump sum for the
privilege, or blackmails on percentage.
Anyhow, this Farmer-General has hench
men in every community with power to
squeeze the subject as they see fit —
and Bill becomes a fit subject for the
squeeze. Here beginneth the first lesson.
And the second lesson is like unto it,
that Bill dares not open his mouth to
holler when this Farmer-General tightens
the screws. Kicking is a free American
privilege but Bill is no longer in
America, so he must swallow his wrath
in silence. Meanwhile industrious under
strappers of the Farmer-General turn him
upside down and shake out his pockets,
part of the plunder going to the King,
and a fat balance enriching the col
lectors.
That was the frank and primitive
procedure in those good old days —a
system which operated splendidly for
the Farmer-General. Yet even then
there were grumblers who complained.
In fact some of our grandfathers pro
tested so effectively that they abolished
the beautiful plan.
Again: Bill says that he doesn’t mind
our long-established taxes. Like old
shoes they’ve almost stopped hurting.
It’s these new-fangled contraptions that
he kicks against. Perfectly true. Pro
gress introduces new problems. Job
had plenty of worries, but sidestepping
a Ford wasn’t one of them. Up-to-date
America has new taxes — for example,
a tariff on Mah Jongg, a scheme beyond
the imagination of Solomon. And Bill
vociferously proclaims that no other
d.... government ever sprung such a
multitude of inventions for revenue only.
But suppose, in the country to which
Bill went back, this Farmer-General has
been lying awake at night studying up
financial innovations to raise money,
until a brilliant idea strikes him, and he
orders his baliff to fetch Bill Grouch.
“Varlet Grouch,” announces the Farmer-
General, “hereafter you will pay me a
rate of one dollar for each and every
window in your house.” Gee! That is
something new. And Bill had to pay
this distressing novelty which compelled
the poor to build their shacks without
windows, thereby escaping taxation. For
they had tax dodgers in the good old
days; and not all of them were
millionaires.
4:
*
*
Or suppose,. in the land where we
dropped him, that Bill Grouch happened
to become a fisherman and live upon a
romantic shore. Cresting the crag above
him stood a grim gray castle, for Bill was
now in the middle of the good old days.
Fishing fcr fun is, lazy sport; but de
pending upon his catch for daily rations
makes a fellow hustle. Bill had to get
up before day; and it was late at night
before he dragged himself home again,
tired out, wet and hungry, with his
meager haul of fish. Already Bill was
sore over the window tax, when the
seigneur’s steward comes in with a
brand-new exaction which rubs Bill raw.
For the steward informed Bill that out of
each basket of fish he must send the
finest and faittest, with his compliments,
to my lord who lives in the castle.
“Why?” Bill asks. “He didn’t catch
’em, did he ? That fellow never wet a
hook.”
• “No,” answered the steward, “but my
lord holds the feudal rights over all
waters of this seigneury. Whoever takes
fish must send the seigneur his share.”
And Bill couldn’t help himself, for law
was law in the good old days.
After this lesson Bill kept on learning
more and more about taxation, for pres
ently the Abbot rode along on his donkey
and claimed every tenth sheaf that Bill
produced in his scraggy patch of wheat.
This taxation game was played like
poker in the South, where every few
minutes they sprung some freak hand
on Bill which beat whatever he happened
to hold. Scarcely a day passed without
its tax novelty. Being a salt water fish
erman Bill’s cottage overlooked the sea.
One morning his baby was 'seized with
convulsions, for babies had fits in the
good old days. Mrs. Grouch rushed
frantically to the shore, scooped up a
bucket of water and started for home.
But she never reached the cottage, be
cause a customs officer — wearing red
epaulets, gold braid and whiskers —
arrested Mrs. Grouch and locked her in
gaol for violating the excise laws. Vainly
did the mother plead that she only
meant to heat the water and bathe her
child. “No,” said the law of taxation;
“you might heat this water too hot, per
chance you might even boil it, and save
a pinch of salt, thus defrauding our
government of its legal dues on the salt
monopoly.”
Hot bath or no hot bath, however, the
baby gets well, and his relieved parents
take him in their flivver to visit Aunt
Carolina, five miles away. Joyfully Bill
gives her the gas, but as they attempt
to pass the boundary of their own two-
by-four municipality a revenue officer
halts them. Speeding? No. The func
tionary only pokes an official yardstick
into their tank, and jots down precisely
how much gas they carry, then measures
it again upon their return. So if Bill
Grouch acquires a half pint of petrol
in the next town, he must pay a village
import duty.
And yet, being a patient payer of the
serene old days, Bill kicks at none of
these extortions, provided every other
sucker pays the same. Until, one day,
Bill just happens to catch on to a fact —
his next door neighbor, Mr. Smith, pays
no land tax, no fish tax, no window tax,
no tax of any kind. Why? Because,
forsooth, his neighbor’s name begins
with a “de.” As a noble Mr. de Smith
is exempt. Bill hates exemptions. No
body named de Smith, or de Jones, or
d’Anything pays taxes. Like poverty and
MARCH, 1925 I
humble resignation, taxes are for the
common herd. Although the nobles are
the largest landholders and the richest
people, every burden of administration
must be born by the poor. And from
those good old days, yea even down unto
our own decadent times, come the
mutterings of their discontent. During
his foreign- sojourn Mr. Bilious Q.
Grouch might pick up a lot of dope on
taxation, if he could only realize how
people were robbed in the honest days
of yore.
♦ ♦ ♦
Another flagrant outrage, that Mr.
Grouch observes in the headlines, and
firmly believes, is our growing im-
morality in high places. Maybe so. It
is quite possible to concede that every
United States Senator and Big Bug is
not secretly a Sir Galahad. Some fellow
may wobble, and if he lets a foot slip
the gleeful journalist prints pictures of
his fair Banana Peel. These tattling«
ate nuts to Mr. Grouch who insists that
such philandering frailties are getting
worse.
But suppose we had dropped Bill,
only a few years ago, at one of the
erotic European Courts. Suppose we
had smuggled Bill on the inside, to hear
the boudoir intrigues, and then let Bill
draw an American parallel? Like this:
The President of these United States
installs several dazzling ladies 'in the
White House, and numerous other vamps
in marble halls nearby. He surrounds
himself with a dozen families of illegiti-
mate children, left-handed Princes of
the Blood, who must be given nobly re-
munerative jobs. So their proud father
appoints them Collector of the Port of
New York, Secretary of the Treasury,
Admiral of the Navy, etc., while creating
their mothers Duchess of Arlington.
Marquise of Columbia, and Countess of
Chevy Chase. Each lipstick lady with
her Pekinese and each prince must have
an expensive estalishment, supporting
swarms of 'satellites.- Royalty, even the
bar sinister brand, costs -money, and
bills for this magnificence our President
nonchalantly passes on to his people.
But suppose he did, as was uniformly
done in those virtuous old days, wouldn’t
it be worth the price of admission to
watch our Appropriations Committee,
and hear the free-for-all debate in
Congress?
* ♦ ♦
Or suppose that Bill Grouch had been
set down in Russia during the reign of
Catherine II, perhaps the greatest
woman that ever wore a crown? Bill
might be able to make some entertaining
comparisons, if these United States
Should then be ruled by a Lady Presi-
dent. For Bill’s enlightenment let us
assume the election of a Presidentess
Catherine, who frankly abhors a double
standard, and proves the courage of her
convictions by placing lover after lover
in most luxurious suites. Sweety in the
suite becomes the Man of the Hour, all-
powerful while the flavor- lasts. To
him every Ambassador and Count official
must kowtow. The Man of the Hour used
to enjoy no end of perquisites and pre-
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