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.”