Er … what is the current rate of taxation, do you think?" I asked, tactfully drawing attention away from Stanhope's spluttering. Wylie pursed his lips, considering. A dandy, he wore the latest in modish wigs, and a small patch in the shape of a star beside his mouth. Under the powder, though, I thought I detected both a good-looking face and a very shrewd brain. "Oh, considering all incidentals, I should say it can amount to as much as two per centum of all income, if one was to include the taxes on slaves. Add taxes on lands and crops, and it amounts to a bit more, perhaps." "Two percent!" Stanhope choked, pounding himself on the chest. "Iniquitous! Simply iniquitous!" With vivid memories of the last IRS form I had signed, I agreed sympathetically that a two percent tax rate was a positive outrage, wondering to myself just what had become of the fiery spirit of American taxpayers over the intervening two hundred years.
( Diana Gabaldon )
[ Drums of Autumn ]
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