First, pleasure is not a movement, or a becoming, or a striving of some sort,
but it is a complete thing in and of itself. That is, it is not something like
“building,” the end of which is the thing being built, but is instead
something like “seeing,” the end of which is just seeing. It also is not
something that progresses over time from start to finish, or from origination
to culmination or completion, but instead pleasure is complete in every moment
in which it exists.
That said, any pleasure can be qualitatively better or worse than another. The
best pleasures are those in which a well-tuned faculty is able to feast upon
the best sort of object-matter for that faculty: for example, the sense of
smell encountering a forest after a rainstorm. The activity of a faculty being
exercised in such ideal conditions is one that is crowned and completed by
pleasure.
Why is it, Aristotle wonders, that we cannot just be perpetually in a state of
pleasure? “Is it that we grow weary?” He sees two possible reasons:
Pleasure accompanies activity, and people just simply do not have
the endurance to keep up any activity perpetually.
Sensation requires some novelty, and any particular stimulus will cease
provoking its corresponding mental state if it is repeated too often.
Pleasure seems to be a sign that we are living our lives ideally and thriving
to the utmost. “[L]ife is an activity, and each man is active about those
things and with those faculties that he loves most,” [and] “pleasure completes
the activities, and therefore life, which they desire. It is with good reason,
then, that they aim at pleasure too, since for every one it completes life,
which is desirable. But whether we choose life for the sake of pleasure or
pleasure for the sake of life is a question we may dismiss for the present.
For they seem to be bound up together and not to admit of separation, since
without activity pleasure does not arise, and every activity is completed by
the attendant pleasure.”
The following brief note comes from The Household Narrative
of Current Events of
(billed as a “monthly supplement to
Household Words, conducted by Charles Dickens”).
The Roman Catholic priest of Blarney, the
Rev.
Mr. Peyton, having Refused to Pay his
Income-tax, the Commissioners ordered his horse to be seized and
sold by auction. Placards informing the public of the alleged injustice
were distributed in Cork; and when the horse was led out for sale at the
Bazaar on Saturday, the multitude assembled hissed, hooted, hustled, and
otherwise impeded the proceedings. After much ado, however, the sale was
effected, and the horse was sold for 6l. 1s. 6d.
Mr. Peyton then addressed the crowd to place them in possession of the
“reasons” for his conduct. He alleged that priests are not treated like other
citizens by the government; that they cannot, like artisans or Protestant
ministers, recover their dues; and he declared that, for his own part, until
he enjoys those privileges which his fellow citizens enjoy, he will never
voluntarily pay income-tax. He concluded a violent tirade by exclaiming, “The
Income-Tax Commissioners have gratified their vindictive feeling against the
Irish priests — much good may it do them!”
The Carlisle Journal of
fills in some more details:
Father Peyton, His Horse, and The Income Tax. Those ruthless
despoilers, the income-tax collectors in Ireland, made a descent on Blarney
the other day, and laid sacrilegious hands on Father Peyton’s horse,
which they forthwith set up to public auction, and sold for the shabby trifle
of £6 odd. Their reasons for this violent and unjustifiable proceeding are as
weak as their conduct was wicked. Father Peyton was served with one
of the usual returns, calling on him, after the manner of the profane heretics
in this country, and of the mere Roman Catholic laity, to fill up the amount
of income at which he considered he should be assessed. With a proper sense of
the reverence that out to be paid to an anointed priest, the revered father
treated the impertinent return with silent contempt. A second application was
made to him; and then, disclaiming to claim exemption from a pack of
unbelievers on the score of his sacred character, he condescended to enter
into argument with them to prove that they had no right to levy their rascally
income-tax on him. Says Father Peyton: “We the Catholic Priests, are
not treated like our fellow-citizens by the Government of the country. They
allow every other man, professional, commercial, and artisan, to recover their
dues, and accordingly they tax them; but the priest is the only man that the
law will not recognise in recovering his dues. I must attend the beds of the
sick and the dying, and perform many other duties, but the people need not
give me anything. It is optional with themselves. They are all voluntary gifts
on their part; and that very government that would not allow me, like the
minister or any other man, to recover my rights or dues from the people, have
therefore no right to ask me for an account of what people voluntarily give
me.” Acting on the principles set forth in the foregoing extract from a speech
delivered by his reverence to the crowd assembled to witness the sale of his
poor hack, he refused to pay the iniquitous tax. The upshot of the business
was that the flinty-hearted, irreligious collectors brought the steed under
the auctioneer’s hammer, and, we suppose, by this time the cash he realised
has been lodged to the credit of the Income-tax Commissioners.
