I have taken fox-hunting as the type of a pleasure _which destroys
something_, just because it is, in many ways, the most noble and, if I
may say so, the most innocent of such pleasures. The death, the,
perhaps agonising, flight of the fox, occupy no part of the hunter's
consciousness, and form no part of his pleasure; indeed, they could,
but for the hounds, be dispensed with altogether. There is a fine
community of emotion between men and creatures, horses and dogs adding
their excitement to ours; there is also a fine lack of the mere
feeling of trying to outrace a competitor, something of the collective
and almost altruistic self-forgetfulness of a battle. There is the
break-neck skurry, the flying across the ground and through the air at
the risk of limbs and life, and at the mercy of one's own and one's
horse's pluck, skill and good fellowship. All this makes up a rapture
in which many ugly things vanish, and certain cosmic intuitions flash
forth for some, at least, of the hunters. The element of poetry is
greater, the element of brutality less, in this form of intoxication
than in many others. It has a handsomer bearing than its modern
successor, the motor-intoxication, with its passiveness and (for all
but the driver) its lack of skill, its confinement, moreover, to
beaten roads, and its petrol-stench and dustcloud of privilege and of
inconvenience to others. And the intoxication of hunting is, to my
thinking at least, cleaner, wholesomer, than the intoxication of, let
us say, certain ways of hearing music. But just because so much can be
said, both positive and negative, in its favour, I am glad that
hunting, and not some meaner or some less seemly amusement, should
have set me off moralising about such pleasures as are wasteful of
other things or of some portion of our soul.