If ever I write a Hymn of Hate, or, at any rate, of resentment, it will
not be about the Germans, but about a certain type of Englishman whom I
encounter far too often and shall never understand. The Germans are now
beyond any hymning, however fervent; they are, it is reassuring to
think, a class by themselves. But my man should be hymned, not because
it will do him any good, but because it relieves my feelings.
It is really rather a curious case, for he might be quite a nice fellow
and, I have little doubt, often is; but he boasts and flaunts an inhuman
insensibility that excites one's worst passions.
What would you say was the quality or characteristic most to be desired
in every member of our social common-wealth? Obviously there is only one
reply to this question: that he should be decently susceptible to
draughts. If society is to go on, either we must all be so
pachydermatous as to be able to disregard draughts, or we must feel them
and act accordingly. There should not be here and there a strange
Ishmaelite creature whose delight it is to be played upon by boreal
blasts. But there is. I meet him in the train, and the other day I
hymned him.