I think, out of the bowels of the surely not harmless earth.  And the man himself!  He was primly and precisely dressed, but he had an indefinable resemblance to a goat; his hair curled like horns; and he had the thin, restless, sneering lips, the impudent, inexpressive eyes of the goat.  I found myself curiously oppressed by him.  I hated his slow, deliberate movements; the idea that the air he breathed should mingle with the air of the carriage, and be transferred to my own lungs and blood, was horrible to me.  I pitied those who had to serve him, and the relations compelled to own him.  Yet I cannot trace the origin of this deep repugnance.  There are innumerable natural objects far more hideous and outwardly repellent, but which yet do not possess this nauseating quality.  Such shuddering hostility may lie far deeper than the outward appearance, and arise from some innate enmity of soul.  It is a wholly unreasonable thing, no doubt, and yet it transcends all reason and surmounts all moral principle.  I should not, I hope, refuse to help or succour such a man if he were in need or pain; but I do not wish to see him or to be near him, nor can I desire that he should continue to exist.

It is an interesting question how far it is allowable to dislike other people.  Of course we are bound to love our enemies if we can, but even the Gospel sets us an example of unbounded and uncompromising denunciation, in the case of the Pharisees.  It is the habit of preachers to say that when we are dealing with detestable and impossible people we should perform that subtle metaphysical process that is described as hating the sin and loving the sinner.  But that is surely a very difficult thing to do?  It is like saying that when one is contemplating a very ugly and repulsive face, we are to dislike the ugliness of it but admire the face; and the fact remains that it is an extremely difficult and complicated thing to do to separate an individual from his qualities.  The most one can say is that one might like him if he were different from what he is; but as long as that remains what the grammarians call an unfulfilled condition, one’s liking is of a very impersonal nature.  Such a statement as that one would like a person well enough if he were only not what he is, is like the speech that was parodied by Archbishop Whately in the House of Lords.  A speaker was recommending a measure on the ground that it would be a very satisfactory one if only the conditions which it was meant to meet were different.  “As much as to say,” said Whately to his neighbour on the conclusion of the speech, “that if my aunt were a man, he would be my uncle.”

Of course the thing is easy enough when one is dealing, say, with a fine and generous nature which is disfigured by a conspicuous fault.  If a man who is otherwise lovable and admirable has occasional outbursts of spiteful and vicious ill-temper, it is possible to love him, because one can conceive of him without the particular fault.  But there are some faults that permeate and soak through a man’s whole character, as in the Cornish squab pie, where an excellent pasty of bacon, potatoes, and other agreeable commodities is penetrated throughout with the oily flavour of a young cormorant which is popped in at the top just before the pie is baked.