The practice of hinting by single letters those expletives with which profane and violent people are wont to garnish their discourse, strikes me as a proceeding which, however well meant, is weak and futile. I cannot tell what good it does – what feeling it spares – what horror it conceals.
When Rabbit said, "Honey or condensed milk with your bread?" he was so excited that he said, "Both" and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, "But don't bother about the bread, please."
As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat, which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near,
A pretty Babe all burning bright did in the air appear;
Who, scorchèd with excessive heat such floods of tears did shed,
As though His floods should quench His flames which with His tears were fed.
"Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born in fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is; the fuel wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shames and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defilèd souls;
For which, as now on fire I am to work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood."
With this He vanished out of sight and swiftly shrank away,
And straight I callèd unto mind that it was Christmas Day.
Saint Robert Southwell (c. 1561–1595). English martyr. Hanged, drawn, and quartered at the age of thirty-three. "Though thirteen times most cruelly tortured," wrote Cecil, "he cannot be induced to confess anything, not even the colour of the horse whereon on a certain day he rode." Ben Jonson said that he would have happily destroyed many of his own poems if only he could have written The Burning Babe. The lines in this poem are completely end-stopped. The third line has a dangling participle, but Southwell was such a great hero and a great poet that I forgive him completely!