But our poet is too good for a planter--too good to sit down before a fire made of mare's legs, to a dinner of beef without salt and bread.

It is the wildest of all his meditations--pray tell him.

The plague and Yellow Jack, and famine and free quarter, besides a thousand other ills, will stare him in the face.

No tooth-brushes, no corn-rubbers, no _Quarterly Reviews_.

In short, plenty of all he abominates and nothing of all he loves.