“And vowed he’d steal no more”.

Having in the course of his work shown the bad effects arising from theft, he evidently means this last moral reflection to operate with his readers as a gentle and polite dissuasive from stealing.

       “The Knave of Hearts
        Brought back those tarts,
      And vowed he’d steal no more!”

Thus have I industriously gone through the several parts of this wonderful work, and clearly proved it, in every one of these parts, and in all of them together, to be a “due and proper epic poem”, and to have as good a right to that title, from its adherence to prescribed rules, as any of the celebrated masterpieces of antiquity.  And here I cannot help again lamenting that, by not knowing the name of the author, I am unable to twine our laurels together, and to transmit to posterity the mingled praises of genius and judgment, of the poet and his commentator.

[Footnote 230:  More commonly known, I believe, by the appellation of Jack Shepherd.]

POETRY OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN.

(1797-1798.)

LII.  THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

The Anti-Jacobin was planned by George Canning when he was Under-Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.  He secured the collaboration of George Ellis, John Hookham Frere, William Gifford, and some others.  The last-named was appointed working editor.  The first number appeared on the 20th November, 1797, with a notice that “the publication would be continued every Monday during the sitting of Parliament”.  A volume of the best pieces, entitled The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, was published in 1800.  It is almost impossible to apportion accurately the various pieces to their respective authors, though more than one attempt has been made so to do.  The following piece is designed to ridicule the extravagant sympathy for the lower classes which was then the fashion.

  Friend of Humanity.

  Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? 
  Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order—­
  Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in’t,
                              So have your breeches!

  Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
  Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
  Road, what hard work ’tis crying all day, “Knives and
                              Scissors to grind O!”

  Tell me, knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives? 
  Did some rich man tyrannically use you? 
  Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? 
                              Or the attorney?

  Was it the squire for killing of his game? or
  Covetous parson for his tithes distraining? 
  Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little
                              All in a lawsuit?