’Tis said they’ve discovered perpetual motion, Attached to _their tongues_, ’twill be henceforth their own; And this job completed, some folks have a notion They’re all seeking now the Philosopher’s Stone. An enemy slanders Their ablest commanders, Their heads vacuum engines he calls (’tis a joke), Says Watts’ Steamer teaches The plan of their speeches, Beginning in noise, and concluding in smoke, Believe not, my countrymen, this foolish story―― Come when they will, let them find you in order―― Delay not, I pray, till each Blue, crown’d with glory, By paper kites drawn shall pass o’er the Border. The above appeared in _The Mirror_, vol. II, 1828, p. 239. About that period “intellectual females” were in fashion as well as the Brobdignagian bonnets, mentioned in the parodies on Burns. The origin of “Blue Stocking” is given in Boswell’s Life of Johnson, edition 1835, vol. 8, p. 85, “About this time (1781) it was much the fashion for several ladies to have evening assemblies where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated _Blue Stocking Clubs_; the origin of which title being little known, it may be worth while to relate it. One of the most eminent members of those societies, when they first commenced, was Mr. Stillingfleet, whose dress was remarkably grave, and in particular it was observed that he wore blue stockings. Such was the excellence of his conversation, that his absence was felt as so great a loss, that it used to be said, ‘We can do nothing without the _blue stockings_;’ and thus by degrees the title was established. Miss Hannah More has admirably described a _Blue Stocking Club_ in her ‘_Bas Bleu_,’ a poem in which many of the persons who were most conspicuous there are mentioned.” ―――― WRITE, WRITE, TOURIST AND TRAVELLER. Write, write, tourist and traveller, Fill up your pages and write in good order; Write, write, scribbler and driveller, Why leave such margins?――come nearer the border. Many a laurel dead flutters around your head, Many a _tome_ is your _memento mori_! Come from your garrets, then, sons of the quill and pen, Write for snuff-shops, if you write not for glory. Come from your rooms where the farthing wick’s burning, Come with your tales full of gladness or woe; Come from your small-beer to vinegar turning, Come where the Port and the Burgundy flow! Fame’s trump is sounding, topics abounding, Leave, then, each scribb’ler, your high attic story; Critics shall many a day speak of your book, and say, “He wrote for the snuff-shop, he wrote not for glory!”