Whither do we drift, Insensate souls, whose every breath Foretells the doom of nothingness? Yet onward, upward let it be Through all the myriad circles Of the ensuing years-- And then, pray what? Alas! 'tis all, and never shall be stated. Atoms, yet atomless we drift, But whitherward? I had intended this for one of our leading magazines, but it seemed so to lack the mystical quality, which is essential to a successful magazine poem in our sphere, that I deemed it best to try it on Boswell. VI. THE BOSWELL TOURS: PERSONALLY CONDUCTED It was and will no doubt be considered, even by those who are not too friendly towards myself, a daring idea, and it was all my own. One night, several weeks after the interview with Boswell just narrated, the idea came to me simultaneously with the first tapping of the keys for the evening upon the Enchanted Type-Writer. It was Boswell's touch that summoned me from my divan. My family were on the eve of departure for a month's rest from care and play in the mountains, and I was looking forward to a period of very great loneliness. But as Boswell materialized and began his work upon the machine, the great idea flashed across my mind, and I resolved to “play it” for all it was worth. “Jim,” said I, as I approached the vacant chair in which he sat--for by this time the great biographer and I had got upon terms of familiarity--“Jim,” said I, “I've got a very gloomy prospect ahead of me.” “Well, why not?” he tapped off. “Where do you expect to have your gloomy prospects? They can't very well be behind you.” “Humph!” said I. “You are facetious this evening.” “Not at all,” he replied. “I have been spending the day with my old-time boss, Samuel Johnson, and I am so saturated with purism that I hardly know where I am. From the Johnsonian point of view you have expressed yourself ill--” “Well, I am ill,” I retorted. “I don't know how far you are acquainted with home life, but I do know that there is no greater homesickness in the world than that of the man who is sick of home.” “I am not an imitator,” said Boswell, “but I must imitate you to the extent of saying humph! I quote you, and, doing so, I honor you. But really, I never thought you could be sick of home, as you put it--you who are so happy at home and who so wildly hate being away from home.” “I'm not surprised at that, my dear Boswell,” said I. “But you are, of course, familiar with the phrase 'Stone walls do not a prison make?'” “I've heard it,” said Boswell. “Well, there's another equally valid phrase which I have not yet heard expressed by another, and it is this: 'Stone walls do not a home make.'” “It isn't very musical, is it?” said he.