THE BOLTONS, 22

WHEN winter nights are grewsome, and the heavy, yellow fog
Gives to Piccadilly semblance of a dank, malarious bog;
When a demon, with companion in similitude of bell,
Goes round informing people he has crumpets for to sell;
When a weird, asthmatic minstrel haunts your door for hours along,
Until you've paid him tu'pence for the thing he calls a song, --
When, in short, the world's against you, and you'd give that world, and more,
To lay your weary heart at rest upon your native shore,
There's happily one saving thing for you and yours to do:
Go call on Isaac Henderson, The Boltons, 22.

The place is all so cheery and so warm I love to spend
My evenings in communion with the genial host, my friend.

One sees _chefs d'oeuvre_ of masters in profusion on the walls,
And a monster canine swaggers up and down the spacious halls;
There are divers things of beauty to astound, instruct, and please,
And everywhere assurance of contentment and of ease:
But best of all the gentle hearts I meet with in the place, --
The host's good-fellowship, his wife's sincere and modest grace;
Why, if there be cordiality that warms you through and through,
It's found at Isaac Henderson's, The Boltons, 22.

My favorite room's the study that is on the second floor;
And there we sit in judgment on men and things galore.

The fire burns briskly in the grate, and sheds a genial glare
On me, who most discreetly have pre-empted Isaac's chair, --
A big, low chair, with grateful springs, and curious device
To keep a fellow's cerebellum comf'table and nice,
A shade obscures the functions of the stately lamp, in spite
Of Mrs. Henderson's demands for somewhat more of light;
But he and I demur, and say a mystic gloom will do
For winter-night communion at The Boltons, 22.

Sometimes he reads me Browning, or from Bryant culls a bit,
And sometimes plucks a gem from Hood's philosophy and wit;
And oftentimes I tell him yarns, and (what I fear is worse)
Recite him sundry specimens of woolly Western verse.

And while his muse and mine transcend the bright Horatian's stars,
He smokes his modest pipe, and I -- I smoke his choice cigars!
For best of mild Havanas this considerate host supplies, --
The proper brand, the proper shade, and quite the proper size;
And so I buckle down and smoke and smoke, -- and so will you,
If ever you're invited to The Boltons, 22.

But, oh! the best of worldly joys is as a dream short-lived:
'Tis twelve o'clock, and Robinson reports our cab arrived.

A last libation ere we part, and hands all round, and then
A cordial invitation to us both to come again.

So home through Piccadilly and through Oxford Street we jog,
On slippery, noisy pavements and in blinding, choking fog, --
The same old route through Circus, Square, and Quadrant we retrace,
Till we reach the princely mansion known as 20 Alfred Place;
And then we seek our feathery beds of cotton to renew
In dreams the sweet distractions of The Boltons, 22.

God bless you, good friend Isaac, and your lovely, gracious wife;
May health and wealth attend you, and happiness, through life;
And as you sit of evenings that quiet room within,
Know that in spirit I shall be your guest as I have been.

So fill and place beside that chair that dainty claret-cup;
Methinks that ghostly hands shall take the tempting offering up,
That ghostly lips shall touch the bowl and quaff the ruby wine,
Pledging in true affection this toast to thee and thine:
"May God's best blessings fall as falls the gentle, gracious dew
Upon the kindly household at The Boltons, 22! "

End of title

THE BOLTONS, 22

Eugene Field

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