“A bower of roses by Bendermere’s stream,
    With the nightingale singing there all the day long;
  In the days of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,
    To sit ‘mid the roses and hear the birds’ song. 
  That bower, and its music, I never forget: 
    But oft, when alone, at the close of the year,
  I think is the nightingale singing there yet,
    Are the roses still fresh by the calm Bendermere?”

No, there is none of this sentimental twaddle about the Bower to which we are alluding.  There are no roses, and no nightingale; but there are lots of smoking, and plenty of vocalists.  We will paraphrase Moore, since we can hardly do less, and we may say, with truth,

  “There’s a Bower in Stangate’s respectable street,
    There’s a company acting there all the night long;
  In the days of my childhood, egad—­what a treat! 
    To listen attentive to some thundering song. 
  That Bower and its concert I never forget;
    But oft when of halfpence my pockets are clear,
  I think, are the audience sitting there yet,
    Still smoking their pipes, and imbibing their beer?”

Upon entering the door, you are called on to pay your money, which is threepence for the saloon and sixpence for the boxes.  The saloon is a large space fitted up something like a chapel, or rather a court of justice; there being in front of each seat a species of desk or ledge, which, in the places last named would hold prayer-books or papers, but at the Bower are designed for tumblers and pewter-pots.  The audience, like the spirits they imbibe, are very much mixed; the greater portion consisting of respectable mechanics, while here and there may be seen an individual, who, from his seedy coat, well-brushed four-and-nine hat, highly polished but palpably patched highlows, outrageously shaved face and absence of shirt collar, is decidedly an amateur, who now and then plays a part, and as he is never mistaken for an actor on the stage, tries when off to look as much like one as possible.

The boxes are nothing but a gallery, and are generally visited by a certain class of ladies who resemble angels, at least, in one particular, for they are “few and far between.”

But what are the entertainments?  A miscellaneous concert, in which the first tenor, habited in a surtout, with the tails pinned back, to look like a dress-coat, apostrophises his “pretty Jane,” and begs particularly to know her reason for looking so sheyi—­vulgo, shy.  Then there is the bass, who disdains any attempt at a body-coat, but honestly comes forward in a decided bearskin, and, while going down to G, protests emphatically that “He’s on the C (sea).”  Then there is the prima donna, in a pink gauze petticoat, over a yellow calico slip, with lots of jewels (sham), an immense colour in the very middle of the cheek, but terribly chalked just about the mouth, and shouting the “Soldier tired,” with a most insinuating simper at the corporal of the Foot-guards in front, who returns the compliment by a most outrageous leer between each whiff of his tobacco-pipe.