At the end of the New-Cut stands the Marsh-gate, which, at night, is all
gas and ghastliness, dirt and dazzle, blackguardism and brilliancy. The
illumination of the adjacent gin-palace throws a glare on the haggard
faces of those who are sauntering outside. Having arrived thus far, watch
your opportunity, by dodging the cabs and threading the maze of omnibuses,
to effect a crossing, when you will find Stangate-street, _running out_,
as some people say, of the Westminster-road; though of the fact that a
street ever ran out of a road, we take leave to be sceptical.
Well, go on down this Stangate-street, and when you get to the bottom, you
will find, on the left-hand, THE BOWER! And a pretty bower it is, not of
leaves and flowers, but of bricks and mortar. It is not
"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.
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