The Sun.
London, England, 1864-09-07 00:00:00

THE SUN, LONDON, WEDNESDAY EVENING, SEPTEMBER 7, 1864

POLICE INTELLIGENCE—This Day.

MARLBOROUG H- STREET.
THE NEW MEDICAL ACT.—Mr Wm. Talley, solicitor,
of Beacon's-fields, Bucks, in correspondence with the
General Council of Medical Education and Registration,
applied to Mr Tyrwhitt under the New Medical Act for a
summons against a person, pretending to be a surgeon, and
placing on his door a plate with the word " Surgeon"
upon it.

Mr Tyrwhitt read the 40th clause of the act, as follows :
" Any person who shall wilfully and falsely pretend to be,
or take or use the name or title of a physician, doctor of
medicine, licentiate in medicine, surgeon, general practi-
tioner, or apothecary, or any name, title, addition, or de-
scription implying that he is registered under the Act, or
that ho is recognised by law as a physician, doctor of
medicine, licentiate in medicine, surgeon, general practi-
tioner, or apothecary, shall, upon summary conviction for
any such offence pay a sum not exceeding £20," and granted
the summons.

Mr Talley said that in applying for the summons he
wished to state that there was no feeling of animosity to-
wards the person, but that it was for the protection of the
public,

LITERATURE.

Robson. A Sketch. By George Augustus Sala,
Hotten, Piccadilly.

A charmingly readable little violet-coloured six-
penny brochure, is this timely tribute to one, alas,
now dead and gone—Robson, of the Olympic! It
ought, however, to have had its authorship more
accurately defined upon its title-page. The" Sketch"
of Robson as here given to us, is—in spite of what
the title-page asserts—not by Mr. Sala. Three gen-
tlemen are, by that random assertion, coolly rolled
into one, like (as Mrs. Malaprop would say) Cer.
berus. One of the three, if you will, is the famous
New York correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, that
capital, comical, vivacious, sparkling, ealightful
ready-writer of reports, noels, newspape7 articles,
anything you please—whom it was the fashion once
upon a time to sneer at as Dickens-and-w,ter 1 G. A.
Sale, to w;t, of " Twice Round the Clock," of the
" Seven Sons of Mammon," of " Gaslight and Day.
light," of the Temple Bar Magazine, of the staff of
Household Words, and All the Year Round, author
of " Quite. Alone," photographer of " The
Streets of ' the World," Reporter, Romancist,
Essayist, Correspondent I Yes, here, too, as
a Sketcher of poor Robson, as a celebrant
of his genius, as a delineator of his peculiarities—Mr
Sala is—how shall we put it ? Well, be is not the
least bit in the world like his list heroine in being
" Quite Alone !" He is, here, oa the contrary, as we
have said, but as One Out of Three. And—as it
happens—in spite of all his brilliant powers, as a
Sketcher of London People, and especially of
London Celebrities—Mr Sala i 3 here simply as—
the last and the least of the three. His
colaborateurs in the production of this most
acceptable, because wonderfully well-timed memo-
rial of Robson,
being—the ancnymous biographer
of Robson (immediately after the latter's recent de-
mise) in the columns of our very able and
thoroughly and most consistently liberal contem.
porary the Daily News, and—in this, not only
making up the third, but fairly leading them off—
the publisher himself, Mr. Hotten, of Piccadilly. In
point of fact, therefore,whatever there is in this little
memorial sketch of Robson, that is perfectly fresh
and original, is Mr. Hotten's. The rest of it, being
simply so much reprint—here from the Daily
News—there from the American journal for which
Mr. Sala pencilled his limning of Robson while
Robson himself was yet living. What we are
especially thankful for, therefore, in the matter of
this livraison, is precisely this fresh fragmentary
morsel of information in regard to Thomas Brown-
bill, otherwise Frederick Robson, penned by Mr.
Hotten, of Piccadilly, and penned by him in the
manner following. Quoth Mr. Rotten (after a
graphic sketch of the locality referred to)—in a little
out-of-the-way back-slum hard by the Strand, in a
strange cluster of holes and corners, yclept Bedford-
bury, there in the year 1836, and while he was yet
no more than fifteen years of age—
One Thomas Robson Brownbill, a little boy from Mar-
gate, was apprenticed to Mr Smellie, the copperplate en-
graver and well-known printer of Mr George Cruikshank*s
humorous plates.
Master Brownbill's friends had found him crazy after the
stage as other urchins sometimes are after a sea life. Various
professions, less romantic but conceived to be more respect-
able, were mentioned to him, but, with the exception of the
graver's art, he would not listen to any one of them. This
he thought he might like, so his mother resolved to try him.
The lad soon became an immense favourite with his master
and the workmen, and they familiarly nicknamed him
"Bill," " little Bill," a sort of jocose shortening of his sur-
name, Brownbill—for he was not known as Robson until
some years later, when he adopted a christian name as his
theatrical title, adding Frederick, which he cons'dered de
cidedly stylish and quite out of the common ; a custom, no

very unusual I believe, with other ladies and gentlemen of
his profession. I met one of the workmen the day after his
death, and told him of his old comrade's departure. " What,
little Bill gone I" he said. "Al! he was a merry lad, but

he had better by half7ftStuck to tho bench."
" Little Bill" soon began to exhibit his theatrical tastes to
the workmen, and his powers of mimicry kept the ntab-
lishment from morn until night in a continual states` ood
humour. If a knife grinder or other travelling odellfy en-
tered the court, Bill buttoned up his coat, cocked his hat, and
bawled in imitation until the tears ran down the men's faces
with laughter. The apprentice always dressed showily, and
usually had his hair artificially curled in ringlets. ills hat

was an extra siza with a twisted brim, and as he wore this
somewhat jauntily set upon a rather large-sized head, the
vulgar boys of the court used to called him the "little big
head."

Alas for the uncertainties of parental authority! Although
the days were occupied over the graver, the nights were
almost as regularly spent on the two or three amateur stages
which were then to be met with in this neighbourhood, end
the costume we have just mentioned, and the ringlets, were

simply the effects of the mind's bent and the evening's re-

creation. The youth, however, neyer shirked work for
play ; and his master used to say that there was not a man
or boy in his shop who was so regular in the morning's at-
tendance as little Brownbill. At this time he lived with his

mother—his father had been dead wally years—in Henry-

street,Vauxhall, so that he had some distance to walk daily.
He was bound for seven years, but only stopped fourwith
his master. An unforeseen circumstance happening, the
now skilful engraver and amateur theatrical found himself
at 19 out of his time, and his own master. Whether it was
a promise made to his mother, or that he feared to rely en-
tirely on the stage for a livelihood, we do not know, but
certain it is that immediately upon obtaining his liberty he
did not go and enlist, without more ado, in the dramatic
corps of one of the London theatresln his old apprentice-
ship days, he used to say he would do So directly an oppor-
tunity offered itself; but this was probably one of
little threats with which sanguine those
the amateur theatrical, finding
conceived that a little business might thoughtlessly alarm their fidgetty young people are apt to
e,ders. His master gave
be formed out of the
up business in the old court, and rearoved to Scotland, and
Brownbill now took a shop in Brydges-street, Covent-gar-
den, free, very wisely
"Lord Lovel"—
tdaekne,
panardthibereareheatceaurrriepdeorinerbmusainneeesss:lB
sma he continued to
old customers that Mr Smellie had abaanindoansetedr.eMbgrrßavoebrsfoenr
bothl2 m owni tthb s
b. i
mDa
eulrfi nagn
dthe i
awahbociliee
nof e
etal:i swtai
and a favourite song,
bgeennrerinalli3yrsyudnggei:Ecthreaertticotbeere.rFveidn,abllppi
,sOCO of paper attached
one morning, his neigh-
to the shutters of Mrßrownbill's shop,that business had been
relinquished. The engraver had taken home his tools to
keep as curiosities, and had accepted the offer of a country
manager. From that time to the present he has been before
a public—one at first small and provincial,
but latterly
large and metropolitan—as Frederick Robson.
I have just said that he kept his tools when he gave up
his business. He used to say to au oldfriendthat he never
looked at or handled them without pleasant reminiscenceseare f
of those early apprentice days passed in the quaint little
Of this strange, eccentric, Tragio•Comic mßanedfaogredrbiaulr
Yliler: re mental da dy es;
actor—
this pre-eminent Grotesque—Robson, of the
Olympic—there appears, upon the cover of this
euontiaelnio.yed by the
sixpenny brochure, the Vera di
gieB ;La the shape of
a little woodcut presenting
him to our view as
The Wandering Minstrel. In respect to the won-
drous representation of which dilapidated (not to
say squalid) character by b it° sOns We remember our ,
selves hearing Douglas
_Jerrold remark one day,
with a pretended shudder—." I could fancy his
playing it—on his Benefit 11
101 l : ,_
real
Night.--with ver-
min !" An anecdote entirely at Mr.
Hotten's service
—in the event of his reprinting this admirable
sketch of Robson.

..,........,m•

Pansie. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hotten.
In appearance—issued as "Pansie" is simultet•
neously with the foregoing--4 companion publica-
tion. But—when it comes to be looked into—ah,
true,
disiffuepreonnt !eacThe namelessb Odour of death, it is
) defines as the "roses
at
.e ,E,tl, gar Poe, in his most
of pansies"--the death, in
" Robson," of the theme of th. t
! e little book—the death,
in "an
mart'
wonderful
o dour
~,o poemr ( ::
odourT To Annt
Yes, here in "Pansie"
noPtosni' of the h
one of
fthe'
aaubteaour
beautiful
tuei Puritan Pansies" in
child Pansie—we have
th
Poe's death-song just referred to, but in this
chearlmasit itnlgltilte fragranttlesketch of the
andiati'
cfilorescent morsel of Haw-
thorne
t iDg
freshly!
into spray a y
leaf c f i w
flower th
and perfume just
e as it were, put-
before the goodly tree itself was cut down so sud-
denly and prematurely. It was the beginning of a
new story by the world-famous American Poet-
Romancist, Nathaniel Hawthorne—a new story by
him to be entitled " The Dolliver Romance." Of
that new story the novelist of the "Scarlet Letter"
was destined only to write the opening chapter, a
chapter hero presented to the English reader under
the name of the child-heroine of it—Pansie! How
gracefully and graciously it is written, this last
outpouring from the fancy of Hawthorne, let the
subjoined fragment attest ;--
"Pansie, darling," said Dr Dolliver cheerily, patting her
brown hair with his tremulous fingers, "thou has putsome
of thine own friskiness into poor old grandfather, this tine
morning I Dost know, child, I.ii‘vi lie oases near Ureaki4g

his neck down stairs at the sound of thy voice ? What
wouldst thou have done then, little Pansie ?"
" Kiss poor grandpapa and make him well 1" answered

the child, remembering the doctor's own mode of cure in

similar mishaps to herself. "It shall do poor grandpapa
good I" she added, putting up her mouth to apply the

remedy.

" Ah, little one, thou hest greater faith in thy medicines
than ever I had in my drugs," replied the patriarch with a
giggle, surprised and delighted at his own readiness of re-
sponse. "But the kiss is good for my feeble old heart,
Pansie, though it might do little to mend a broken
neck; so give grandpapa another dose, and let us to
breakfast."

In this merry humour they sat down to the table, great-
grandpain and Pansie side by side, and the kitten, as soon
appeared, making a third in the party. First, she showed
her mottled head out of Pansie's lap, delicately sipping
milk from the child's basin -without rebuke ; then she took
post on the old gentleman's shoulder, purring like a spin-
ning-wheel, trying her claws in the wadding of his dress-
ing-gown, and still more impressively reminding him of
her presence by putting out a paw to intercept a warmed-
over morsel of yesterday's chicken on its way to the doctor's
mouth. After skilfully achieving this feat, she scrambled
down upon the breakfast-table and began to wash her face
and hands. Evidently these companions were all three on
intimate terms, as was natural enough, since a great many
childish impulses were softly creeping back on the simple-
minded old man ; insomuch that, if no worldly necessities
nor painful infirmity had disturbed him, his remnant of
life might have been as cheaply and cheerily enjoyed as the
early playtime of the kitten and the child. Old Dr Dolli-
ver
.and his great-granddaughter (a ponderous title, which
seemed quite to overwhelm the tiny figure of Pansie) had
met one another at the two extremities of the life-circle;
her sunrise served him for a sunset, illuminating his locks
of silver and hers of golden brown with a homogeneous
shimmer of twinkling light.
Little Pansie was the one earthly creature that inherited
a drop of the Dolliver blood. The Doctor's only child, poor
Bessie's offspring, bad died the better pare of a hundred
years before, and his grandchildren, a numerous and dimly
remembered brood, had vanished along his weary track in
their youth, maturity, or incipient ago, till, hardly knowing
how it had all happened, he found himself tottering onward
with an infant's small fingers in his nerveless grasp.

Apply those closing words—not, as here hinted, to
old Dr Do'liver, but to Nathaniel Hawthorne him-
se!f—and see how marvellously, pathetically, mys-
teriously they express the sudden straying away and
evanishing of the dreamer of this dream of Pansie,
away into the land of dreams—" hardly knowing
how it all had happened, he found himself tottering
onward with an infant's small fingers in his nerve.
less grasp." And so—passing from our ken with
the child,Pansie's hand in his—adieu to Nathaniel
Hawthorne!