No. I.

The author of the exploits of Brown Bess and of The Admirable Crichton has announced his intention of editing "The Lions of London," a task of no ordinary description; and Boz has already chronicled the slang, humour, peculiarities, and vices of the omnibus cads and cab-drivers. Pierce Egan, after uttering a vulgar forgery of Life in London, has in a repentant fit announced himself as "A Pilgrim of the Thames;" and, in short, the wonders of this wondrous metropolis are drawn, depicted, coloured, printed, narrated, represented, in every possible shape and way to the town and country public. All this we know: but we know more; we know that there are the places, the scenes, and the characters to be visited, and contemplated, and admired in town, which will be omitted to be noticed by any of our pleasant historians; but which are, of all others, worthy of sincere regard and periodical immortality! In the East, according to the letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, the corner of the Kiosk was the distinguished place of honour; and may we not conduct our readers to corners and by-places, and "show their eyes and grieve their hearts?" We have for some time felt a great anxiety to exhibit to our readers a few remarkable features of society, or rather to introduce them to Those who are connected with those features. All know, and yet all do not intimately and in particular know, many of our great scientific humanists, as connected with particular departments of our precious faces or heads; but we long, we thirst, to be the chroniclers of

Some of our readers will think we are about to publish the works of Head in the usual popular monthly series; but we see no reason why old Burton should have it all to himself, and why a pleasant anatomy (which must be an anatomy of pleasure) should not compete with the Anatomy of Melancholy!

We shall at once begin our agreeable task, and as it is biting weather, we will immediately come to Mr. D. and the teeth, than whom a more amiable, honourable, or generous man, or a more decisive and perfect artist, does not exist. Persons may think that his abode is a mere place where drops of laudanum are dropped into wretched receptacles of pain; or where bits of yellow double ivory are lugged out, as though the teeth were dancing the hays in Hayes Court. No such thing! The house is a palace! The man is a magician over the unruly spirit of teeth! The arrangements are pleasant, touching, and delightful; and the operations are rare and fascinating surprises, which no person with a discoloured concave, or suspicious fang, ought to neglect! What a mansion! What an artist! What a deathless D.!

I do not know when I have experienced more of ease and pleasure than I did in the capacious and comfortable ante-room; for I had, to speak the truth, accompanied a friend who had the tooth-ache, and I saw around me, various respectable objects of pang and pity, who were about to have that salutary relief given to them, which the new poor-law has directed to other poor devils, and which is derived from their being taken into the house! One by one was beckoned out by the porter to the relieving officer, and nothing could be more interesting or effective than the departure of patient after patient, "with a muffled drum" for a head, and who, as soon as the door closed, was "heard no more of!" What luxury marks this apartment! The handles of the doors are a complete set of ivories; and, indeed, the whole interior is one scene of mingled splendour and comfort. Let our readers, as Brutus says, "chew upon this!" A large table stands in the room, covered with every work that the imagination can devise, for the amusement and satisfaction of the attentive reader. The students, however, in this room, are not so steady and intent over their books as are the visitors to the library of the British Museum; but they snatch a little agreeable reading by fits and starts, and take up a very tolerable number of volumes and pamphlets, and put them down in a remarkably short compass of time. The person to whom the selection of this entertaining library has been entrusted, has executed his task with discretion, fidelity, and spirit; and we were pleased to notice, as we jotted down in our memorandum-book the names of the most attractive of the works, how much he had endeavoured to collect together, pages that should tend to soothe, beguile, and cheer the casual visitor of the place. First we had "Paine's Age of Reason"—a book calculated for those in whom pain and reason are so invariably connected. Then we had "Sass's Drawings of the Human Figure;" "The Sufferings of the Early Martyrs;" "History of the Inquisition, with Prints of the Screws and Instruments of Torture;" "Lardner on the Lever;" "Coulson on Distortions, &c." "Tracts on Tumours;" "Montgomery's Omnipresence;" "Five Minutes' Advice on the Care of the Teeth;" "The Lancet;" and "Elegant Extracts." There is no refreshment ready in this room, except that which is derived by the person who comes to have his or her teeth "looked at," contemplating a near chair-neighbour who is about to part with one of those useful inmates, which, like all other domestics, get troublesome as they get older, and finally lose their places from becoming in themselves perfectly unbearable! The passages and galleries are magnificent—rows of pillars of the Tuscan order are in even sets, and in perfect order and keeping! On the staircase, which is of marble, stands a superb clock, which throbs the time very awfully; and the suite of rooms on the first floor is, as the visitors cannot but admit, of the most costly order. Refreshments are here constantly spread before the lingerer, tempting those (who have not had a wink of sleep for weeks) to eat and enjoy themselves. In this house one thing is remarkable, and I think it tends to confuse the mind,—"the drawing-room" is on the ground-floor! Here the soothing sorcerer over anguish and horror—receives his visitors; and here, indeed, he sees company in due state. I merely took a glimpse at this room, which was by no means so provocative of curiosity to me as was the blue chamber to that of Fatima's.

A few mems must close this weak and impotent description:—a few recollections snatched amidst the fascination of the whole place! We observed that the mode in which our artist expelled a troublesome double enemy put an end to the usual interpretation of Zanga's famous exclamation,

The pincers might be used, but the flesh did not follow,—the eye-tooth came out as clean as a smelt. Mr. D. had several pictures in enamel, which were much to be valued; and he had in his hall a portrait by the late Sir Thomas Lawrence of Mr. Cartwright—and likenesses by H. B. in one of his closets, of Howard, Imrie, Sanford, Clarke, Jones, Parkinson, Hayes, Biggs, Rogers, &c. &c. which are allowed to be, by all observers, admirable works of art. There is a slight attempt at Mallan in mineral succedaneum, which appears to be falling away—we will not say decaying.

One nuisance there is, and we cannot as honest historians pass it over; the street, in which our D. lives, is disturbed, distracted, by an excess of music, amounting, arising indeed, into a decided case of "organic disease." The grinders making a point—it would seem a pointed point—of showing themselves in the very front of that building,—which is opposed to anything defective in the front!

As we were about to depart from this attractive spot—not spot—place,—we saw Charles Taylor or Tom Cooke slipping away with every tooth perfect, and yet not without a falsetto. Some musical wag however still remained, and by permission of the butler (a drawer of corks in large practice) we were allowed to hear the following song; and we shall print it at once without comment, explanation, or excuse,