_February 26, 1811._ _A French Dentist Showing a Specimen of his Artificial Teeth and False Palates._ Published by T. Tegg (58).--It is not easy to determine whether this caricature was intended solely as a satire or as an advertisement for some dental professor who was established here at the time. In Rowlandson's day, however, false teeth were sufficient novelties to be welcome subjects for ridicule. An overgrown and exuberantly corpulent female is serving as a sample of the Frenchman's skill; her widely distended mouth is liberally displaying a wonderful set of masticators. The professor is the typical foreigner of the period, wearing hair-powder, a bag-wig, and earrings. An old beau, looking through a quizzing-glass, is admiring the prospect of securing a decent set of teeth, his own gums exhibiting a very ragged and defective regiment. An advertisement in the rear sets forth: '_Mineral Teeth._--Monsieur De Charmant, from Paris, engages to affix from one tooth to a whole set, without pain. Monsieur D. can also affix an artificial palate or a glass eye in a manner peculiar to himself; he also distils, &c., &c.' _March, 1811._ _Bacon-faced Fellows of Brazen-Nose Broke Loose._ Published by T. Tegg (59).--The persons of learned members of the Universities were not treated with a sparing hand by the satirist. Rowlandson has introduced various incidents of college life into his caricatures; but, throughout the series, the waggishly-inclined artist does not, we are afraid, exhibit any particular respect for _Alma Mater_. The Fellows of Brasenose are drawn, with unusual unction, issuing from their Hall and through the archways of the Colleges, dressed in their academic guise, and pouring forth like a sable stream of erudition. The various expressions and attitudes of the 'big-wigs' are vastly well hit off; their diversified peculiarities of face or motion are full of comicality. These grave sons of the Church are not free from gallant considerations--a buxom wench, with a basket of fruit slung round her shapely neck, is the centre of attraction; the 'Bacon-faced Fellows' are crowded around, bargaining for her ware and leering at the seller with undisguised and clumsy admiration. A reflection is cast on the _Vice_-Chancellor, who is vainly endeavouring to steal into his apartments without being detected by the rest of the sly grinning Fellows, with a weighty folio under his arm, and followed by an engaging young fruiteress, a lump of rustic innocence, bearing her baskets, for better selection from the contents, to the seclusion of the Vice's study.