Again felt I the pangs of a ‘jumping’ tooth-ache. Powders--drops--essential oils--remedies of every genus and species were tried in vain. Even red-hot iron was of no avail--the nerve was fire-proof. Throwing myself into a rocking chair, with elbows on my knees and hands on my jaws, I leaned over the fire in moody anguish. “The mind,” say physicians, “exerts a sympathetic influence upon the body.” ‘Perhaps then,’ thought I, ‘the disease may not be wholly physical, after all;’--and I began to reflect that suffering often apparently finds relief in association and sympathy. The hard-featured mariner takes delight in tales of naval misery; the veteran warrior, in descriptions of battles; the love-lorn maiden, in ‘doleful tales of love and woe;’ the disappointed suitor in dark maledictions and long-drawn vituperations, against all that bear the name of woman. With this in mind, I glanced at my book-case for some treatise adapted to my own circumstances. Nothing presented itself more to the point than the ‘Works of Robert Burns.’ His ‘Address to the Tooth-ache’ was soon before me. I read it from beginning to end with profound attention. The difficult Scotticisms were explained in the glossary. I sought the meaning of every word--I entered fully into the spirit of the piece. How beautiful! “My curse upon thy venom’d stang, That shoots my tortur’d gums alang; An’ thro’ my lugs gies monie a twang, Wi’ gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi’ bitter pang, Like racking engines! When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colic squeezes, Our neighbor’s sympathy may ease us, Wi’ pitying moan; But thee--thou hell o’ a’ diseases, Ay mocks our groan! Adown my beard the slavers trickle! I throw the wee stools o’er the meikle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While raving mad I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O’ a’ the num’rous human dools, Ill har’sts, daft bargains, _cutty-stools_, Or worthy friends rack’d i’ the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o’ knaves, or fash o’ fools, Thou bear’st the gree. Where’er that place be priests ca’ hell, Whence a’ the tunes o’ mis’ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu’ raw, Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear’st the bell Amang them a’! O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of _discord_ squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick; Gie a’ the faes o’ Scotland’s weel A towmond’s Tooth-ache!”