e apothecary over the way came
in, picked up poor Bill, applied some camphor to his nose, and brought
him back to life, and--the pangs of tooth-ache!

"Kreasote!" says Squills, the 'pothecary. "I'll ease your pain, Mr.
Whiffletree, in a second!"

Poor Bill gave up--the kreasote added a fresh invoice to his
misery--burnt his already lacerated and roasted tongue--and he yelled
right out.

"Death and glory! O-h-h-h-h, murder! You've pizened me!"

"Put a hot brick to that young man's face," said a stranger; "'twill
take out the pain and swelling in three minutes!"

Bill revived; he seemed pleased at the stranger's suggestion; the Brick
was applied; but Bill's cheek being now half raw with the various
messes, it made him yell when the brick touched him!

He cleared for home, went to bed, and the excessive pain, finally, with
laudanum, kreasote, fire, and hot bricks, put him to sleep.

He awoke at midnight, in a frightful state of misery; walked the floor
until daylight; was tempted two or three times to jump out the window or
crawl up the chimney!

Until noon next day he suffered, trying in vain, every ten minutes, some
"known cure," oils, acids, steam, poultices, and the ten thousand
applications usually tried to cure a raging tooth.

Desperation made Bill revengeful. He got a club and went after Dr.
Wangbanger, who had set all the village in a rage of tooth-ache. Ten or
a dozen of his victims were at his door, awaiting ferociously their
turns to be revenged.

But the bird had flown; the _teuth-doctor_ had sloped; yet a good
Samaritan came to poor Bill, and whispering in his ear, Bill started for
Monsieur Savon's barber-shop, took a seat, shut his eyes, and said his
prayers. The little Frenchman took a keen knife and pair of pincers, and
Bill giving one awful yell, the tooth was out, and his pains and perils
at an end!

A-a-a-in't they Thick?

During the "great excitement" in Boston, relative to the fugitive slave
"fizzle," a good-natured country gentleman, by the name of Abner Phipps;
an humble artisan in the fashioning of buckets, wash-tubs and
wooden-ware generally, from one of the remote towns of the good old Bay
State, paid his annual visit to the metropolis of Yankee land. In the
multifarious operations of his shop and business, Abner had but little
time, and as little inclination, to keep the run of _latest news_, as
set forth glaringly, every day, under the caption of _Telegraphic
Dispatches_