“Do you think then sir, that pork is no good agin the sickness?  Mickey, that’s my husband, sir, says it’s the only thing in life for it, av it’s toasted.”

“Not the least use, I assure you.”

“Nor sperits and wather?”

“Worse and worse, ma’am.”

“Oh, thin, maybe oaten mail tay would do? it’s a beautiful thing for the stomick, any how.”

“Rank poison on the present occasion, believe me.”

“Oh, then, blessed Mary, what am I to do—­what is to become of me?”

“Go down at once to your berth, ma’am; lie still and without speaking till we come in sight of land; or,” and here a bright thought seized me, “if you really feel very ill, call for that man there, with the fur collar on his coat; he can give you the only thing I ever knew of any efficacy; he’s the steward, ma’am, Stewart Moore; but you must be on your guard too as you are a stranger, for he’s a conceited fellow, and has saved a trifle, and sets up for a half gentleman; so don’t be surprised at his manner; though, after all, you may find him very different; some people, I’ve heard, think him extremely civil.”

“And he has a cure, ye say?”

“The only one I ever heard of; it is a little cordial of which you take, I don’t know how much, every ten or fifteen minutes.”

“And the naygur doesn’t let the saycret out, bad manners to him?”

“No, ma’am; he has refused every offer on the subject.’

“May I be so bowld as to ax his name again?”

“Stewart Moore, ma’am.  Moore is the name, but people always call him Stewart Moore; just say that in a loud clear voice, and you’ll soon have him.”

With the most profuse protestations of gratitude and promises of pork “a discretion,” if I ever sojourned at Ballinasloe, my fair friend proceeded to follow my advice, and descended to the cabin.

Some hours after, I also betook myself to my rest, from which, however, towards midnight I was awoke by the heavy working and pitching of the little vessel, as she laboured in a rough sea.  As I looked forth from my narrow crib, a more woe-begone picture can scarcely be imagined than that before me.  Here and there through the gloomy cabin lay the victims of the fell malady, in every stage of suffering, and in every attitude of misery.  Their cries and lamentings mingled with the creaking of the bulk-heads and the jarring twang of the dirty lamp, whose irregular swing told plainly how oscillatory was our present motion.  I turned from the unpleasant sight, and was about again to address myself to slumber with what success I might, when I started at the sound of a voice in the very berth next to me—­whose tones, once heard, there was no forgetting.  The words ran as nearly as I can recollect thus:—­

“Oh, then, bad luck to ye for pigs, that ever brought me into the like of this.  Oh, Lord, there it is again.”  And here a slight interruption to eloquence took place, during which I was enabled to reflect upon the author of the complaint, who, I need not say, was Mrs. Mulrooney.