The interesting Mrs. Mulrooney, for such was my fair companion called, was on the present occasion making her debut on what she was pleased to call the “says;” she was proceeding to the Liverpool market as proprietor and supercargo over some legion of swine that occupied the hold of the vessel, and whose mellifluous tones were occasionally heard in all parts of the ship. Having informed me on these, together with some circumstances of her birth and parentage, she proceeded to narrate some of the cautions given by her friends as to her safety when making such a long voyage, and also to detail some of the antiseptics to that dread scourge, sea-sickness, in the fear and terror of which she had come on board, and seemed every hour to be increasing in alarm about. “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 “at discretion,” if I ever sojourned at Ballinasloe, my fair friend proceeded to follow my advice, and descended to the cabin.