The Voice.—"Often, Sir; very sick."
Fitz.—"Well; and on an average, how soon did they recover?"
The Voice.—"Some of them didn't recover, Sir."
Fitz.—"Well, but those that did?"
The Voice.—"I know'd a clergyman and his wife as were, ill all the voyage; five months, Sir."
Fitz.—(Quite silent.)
The Voice; now become sepulchral.—"They sometimes dies,
Sir."
Fitz.—"Ugh!"
Before the end of the voyage, however, this Job's comforter himself fell ill, and the Doctor amply revenged himself by prescribing for him.
Shortly after this, a very melancholy occurrence took place. I had observed for some days past, as we proceeded north, and the nights became shorter, that the cock we shipped at Stornaway had become quite bewildered on the subject of that meteorological phenomenon called the Dawn of Day. In fact, I doubt whether he ever slept for more than five minutes at a stretch, without waking up in a state of nervous agitation, lest it should be cock-crow. At last, when night ceased altogether, his constitution could no longer stand the shock. He crowed once or twice sarcastically, then went melancholy mad: finally, taking a calenture, he cackled lowly (probably of green fields), and leaping overboard, drowned himself. The mysterious manner in which every day a fresh member of his harem used to disappear, may also have preyed upon his spirits.