is now reached, and I can see that violent tremors are passing through Snarley's frame. His head has sunk towards his breast, and is shaking; his right arm has fallen to his side, the fingers hooked as though he would clench his fist. Thus he stands, his head jerking now and then into an upright position, and shaking more and more. He has ceased to point at the speaker; the pipe is on the table. Thus to the end. Somebody claps; another feebly knocks his glass on the board; there is a general whisper of "Hush!" Snarley Bob has sunk on to the bench; he folds his arms on the table, rests his head upon them as a tired man would do; a tremor shakes him once or twice; then he closes his eyes, and is still. He has apparently fallen asleep. No one, save myself, has paid much attention to Snarley, who is at the end of the room furthest from Mrs. Abel. But now his attitude is noticed, and somebody says, "Hullo, Snarley's had a drop too much this time. Give him a shake-up, missis." The "shake-up," however, is not needed. For Snarley, after a few minutes of apparent sleep, raises his head, looks round him, and again stands upright. A flood of incoherencies, spoken in a high-pitched, whining voice, pours from his lips. Now and then comes a clear sentence, mingled with fragments of the poem--these in a startling reproduction of Mrs. Abel's tones--thus: "The gentleman's callin' for drink. Why don't they bring him drink? Here, young woman, bring him a pint o' ale, and put three-ha'porth of gin in it--the door's openin', and he's goin' through. He'll soon be there-- "'Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known.' All right--it's bloomin' well all right--don't give him any more. "'Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain.' --It's the Passing Bell.--What are they ringing it for?--He's not dead--he'll come back again when he's ready.--Stop 'em ringing that bell! "'Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self.' All right--he's comin' back.--Nightingales!--Who wants to hear about a lot o' bloomin' nightingales. _I_ don't. _I'm_ all right--get me a cup o' tea.--It's Tom Barter who's drunk, not me! "'Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond to-morrow.' The mail goes o' Fridays--K Battery, Peshawur, Punjaub--O my God, let Bill tell him!--Shut up, you blasted old fool, or I'll knock yer silly head off! _You'll_ never get there!--What do _you_ know about nightingales? I heard 'em singin' for hundreds and thousands of years before _you_ were born: