third,
the note slightly raised, and with a tone like that of a wailing wind:

"That I might drink and leave the world unseen,
And, with thee, fade away into the forest dim.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known."

Snarley Bob rises erect in his place, still holding his chin with his
right hand, and with the left pointing his pipe, as before, at the
speaker. The rigid arm is trembling violently, and Snarley, with
half-open mouth, is drawing his breath in gulps. Someone, his wife I
think, tries to make him sit down. He detaches his right hand, and
violently thrusts her away.

For some minutes he remains in this attitude. The verse:

"Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird,"

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 r