ungovernable pitch of madness, others it reduced
to the depths of despair, while in many cases it brought out and
aggravated the worst parts of the character. Wives conveyed the
infection intentionally to their husbands, husbands to their wives,
parents to their children, lovers to the objects of their affection,
while, as in the case above mentioned, many persons ran about like rabid
hounds, striving to communicate it to all they met. Greatly shocked at
what had occurred, and yet not altogether surprised at it, for his mind
had become familiarized with horrors, Leonard struck down Finch-lane,
and proceeded towards Cornhill. On the way, he noticed two dead bodies
lying at the mouth of a small alley, and hastening past, was stopped at
the entrance to Cornhill by a butcher's apprentice, who was wheeling away
the body of an old man, who had just died while purchasing meat at a
stall at Stock's Market. Filled with unutterable loathing at this
miserable spectacle, Leonard was fain to procure a glass of canary to
recruit his spirits.

Accordingly he proceeded to the Globe Tavern at the corner of
Birchin-lane. As he entered the house, a lively strain of music caught
his ear, and glancing in the direction of the sound, he found it
proceeded from the blind piper, Mike Macascree, who was playing to some
half-dozen roystering youths. Bell lay at her master's feet; and as
Leonard approached the party, she pricked up her ears, and being called
by name, instantly sprang towards him, and manifested the strongest
delight. The piper stopped playing to listen to what was going forward
but the young men urged him to proceed, and again filled his glass.

"Don't drink any more, Mike," said Leonard, "but step aside with me.
I've something to say to you--something about your daughter."

"My daughter!" exclaimed the piper, in a half-angry, half-sorrowful
voice, while a slight moisture forced itself through his orbless lids.
"I don't want to hear anything about her, except that she is dead. She
has deserted me, and disgraced herself."

"You are mistaken," rejoined Leonard; "and if you will come with me, I
will explain the truth to you."

"I will listen to no explanation," rejoined the piper, furiously, "she
has given me pain enough already. I'm engaged with this jovial company.
Fill my glass, my masters--there, fill it again," he added, draining it
eagerly, and with the evident wish to drown all thought. "There, now you
shall have such a t