“Leech used to go round with the hat,” said Adams; “but we never could make the fellow look common enough. Still, he collected a good deal, though he failed on one occasion; for, on presenting his hat to a bystander, who had been an attentive listener, the man claimed exemption as being in ‘the profession,’ in proof of which he produced a fiddle from behind him.”
Barkway is in the heart of a hunting country, and the meets of the “Puckeridge” frequently took place near Mr. Adams’ house, or at an easy distance from it. The house itself—a large mass of red brick, ivy, gables, and twisted chimneys—is one of those old places which have been enlarged to suit modern convenience without any sacrifice of the original design and quaint character.
“Ah,” said my host, as he showed me into his dining-room, “what happy times we have had in this room, when Leech, Millais, Lemon—editor of Punch, you know, long ago—Tenniel, and others, found themselves round that table!”
The following letters, with their too few characteristic sketches, prove the affectionate intimacy between Leech and his friend.
“To Charles F. Adams, Esq.
“August 9, 1847.
“My dear Charley,
“You will be glad to hear that I have got a little daughter, and that both mother and child are doing well. Mrs. Leech was taken ill, unfortunately, at the end of our trip to Liverpool—where, as perhaps you are aware, Dickens and some of us had been acting for Leigh Hunt’s benefit—and she was confined at the Victoria Hotel, Euston Square, where she is now. I thought you would like to hear the news, so send off these few lines. Give my kindest regards to Mrs. Adams, and believe me, old boy,
“Yours faithfully,
“John Leech.”