"Yes, you may," said the old painter, "and I will tell you. Of course you remember that unfortunate postal envelope that I designed? Well, Leech caricatured it. You needn't look so surprised--you don't think I am such a fool as to mind being caricatured; but I do mind being represented as a _blood-sucker_! What else can he mean by using that infernal little leech in a bottle in the front of his caricature as my signature? You know well enough, Frith, that I have never asked monstrous prices for my pictures. You fellows get better paid for your work than I ever did, and you wouldn't like to be called blood-suckers, I expect." Mr. Mulready was an Irishman, and rather a peppery one; and I am happy to say that I overcame my disposition to laugh in his face mainly through a feeling of astonishment that my old friend could be ignorant of the ordinary way in which Leech signed his drawings. "Do you happen to have a number of _Punch_ by you, Mr. Mulready?" said I. "No; as a languid swell said when he was asked that same question, 'I am no bookworm; I never see _Punch_.'" As I could not give my angry friend ocular proof of his mistake by producing the usual signature to _Punch_ drawings, I set to work to explain how the little leech came into the bottle, and, without much difficulty, convinced my old friend that an insult to him was not intended. The two artists met; and it was delightful to watch Leech's handsome face as Mulready himself told of his misconception. First there was a serious, almost pained, expression, which, no doubt, arose in that tender heart from being the innocent cause of pain to another; the serious look passed off, to give place to a smile, which broadened into a roar of laughter. From that moment Leech and Mulready were fast friends. With an apology for the interruption, I return to my narrative. Alas! I can well remember the appearance of the "Sketches by Boz," to be so quickly followed by the "Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club." None but those who witnessed it can conceive the enthusiasm with which that immortal work was received by an eager public, who welcomed each number as it appeared, month after month, with hearty appreciation. Of course, there were carping critics, one of whom is reported to have said the author would "go up like a rocket and come down like a stick." That prophet, a man of much literary ability, drank himself into a debtors' prison, where, I was told, he died of delirium tremens. There is, I think, a vein of melancholy unusually developed in the nature of almost all humorists. As an instance, I may give the actor Liston, whose humour on the stage was to me unparalleled; off it, he was gloom personified. Gillray, the caricaturist, died melancholy mad; and poor Seymour, the first illustrator of "Pickwick," committed suicide. I may remark in this place the surprise with which I heard Leech say that he could see no fun in any of Seymour's sketches.