sideboard. Jack wanted to draw another cork, which, however, I positively
forbad, as I have through life made it a rule to avoid the slightest
approach towards excess in tippling; so, after a modest brace of glasses
of brandy-and-water, I shook hands with and left my friend about half-past
nine, for I am an old-fashioned fellow, and love early hours, my usual
time for turning in being ten.

When I got into the street an unaccustomed spirit of gaiety at once took
possession of me; my general feelings of benevolence and goodwill towards
all mankind appeared to have received a sudden and marvellous increase. I
seemed to tread on eider-down, and, cigar in mouth, strolled along
Fleet-street and the Strand, towards my domicile in Half-Moon
street--"nescio quid meditans nugarum"--sometimes humming the fag end of
an Irish melody; anon stopping to stare in a print-shop window; and then I
would trudge on, chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancy as I conned
over the various ups and downs that had chequered my life since Jack
Withers and I were thoughtless lads together "a long time ago."

In this mood I found myself standing before the New Strand Theatre, my
attention having been arrested by the word PUNCH blazoned in large letters
on a play-bill.

"What can this mean?" quoth I to myself. "I know a publication called
Punch very well, but I never heard of a performance so named. I'll go in
and see it. Who knows but it may be an avatar[1] of the Editor of that
illustrious periodical, who condescends to discard his dread incognito for
the nonce, in order to exhibit himself, for one night only, to the eyes
and understandings of admiring London."

[1] The Avatar we do not allow--the illustrious periodical we