More fortunate than the LORD CHANCELLOR, the gallant General seems to have had three Baths allotted to him.

* * * * *

“The enemy is engaged vigorously in making his expected protest against the Peace Terms....  To show the depth of his emotion he has declared a week of mourning.  Theatres may remain open, but must stage plays appropriate to the occasion.”

It is rumoured that the first play chosen was Measure for Measure.

* * * * *

    “The War Office says there is no authority whatever for the
    statement that General Townshend would shortly be appointed
    Commander-in-Chief in the Tower Hamlets, F.C.”—­Star.

Mr. Punch begs leave to say that this item of football news did not appear in his columns.

* * * * *

PROCRASTINATION.

A few mornings ago I found among my letters a tragic document—­a bill.  A first quick glance at it filled me with despair, because I was luxuriating in that Fools’ Paradise produced by the illusion that one is all paid up.  Of course one never is; there is always something that one forgets, and this must have been it; so that, instead of perfect freedom from liability, here I was apparently still owing no less a sum than L5 9_s_.

The figures looked familiar enough, although disconcerting, but I rubbed my eyes when I found that they were made up of two items that had never come my way; the first being one-and-a-half dozen essences, L3 15_s_., and the second, a dozen poudre assortie, L1 14_s_.  It could not be for me.  Essences and powders wholesale are not in my line, nor is my acquaintance so extensive among the Fair as these quantities would imply.

A moment later all my anxieties dispersed and tragedy turned to comedy when I realised that the bill was for the hairdresser with the same name as my own, who lives next door but one and gets so much of my correspondence.

I therefore put the bill on my desk, intending to take it into the shop when I went out; and forgot it.

The Russian Corps de Ballet at the Alhambra is an assemblage of charming and gifted people who are at last giving their admirers full measure.  Now that they have a vast theatre of their own and perform three ballets every night the old frustrated feeling that used to tantalise us at the Opera and the Coliseum has vanished.  But I have still a grievance, and that is that the programme is so rarely the programme that I myself would have arranged.  In other words the three ballets that form it are seldom the Big Three that are nearest my heart.  To be explicit, I want Petroushka, and instead I find myself not knowing where to look while Scheherazade unfolds its appalling freedoms; I want Les Sylphides, and instead am given Les Papillons, which is very lovely but not of an equal loveliness; and I want Carnaval, and instead am offered the perplexities of The Fire Bird.  It happened, however, that one night recently the perfect programme was given—­Carnaval, Les Sylphides and Petroushka; but there was not a seat in the house, and I therefore had to stand in great discomfort, so that half the joy evaporated.