He eats his heart out, sick with shame.

What's that to you? You understand
Nothing of all his bitter pain;
You have no regiment to brand;
You have no uniform to stain;

No vow of service to abuse;
No pledge to King and country due;
But he has something dear to lose,
And he has lost it--thanks to you.[1]


[Footnote 1: O.S. in _Punch_, November 4th, 1914. By kind
permission of the Proprietors.]

A man who had so distinguished himself at the front as to be mentioned
in a despatch came home slightly wounded. In less than twenty-four hours
he was in a cell at a police station, and the next day fined forty
shillings. Oh! the pathetic pity of it. That man got into trouble
through the exhibition of one of the purest and best features of our
human nature, the desire to show kindness. In their well-intentioned
ignorance this man's friends--yes, they were real friends--knew of only
one way of displaying friendliness--they gave him liquor.

I am not going to blame them, nor him entirely; I am going to lay some
of the fault upon ourselves.

Since the beginning of the last century the habits of the upper classes,
to use a generic though unpleasant term, have improved immeasurably.