The lavish and, in many cases, inexplicable distribution of the Order of
the British Empire bids fair to add a peculiar lustre to the undecorated.
The War has produced no stranger paradox than the case of the gentleman who
within the space of seven days was sentenced to six months' imprisonment
for a breach of the Defence of the Realm regulations and recommended for
the O.B.E. on account of good services to the country. The fact that the
recommendation was withdrawn hardly justified the assumption of a
Pacificist Member that a sentence under the Defence of the Realm Act was
regarded as the higher honour of the two.
There is one thing, however, that war at its worst cannot do. It cannot
make an Englishman forgo that peculiar and blessed birthright which enables
him to overthrow the Giant Despair with the weapon of whimsical humour--in
other words, to write, as a young officer has written for Mr. Punch, such a
set of verses as the following in June, 1918: