away from the heroics of the senate-house into the filth of the slaughter-house.  It does not deny the heroism that exists in the slaughter-house any more than it denies the heroism that exists in the hospital ward.  But it protests that, just as the heroism of a man dying of cancer must not be taken to justify cancer, so the heroism of a million men dying of war must not be taken to justify war.  There are some who believe that neither war nor cancer is a curable disease.  One thing we can be sure of in this connection:  we shall never get rid either of war or of cancer if we do not learn to look at them realistically and see how loathsome they are.  So long as war was regarded as inevitable, the poet was justified in romanticizing it, as in that epigram in the Greek Anthology:

Demaetia sent eight sons to encounter the phalanx of the foe, and she buried them all beneath one stone.  No tear did she shed in her mourning, but said this only:  “Ho, Sparta, I bore these children for thee.”

As soon as it is realized, however, that wars are not inevitable, men cease to idealize Demaetia, unless they are sure she did her best to keep the peace.  To a realistic poet of war such as Mr. Sassoon, she is an object of pity rather than praise.  His sonnet, Glory of Women, suggests that there is another point of view besides Demaetia’s: 

  You love us when we’re heroes, home on leave,
  Or wounded in a mentionable place. 
  You worship decorations; you believe
  That chivalry redeems the war’s disgrace. 
  You make us shells.  You listen with delight,
  By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. 
  You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
  And mourn our laurelled memories when we’re killed.

You can’t believe that British troops “retire” When hell’s last horror breaks them, and they run, Trampling the terrible corpses—­blind with blood. O German mother dreaming by the fire, While you, are knitting socks to send your son His face is trodden deeper in the mud.

To Mr. Sassoon and the other war satirists, indeed, those stay at home and incite others to go out and kill or get killed seem either pitifully stupid or pervertedly criminal.  Mr. Sassoon has now collected all his war poems into one volume, and one is struck by the energetic hatred of those who make war in safety that finds expression in them.  Most readers will remember the bitter joy of the dream that one day he might hear “the yellow pressmen grunt and squeal,” and see the Junkers driven out of Parliament by the returned soldiers.  Mr. Sassoon cannot endure the enthusiasm of the stay-at-home—­especially the enthusiasm that pretends that soldiers not only behave like music-hall clowns, but are incapable of the more terrible emotional experiences.  He would like, I fancy, to forbid civilians to make jokes during war-time.  His hatred of the jesting civilian attains passionate expression in the poem called Blighters: