, however, are ultimately the
people who endure kings, statesmen and journalists of the exploiting and
bullying kind. The satire of the soldiers is an appeal not to the
statesmen and journalists, but to the general imagination of mankind. It
is an attempt to drag our imaginations 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 perver