CHAPTER III - Art or Science of
War
1.—USAGE STILL UNSETTLED (POWER
AND KNOWLEDGE. SCIENCE WHEN MERE KNOWING; ART, WHEN DOING, IS THE OBJECT.)
The choice between these terms seems to be still
unsettled, and no one seems to know rightly on what grounds it should be
decided, and yet the thing is simple. We have already said elsewhere that
“knowing” is something different from “doing.” The two are so different that
they should not easily be mistaken the one for the other. The “doing” cannot
properly stand in any book, and therefore also Art should never be the title of
a book. But because we have once accustomed ourselves to combine in conception,
under the name of theory of Art, or simply Art, the branches of knowledge
(which may be separately pure sciences) necessary for the practice of an Art,
therefore it is consistent to continue this ground of distinction, and to call
everything Art when the object is to carry out the “doing” (being able), as for
example, Art of building; Science, when merely knowledge is the object; as
Science of mathematics, of astronomy. That in every Art certain complete
sciences may be included is intelligible of itself, and should not perplex us.
But still it is worth observing that there is also no science without a mixture
of Art. In mathematics, for instance, the use of figures and of algebra is an
Art, but that is only one amongst many instances. The reason is, that however
plain and palpable the difference is between knowledge and power in the
composite results of human knowledge, yet it is difficult to trace out their
line of separation in man himself.
2. DIFFICULTY OF SEPARATING
PERCEPTION FROM JUDGMENT (ART OF WAR.)
All thinking is indeed Art. Where the logician draws
the line, where the premises stop which are the result of cognition—where
judgment begins, there Art begins. But more than this even the perception of
the mind is judgment again, and consequently Art; and at last, even the
perception by the senses as well. In a word, if it is impossible to imagine a
human being possessing merely the faculty of cognition, devoid of judgment or
the reverse, so also Art and Science can never be completely separated from
each other. The more these subtle elements of light embody themselves in the
outward forms of the world, so much the more separate appear their domains; and
now once more, where the object is creation and production, there is the
province of Art; where the object is investigation and knowledge Science holds
sway.—After all this it results of itself that it is more fitting to say Art of
War than Science of War.
So much for this, because we cannot do without
these conceptions. But now we come forward with the assertion that War is
neither an Art nor a Science in the real signification, and that it is just the
setting out from that starting-point of ideas which has led to a wrong
direction being taken, which has caused War to be put on a par with other arts
and sciences, and has led to a number of erroneous analogies.
This has indeed been felt before now, and on that
it was maintained that War is a handicraft; but there was more lost than gained
by that, for a handicraft is only an inferior art, and as such is also subject
to definite and rigid laws. In reality the Art of War did go on for some time
in the spirit of a handicraft—we allude to the times of the Condottieri—but
then it received that direction, not from intrinsic but from external causes;
and military history shows how little it was at that time in accordance with
the nature of the thing.
3. WAR IS PART OF THE
INTERCOURSE OF THE HUMAN RACE.
We say therefore War belongs not to the province
of Arts and Sciences, but to the province of social life. It is a conflict of
great interests which is settled by bloodshed, and only in that is it different
from others. It would be better, instead of comparing it with any Art, to liken
it to business competition, which is also a conflict of human interests and
activities; and it is still more like State policy, which again, on its part,
may be looked upon as a kind of business competition on a great scale. Besides,
State policy is the womb in which War is developed, in which its outlines lie
hidden in a rudimentary state, like the qualities of living creatures in their
germs.(*)
(*) The analogy has become much closer since Clausewitz’s time. Now
that the first business of the State is regarded as the development of
facilities for trade, War between great nations is only a question of time. No
Hague Conferences can avert it—EDITOR.
4. DIFFERENCE.
The essential difference consists in this, that
War is no activity of the will, which exerts itself upon inanimate matter like
the mechanical Arts; or upon a living but still passive and yielding subject,
like the human mind and the human feelings in the ideal Arts, but against a
living and reacting force. How little the categories of Arts and Sciences are
applicable to such an activity strikes us at once; and we can understand at the
same time how that constant seeking and striving after laws like those which
may be developed out of the dead material world could not but lead to constant
errors. And yet it is just the mechanical Arts that some people would imitate
in the Art of War. The imitation of the ideal Arts was quite out of the
question, because these themselves dispense too much with laws and rules, and
those hitherto tried, always acknowledged as insufficient and one-sided, are
perpetually undermined and washed away by the current of opinions, feelings,
and customs.
Whether such a conflict of the living, as takes
place and is settled in War, is subject to general laws, and whether these are
capable of indicating a useful line of action, will be partly investigated in
this book; but so much is evident in itself, that this, like every other
subject which does not surpass our powers of understanding, may be lighted up,
and be made more or less plain in its inner relations by an inquiring mind, and
that alone is sufficient to realise the idea of a THEORY.
CHAPTER IV - Methodicism
In order to explain ourselves clearly as to the
conception of method, and method of action, which play such an important part
in War, we must be allowed to cast a hasty glance at the logical hierarchy
through which, as through regularly constituted official functionaries, the
world of action is governed.
Law, in the widest sense strictly applying to
perception as well as action, has plainly something subjective and arbitrary in
its literal meaning, and expresses just that on which we and those things
external to us are dependent. As a subject of cognition, Law is the relation of
things and their effects to one another; as a subject of the will, it is a
motive of action, and is then equivalent to command or prohibition.
Principle is likewise such a law for action,
except that it has not the formal definite meaning, but is only the spirit and
sense of law in order to leave the judgment more freedom of application when
the diversity of the real world cannot be laid hold of under the definite form
of a law. As the judgment must of itself suggest the cases in which the
principle is not applicable, the latter therefore becomes in that way a real
aid or guiding star for the person acting.
Principle is objective when it is the result of
objective truth, and consequently of equal value for all men; it is subjective,
and then generally called maxim if there are subjective relations in it, and if
it therefore has a certain value only for the person himself who makes it.
Rule is frequently taken in the sense of Law, and
then means the same as Principle, for we say “no rule without exceptions,” but
we do not say “no law without exceptions,” a sign that with Rule we retain to
ourselves more freedom of application.
In another meaning Rule is the means used of discerning
a recondite truth in a particular sign lying close at hand, in order to attach
to this particular sign the law of action directed upon the whole truth. Of
this kind are all the rules of games of play, all abridged processes in
mathematics, &c.
Directions and instructions are determinations of
action which have an influence upon a number of minor circumstances too
numerous and unimportant for general laws.
Lastly, Method, mode of acting, is an always
recurring proceeding selected out of several possible ones; and Methodicism
(METHODISMUS) is that which is determined by methods instead of by general
principles or particular prescriptions. By this the cases which are placed
under such methods must necessarily be supposed alike in their essential parts.
As they cannot all be this, then the point is that at least as many as possible
should be; in other words, that Method should be calculated on the most
probable cases. Methodicism is therefore not founded on determined particular
premises, but on the average probability of cases one with another; and its
ultimate tendency is to set up an average truth, the constant and uniform,
application of which soon acquires something of the nature of a mechanical
appliance, which in the end does that which is right almost unwittingly.
The conception of law in relation to perception is
not necessary for the conduct of War, because the complex phenomena of War are
not so regular, and the regular are not so complex, that we should gain
anything more by this conception than by the simple truth. And where a simple
conception and language is sufficient, to resort to the complex becomes
affected and pedantic. The conception of law in relation to action cannot be
used in the theory of the conduct of War, because owing to the variableness and
diversity of the phenomena there is in it no determination of such a general
nature as to deserve the name of law.
But principles, rules, prescriptions, and methods
are conceptions indispensable to a theory of the conduct of War, in so far as
that theory leads to positive doctrines, because in doctrines the truth can
only crystallise itself in such forms.
As tactics is the branch of the conduct of War in
which theory can attain the nearest to positive doctrine, therefore these
conceptions will appear in it most frequently.
Not to use cavalry against unbroken infantry
except in some case of special emergency, only to use firearms within effective
range in the combat, to spare the forces as much as possible for the final
struggle—these are tactical principles. None of them can be applied absolutely
in every case, but they must always be present to the mind of the Chief, in
order that the benefit of the truth contained in them may not be lost in cases
where that truth can be of advantage.
If from the unusual cooking by an enemy’s camp his
movement is inferred, if the intentional exposure of troops in a combat
indicates a false attack, then this way of discerning the truth is called rule,
because from a single visible circumstance that conclusion is drawn which
corresponds with the same.
If it is a rule to attack the enemy with renewed
vigour, as soon as he begins to limber up his artillery in the combat, then on
this particular fact depends a course of action which is aimed at the general
situation of the enemy as inferred from the above fact, namely, that he is
about to give up the fight, that he is commencing to draw off his troops, and
is neither capable of making a serious stand while thus drawing off nor of
making his retreat gradually in good order.
Regulations and methods bring preparatory theories
into the conduct of War, in so far as disciplined troops are inoculated with
them as active principles. The whole body of instructions for formations,
drill, and field service are regulations and methods: in the drill instructions
the first predominate, in the field service instructions the latter. To these
things the real conduct of War attaches itself; it takes them over, therefore,
as given modes of proceeding, and as such they must appear in the theory of the
conduct of War.
But for those activities retaining freedom in the
employment of these forces there cannot be regulations, that is, definite
instructions, because they would do away with freedom of action. Methods, on
the other hand, as a general way of executing duties as they arise, calculated,
as we have said, on an average of probability, or as a dominating influence of
principles and rules carried through to application, may certainly appear in
the theory of the conduct of War, provided only they are not represented as
something different from what they are, not as the absolute and necessary modes
of action (systems), but as the best of general forms which may be used as
shorter ways in place of a particular disposition for the occasion, at
discretion.
But the frequent application of methods will be
seen to be most essential and unavoidable in the conduct of War, if we reflect
how much action proceeds on mere conjecture, or in complete uncertainty,
because one side is prevented from learning all the circumstances which
influence the dispositions of the other, or because, even if these
circumstances which influence the decisions of the one were really known, there
is not, owing to their extent and the dispositions they would entail, sufficient
time for the other to carry out all necessary counteracting measures—that
therefore measures in War must always be calculated on a certain number of
possibilities; if we reflect how numberless are the trifling things belonging
to any single event, and which therefore should be taken into account along
with it, and that therefore there is no other means to suppose the one
counteracted by the other, and to base our arrangements only upon what is of a
general nature and probable; if we reflect lastly that, owing to the increasing
number of officers as we descend the scale of rank, less must be left to the
true discernment and ripe judgment of individuals the lower the sphere of
action, and that when we reach those ranks where we can look for no other notions
but those which the regulations of the service and experience afford, we must
help them with the methodic forms bordering on those regulations. This will
serve both as a support to their judgment and a barrier against those
extravagant and erroneous views which are so especially to be dreaded in a
sphere where experience is so costly.
Besides this absolute need of method in action, we
must also acknowledge that it has a positive advantage, which is that, through
the constant repetition of a formal exercise, a readiness, precision, and
firmness is attained in the movement of troops which diminishes the natural
friction, and makes the machine move easier.
Method will therefore be the more generally used,
become the more indispensable, the farther down the scale of rank the position
of the active agent; and on the other hand, its use will diminish upwards,
until in the highest position it quite disappears. For this reason it is more
in its place in tactics than in strategy.
War in its highest aspects consists not of an
infinite number of little events, the diversities in which compensate each
other, and which therefore by a better or worse method are better or worse
governed, but of separate great decisive events which must be dealt with
separately. It is not like a field of stalks, which, without any regard to the
particular form of each stalk, will be mowed better or worse, according as the
mowing instrument is good or bad, but rather as a group of large trees, to
which the axe must be laid with judgment, according to the particular form and
inclination of each separate trunk.
How high up in military activity the admissibility
of method in action reaches naturally determines itself, not according to
actual rank, but according to things; and it affects the highest positions in a
less degree, only because these positions have the most comprehensive subjects
of activity. A constant order of battle, a constant formation of advance guards
and outposts, are methods by which a General ties not only his subordinates’
hands, but also his own in certain cases. Certainly they may have been devised
by himself, and may be applied by him according to circumstances, but they may
also be a subject of theory, in so far as they are based on the general
properties of troops and weapons. On the other hand, any method by which
definite plans for wars or campaigns are to be given out all ready made as if
from a machine are absolutely worthless.
As long as there exists no theory which can be
sustained, that is, no enlightened treatise on the conduct of War, method in
action cannot but encroach beyond its proper limits in high places, for men
employed in these spheres of activity have not always had the opportunity of
educating themselves, through study and through contact with the higher
interests. In the impracticable and inconsistent disquisitions of theorists and
critics they cannot find their way, their sound common sense rejects them, and
as they bring with them no knowledge but that derived from experience,
therefore in those cases which admit of, and require, a free individual
treatment they readily make use of the means which experience gives them—that
is, an imitation of the particular methods practised by great Generals, by
which a method of action then arises of itself. If we see Frederick the Great’s
Generals always making their appearance in the so-called oblique order of
battle, the Generals of the French Revolution always using turning movements
with a long, extended line of battle, and Buonaparte’s lieutenants rushing to
the attack with the bloody energy of concentrated masses, then we recognise in
the recurrence of the mode of proceeding evidently an adopted method, and see
therefore that method of action can reach up to regions bordering on the
highest. Should an improved theory facilitate the study of the conduct of War,
form the mind and judgment of men who are rising to the highest commands, then
also method in action will no longer reach so far, and so much of it as is to
be considered indispensable will then at least be formed from theory itself,
and not take place out of mere imitation. However pre-eminently a great
Commander does things, there is always something subjective in the way he does
them; and if he has a certain manner, a large share of his individuality is
contained in it which does not always accord with the individuality of the
person who copies his manner.
At the same time, it would neither be possible nor
right to banish subjective methodicism or manner completely from the conduct of
War: it is rather to be regarded as a manifestation of that influence which the
general character of a War has upon its separate events, and to which
satisfaction can only be done in that way if theory is not able to foresee this
general character and include it in its considerations. What is more natural
than that the War of the French Revolution had its own way of doing things? and
what theory could ever have included that peculiar method? The evil is only
that such a manner originating in a special case easily outlives itself,
because it continues whilst circumstances imperceptibly change. This is what
theory should prevent by lucid and rational criticism. When in the year 1806
the Prussian Generals, Prince Louis at Saalfeld, Tauentzien on the Dornberg
near Jena, Grawert before and Ruechel behind Kappellendorf, all threw
themselves into the open jaws of destruction in the oblique order of Frederick
the Great, and managed to ruin Hohenlohe’s Army in a way that no Army was ever
ruined, even on the field of battle, all this was done through a manner which
had outlived its day, together with the most downright stupidity to which
methodicism ever led.
CHAPTER V- Criticism
The influence of theoretical principles upon real
life is produced more through criticism than through doctrine, for as criticism
is an application of abstract truth to real events, therefore it not only
brings truth of this description nearer to life, but also accustoms the
understanding more to such truths by the constant repetition of their application.
We therefore think it necessary to fix the point of view for criticism next to
that for theory.
From the simple narration of an historical
occurrence which places events in chronological order, or at most only touches
on their more immediate causes, we separate the CRITICAL.
In this CRITICAL three different operations of the
mind may be observed.
First, the historical investigation and
determining of doubtful facts. This is properly historical research, and has
nothing in common with theory.
Secondly, the tracing of effects to causes. This
is the REAL CRITICAL INQUIRY; it is indispensable to theory, for everything
which in theory is to be established, supported, or even merely explained, by
experience can only be settled in this way.
Thirdly, the testing of the means employed. This
is criticism, properly speaking, in which praise and censure is contained. This
is where theory helps history, or rather, the teaching to be derived from it.
In these two last strictly critical parts of
historical study, all depends on tracing things to their primary elements, that
is to say, up to undoubted truths, and not, as is so often done, resting
half-way, that is, on some arbitrary assumption or supposition.
As respects the tracing of effect to cause, that
is often attended with the insuperable difficulty that the real causes are not
known. In none of the relations of life does this so frequently happen as in
War, where events are seldom fully known, and still less motives, as the latter
have been, perhaps purposely, concealed by the chief actor, or have been of
such a transient and accidental character that they have been lost for history.
For this reason critical narration must generally proceed hand in hand with
historical investigation, and still such a want of connection between cause and
effect will often present itself, that it does not seem justifiable to consider
effects as the necessary results of known causes. Here, therefore must occur,
that is, historical results which cannot be made use of for teaching. All that
theory can demand is that the investigation should be rigidly conducted up to
that point, and there leave off without drawing conclusions. A real evil
springs up only if the known is made perforce to suffice as an explanation of
effects, and thus a false importance is ascribed to it.
Besides this difficulty, critical inquiry also
meets with another great and intrinsic one, which is that the progress of
events in War seldom proceeds from one simple cause, but from several in
common, and that it therefore is not sufficient to follow up a series of events
to their origin in a candid and impartial spirit, but that it is then also
necessary to apportion to each contributing cause its due weight. This leads,
therefore, to a closer investigation of their nature, and thus a critical
investigation may lead into what is the proper field of theory.
The critical CONSIDERATION, that is, the testing
of the means, leads to the question, Which are the effects peculiar to the
means applied, and whether these effects were comprehended in the plans of the
person directing?
The effects peculiar to the means lead to the
investigation of their nature, and thus again into the field of theory.
We have already seen that in criticism all depends
upon attaining to positive truth; therefore, that we must not stop at arbitrary
propositions which are not allowed by others, and to which other perhaps
equally arbitrary assertions may again be opposed, so that there is no end to
pros and cons; the whole is without result, and therefore without instruction.
We have seen that both the search for causes and
the examination of means lead into the field of theory; that is, into the field
of universal truth, which does not proceed solely from the case immediately
under examination. If there is a theory which can be used, then the critical
consideration will appeal to the proofs there afforded, and the examination may
there stop. But where no such theoretical truth is to be found, the inquiry
must be pushed up to the original elements. If this necessity occurs often, it
must lead the historian (according to a common expression) into a labyrinth of
details. He then has his hands full, and it is impossible for him to stop to
give the requisite attention everywhere; the consequence is, that in order to
set bounds to his investigation, he adopts some arbitrary assumptions which, if
they do not appear so to him, do so to others, as they are not evident in
themselves or capable of proof.
A sound theory is therefore an essential
foundation for criticism, and it is impossible for it, without the assistance
of a sensible theory, to attain to that point at which it commences chiefly to
be instructive, that is, where it becomes demonstration, both convincing and
sans réplique.
But it would be a visionary hope to believe in the
possibility of a theory applicable to every abstract truth, leaving nothing for
criticism to do but to place the case under its appropriate law: it would be
ridiculous pedantry to lay down as a rule for criticism that it must always
halt and turn round on reaching the boundaries of sacred theory. The same
spirit of analytical inquiry which is the origin of theory must also guide the
critic in his work; and it can and must therefore happen that he strays beyond
the boundaries of the province of theory and elucidates those points with which
he is more particularly concerned. It is more likely, on the contrary, that
criticism would completely fail in its object if it degenerated into a
mechanical application of theory. All positive results of theoretical inquiry,
all principles, rules, and methods, are the more wanting in generality and
positive truth the more they become positive doctrine. They exist to offer
themselves for use as required, and it must always be left for judgment to
decide whether they are suitable or not. Such results of theory must never be
used in criticism as rules or norms for a standard, but in the same way as the
person acting should use them, that is, merely as aids to judgment. If it is an
acknowledged principle in tactics that in the usual order of battle cavalry
should be placed behind infantry, not in line with it, still it would be folly
on this account to condemn every deviation from this principle. Criticism must
investigate the grounds of the deviation, and it is only in case these are
insufficient that it has a right to appeal to principles laid down in theory.
If it is further established in theory that a divided attack diminishes the
probability of success, still it would be just as unreasonable, whenever there
is a divided attack and an unsuccessful issue, to regard the latter as the
result of the former, without further investigation into the connection between
the two, as where a divided attack is successful to infer from it the fallacy
of that theoretical principle. The spirit of investigation which belongs to
criticism cannot allow either. Criticism therefore supports itself chiefly on
the results of the analytical investigation of theory; what has been made out
and determined by theory does not require to be demonstrated over again by
criticism, and it is so determined by theory that criticism may find it ready
demonstrated.
This office of criticism, of examining the effect
produced by certain causes, and whether a means applied has answered its
object, will be easy enough if cause and effect, means and end, are all near
together.
If an Army is surprised, and therefore cannot make
a regular and intelligent use of its powers and resources, then the effect of
the surprise is not doubtful.—If theory has determined that in a battle the
convergent form of attack is calculated to produce greater but less certain
results, then the question is whether he who employs that convergent form had
in view chiefly that greatness of result as his object; if so, the proper means
were chosen. But if by this form he intended to make the result more certain,
and that expectation was founded not on some exceptional circumstances (in this
case), but on the general nature of the convergent form, as has happened a hundred
times, then he mistook the nature of the means and committed an error.
Here the work of military investigation and
criticism is easy, and it will always be so when confined to the immediate
effects and objects. This can be done quite at option, if we abstract the
connection of the parts with the whole, and only look at things in that
relation.
But in War, as generally in the world, there is a
connection between everything which belongs to a whole; and therefore, however
small a cause may be in itself, its effects reach to the end of the act of
warfare, and modify or influence the final result in some degree, let that
degree be ever so small. In the same manner every means must be felt up to the
ultimate object.
We can therefore trace the effects of a cause as
long as events are worth noticing, and in the same way we must not stop at the
testing of a means for the immediate object, but test also this object as a
means to a higher one, and thus ascend the series of facts in succession, until
we come to one so absolutely necessary in its nature as to require no
examination or proof. In many cases, particularly in what concerns great and
decisive measures, the investigation must be carried to the final aim, to that
which leads immediately to peace.
It is evident that in thus ascending, at every new
station which we reach a new point of view for the judgment is attained, so
that the same means which appeared advisable at one station, when looked at
from the next above it may have to be rejected.
The search for the causes of events and the
comparison of means with ends must always go hand in hand in the critical
review of an act, for the investigation of causes leads us first to the
discovery of those things which are worth examining.
This following of the clue up and down is attended
with considerable difficulty, for the farther from an event the cause lies
which we are looking for, the greater must be the number of other causes which
must at the same time be kept in view and allowed for in reference to the share
which they have in the course of events, and then eliminated, because the
higher the importance of a fact the greater will be the number of separate
forces and circumstances by which it is conditioned. If we have unravelled the
causes of a battle being lost, we have certainly also ascertained a part of the
causes of the consequences which this defeat has upon the whole War, but only a
part, because the effects of other causes, more or less according to
circumstances, will flow into the final result.
The same multiplicity of circumstances is
presented also in the examination of the means the higher our point of view,
for the higher the object is situated, the greater must be the number of means
employed to reach it. The ultimate object of the War is the object aimed at by
all the Armies simultaneously, and it is therefore necessary that the
consideration should embrace all that each has done or could have done.
It is obvious that this may sometimes lead to a
wide field of inquiry, in which it is easy to wander and lose the way, and in
which this difficulty prevails—that a number of assumptions or suppositions
must be made about a variety of things which do not actually appear, but which
in all probability did take place, and therefore cannot possibly be left out of
consideration.
When Buonaparte, in 1797,(*)
at the head of the Army of Italy, advanced from the Tagliamento against the
Archduke Charles, he did so with a view to force that General to a decisive
action before the reinforcements expected from the Rhine had reached him. If we
look, only at the immediate object, the means were well chosen and justified by
the result, for the Archduke was so inferior in numbers that he only made a
show of resistance on the Tagliamento, and when he saw his adversary so strong
and resolute, yielded ground, and left open the passages, of the Norican Alps.
Now to what use could Buonaparte turn this fortunate event? To penetrate into
the heart of the Austrian empire itself, to facilitate the advance of the Rhine
Armies under Moreau and Hoche, and open communication with them? This was the
view taken by Buonaparte, and from this point of view he was right. But now, if
criticism places itself at a higher point of view—namely, that of the French Directory,
which body could see and know that the Armies on the Rhine could not commence
the campaign for six weeks, then the advance of Buonaparte over the Norican
Alps can only be regarded as an extremely hazardous measure; for if the
Austrians had drawn largely on their Rhine Armies to reinforce their Army in
Styria, so as to enable the Archduke to fall upon the Army of Italy, not only
would that Army have been routed, but the whole campaign lost. This
consideration, which attracted the serious attention of Buonaparte at Villach,
no doubt induced him to sign the armistice of Leoben with so much readiness.
If criticism takes a still higher position, and if
it knows that the Austrians had no reserves between the Army of the Archduke
Charles and Vienna, then we see that Vienna became threatened by the advance of
the Army of Italy.
Supposing that Buonaparte knew that the capital
was thus uncovered, and knew that he still retained the same superiority in
numbers over the Archduke as he had in Styria, then his advance against the
heart of the Austrian States was no longer without purpose, and its value
depended on the value which the Austrians might place on preserving their
capital. If that was so great that, rather than lose it, they would accept the
conditions of peace which Buonaparte was ready to offer them, it became an
object of the first importance to threaten Vienna. If Buonaparte had any reason
to know this, then criticism may stop there, but if this point was only
problematical, then criticism must take a still higher position, and ask what
would have followed if the Austrians had resolved to abandon Vienna and retire
farther into the vast dominions still left to them. But it is easy to see that
this question cannot be answered without bringing into the consideration the
probable movements of the Rhine Armies on both sides. Through the decided
superiority of numbers on the side of the French—130,000 to 80,000—there could
be little doubt of the result; but then next arises the question, What use
would the Directory make of a victory; whether they would follow up their
success to the opposite frontiers of the Austrian monarchy, therefore to the
complete breaking up or overthrow of that power, or whether they would be
satisfied with the conquest of a considerable portion to serve as a security
for peace? The probable result in each case must be estimated, in order to come
to a conclusion as to the probable determination of the Directory. Supposing
the result of these considerations to be that the French forces were much too
weak for the complete subjugation of the Austrian monarchy, so that the attempt
might completely reverse the respective positions of the contending Armies, and
that even the conquest and occupation of a considerable district of country
would place the French Army in strategic relations to which they were not
equal, then that result must naturally influence the estimate of the position
of the Army of Italy, and compel it to lower its expectations. And this, it was
no doubt which influenced Buonaparte, although fully aware of the helpless
condition of the Archduke, still to sign the peace of Campo Formio, which
imposed no greater sacrifices on the Austrians than the loss of provinces
which, even if the campaign took the most favourable turn for them, they could
not have reconquered. But the French could not have reckoned on even the
moderate treaty of Campo Formio, and therefore it could not have been their
object in making their bold advance if two considerations had not presented
themselves to their view, the first of which consisted in the question, what
degree of value the Austrians would attach to each of the above-mentioned
results; whether, notwithstanding the probability of a satisfactory result in
either of these cases, would it be worth while to make the sacrifices
inseparable from a continuance of the War, when they could be spared those
sacrifices by a peace on terms not too humiliating? The second consideration is
the question whether the Austrian Government, instead of seriously weighing the
possible results of a resistance pushed to extremities, would not prove
completely disheartened by the impression of their present reverses.
The consideration which forms the subject of the
first is no idle piece of subtle argument, but a consideration of such
decidedly practical importance that it comes up whenever the plan of pushing
War to the utmost extremity is mooted, and by its weight in most cases
restrains the execution of such plans.
The second consideration is of equal importance,
for we do not make War with an abstraction but with a reality, which we must
always keep in view, and we may be sure that it was not overlooked by the bold
Buonaparte—that is, that he was keenly alive to the terror which the appearance
of his sword inspired. It was reliance on that which led him to Moscow. There
it led him into a scrape. The terror of him had been weakened by the gigantic
struggles in which he had been engaged; in the year 1797 it was still fresh,
and the secret of a resistance pushed to extremities had not been discovered;
nevertheless even in 1797 his boldness might have led to a negative result if,
as already said, he had not with a sort of presentiment avoided it by signing the
moderate peace of Campo Formio.
We must now bring these considerations to a
close—they will suffice to show the wide sphere, the diversity and embarrassing
nature of the subjects embraced in a critical examination carried to the
fullest extent, that is, to those measures of a great and decisive class which
must necessarily be included. It follows from them that besides a theoretical
acquaintance with the subject, natural talent must also have a great influence
on the value of critical examinations, for it rests chiefly with the latter to
throw the requisite light on the interrelations of things, and to distinguish
from amongst the endless connections of events those which are really
essential.
But talent is also called into requisition in
another way. Critical examination is not merely the appreciation of those means
which have been actually employed, but also of all possible means, which
therefore must be suggested in the first place—that is, must be discovered; and
the use of any particular means is not fairly open to censure until a better is
pointed out. Now, however small the number of possible combinations may be in
most cases, still it must be admitted that to point out those which have not
been used is not a mere analysis of actual things, but a spontaneous creation
which cannot be prescribed, and depends on the fertility of genius.
We are far from seeing a field for great genius in
a case which admits only of the application of a few simple combinations, and
we think it exceedingly ridiculous to hold up, as is often done, the turning of
a position as an invention showing the highest genius; still nevertheless this
creative self-activity on the part of the critic is necessary, and it is one of
the points which essentially determine the value of critical examination.
When Buonaparte on 30th July, 1796,(*) determined to raise the siege of Mantua, in order
to march with his whole force against the enemy, advancing in separate columns
to the relief of the place, and to beat them in detail, this appeared the
surest way to the attainment of brilliant victories. These victories actually
followed, and were afterwards again repeated on a still more brilliant scale on
the attempt to relieve the fortress being again renewed. We hear only one
opinion on these achievements, that of unmixed admiration.
At the same time, Buonaparte could not have
adopted this course on the 30th July without quite giving up the idea of the
siege of Mantua, because it was impossible to save the siege train, and it
could not be replaced by another in this campaign. In fact, the siege was
converted into a blockade, and the town, which if the siege had continued must
have very shortly fallen, held out for six months in spite of Buonaparte’s
victories in the open field.
Criticism has generally regarded this as an evil
that was unavoidable, because critics have not been able to suggest any better
course. Resistance to a relieving Army within lines of circumvallation had
fallen into such disrepute and contempt that it appears to have entirely
escaped consideration as a means. And yet in the reign of Louis XIV. that
measure was so often used with success that we can only attribute to the force
of fashion the fact that a hundred years later it never occurred to any one
even to propose such a measure. If the practicability of such a plan had ever
been entertained for a moment, a closer consideration of circumstances would
have shown that 40,000 of the best infantry in the world under Buonaparte,
behind strong lines of circumvallation round Mantua, had so little to fear from
the 50,000 men coming to the relief under Wurmser, that it was very unlikely
that any attempt even would be made upon their lines. We shall not seek here to
establish this point, but we believe enough has been said to show that this
means was one which had a right to a share of consideration. Whether Buonaparte
himself ever thought of such a plan we leave undecided; neither in his memoirs
nor in other sources is there any trace to be found of his having done so; in
no critical works has it been touched upon, the measure being one which the
mind had lost sight of. The merit of resuscitating the idea of this means is
not great, for it suggests itself at once to any one who breaks loose from the
trammels of fashion. Still it is necessary that it should suggest itself for us
to bring it into consideration and compare it with the means which Buonaparte
employed. Whatever may be the result of the comparison, it is one which should
not be omitted by criticism.
When Buonaparte, in February, 1814,(*) after gaining the battles at Etoges, Champ-Aubert,
and Montmirail, left Blücher’s Army, and turning upon Schwartzenberg, beat his
troops at Montereau and Mormant, every one was filled with admiration, because
Buonaparte, by thus throwing his concentrated force first upon one opponent,
then upon another, made a brilliant use of the mistakes which his adversaries
had committed in dividing their forces. If these brilliant strokes in different
directions failed to save him, it was generally considered to be no fault of
his, at least. No one has yet asked the question, What would have been the
result if, instead of turning from Blücher upon Schwartzenberg, he had tried another
blow at Blücher, and pursued him to the Rhine? We are convinced that it would
have completely changed the course of the campaign, and that the Army of the
Allies, instead of marching to Paris, would have retired behind the Rhine. We
do not ask others to share our conviction, but no one who understands the thing
will doubt, at the mere mention of this alternative course, that it is one
which should not be overlooked in criticism.
In this case the means of comparison lie much more
on the surface than in the foregoing, but they have been equally overlooked,
because one-sided views have prevailed, and there has been no freedom of
judgment.
From the necessity of pointing out a better means
which might have been used in place of those which are condemned has arisen the
form of criticism almost exclusively in use, which contents itself with
pointing out the better means without demonstrating in what the superiority
consists. The consequence is that some are not convinced, that others start up
and do the same thing, and that thus discussion arises which is without any
fixed basis for the argument. Military literature abounds with matter of this
sort.
The demonstration we require is always necessary
when the superiority of the means propounded is not so evident as to leave no
room for doubt, and it consists in the examination of each of the means on its
own merits, and then of its comparison with the object desired. When once the
thing is traced back to a simple truth, controversy must cease, or at all
events a new result is obtained, whilst by the other plan the pros and cons go
on for ever consuming each other.
Should we, for example, not rest content with
assertion in the case before mentioned, and wish to prove that the persistent
pursuit of Blücher would have been more advantageous than the turning on
Schwartzenberg, we should support the arguments on the following simple truths:
1. In general it is more advantageous to continue
our blows in one and the same direction, because there is a loss of time in
striking in different directions; and at a point where the moral power is
already shaken by considerable losses there is the more reason to expect fresh
successes, therefore in that way no part of the preponderance already gained is
left idle.
2. Because Blücher, although weaker than
Schwartzenberg, was, on account of his enterprising spirit, the more important
adversary; in him, therefore, lay the centre of attraction which drew the others
along in the same direction.
3. Because the losses which Blücher had sustained
almost amounted to a defeat, which gave Buonaparte such a preponderance over
him as to make his retreat to the Rhine almost certain, and at the same time no
reserves of any consequence awaited him there.
4. Because there was no other result which would
be so terrific in its aspects, would appear to the imagination in such gigantic
proportions, an immense advantage in dealing with a Staff so weak and
irresolute as that of Schwartzenberg notoriously was at this time. What had
happened to the Crown Prince of Wartemberg at Montereau, and to Count
Wittgenstein at Mormant, Prince Schwartzenberg must have known well enough; but
all the untoward events on Blücher’s distant and separate line from the Marne
to the Rhine would only reach him by the avalanche of rumour. The desperate
movements which Buonaparte made upon Vitry at the end of March, to see what the
Allies would do if he threatened to turn them strategically, were evidently done
on the principle of working on their fears; but it was done under far different
circumstances, in consequence of his defeat at Laon and Arcis, and because
Blücher, with 100,000 men, was then in communication with Schwartzenberg.
There are people, no doubt, who will not be
convinced on these arguments, but at all events they cannot retort by saying,
that “whilst Buonaparte threatened Schwartzenberg’s base by advancing to the
Rhine, Schwartzenberg at the same time threatened Buonaparte’s communications with
Paris,” because we have shown by the reasons above given that Schwartzenberg
would never have thought of marching on Paris.
With respect to the example quoted by us from the
campaign of 1796, we should say: Buonaparte looked upon the plan he adopted as
the surest means of beating the Austrians; but admitting that it was so, still
the object to be attained was only an empty victory, which could have hardly
any sensible influence on the fall of Mantua. The way which we should have
chosen would, in our opinion, have been much more certain to prevent the relief
of Mantua; but even if we place ourselves in the position of the French General
and assume that it was not so, and look upon the certainty of success to have
been less, the question then amounts to a choice between a more certain but
less useful, and therefore less important, victory on the one hand, and a
somewhat less probable but far more decisive and important victory, on the
other hand. Presented in this form, boldness must have declared for the second
solution, which is the reverse of what took place, when the thing was only
superficially viewed. Buonaparte certainly was anything but deficient in
boldness, and we may be sure that he did not see the whole case and its
consequences as fully and clearly as we can at the present time.
Naturally the critic, in treating of the means,
must often appeal to military history, as experience is of more value in the
Art of War than all philosophical truth. But this exemplification from history
is subject to certain conditions, of which we shall treat in a special chapter
and unfortunately these conditions are so seldom regarded that reference to
history generally only serves to increase the confusion of ideas.
We have still a most important subject to consider,
which is, How far criticism in passing judgments on particular events is
permitted, or in duty bound, to make use of its wider view of things, and
therefore also of that which is shown by results; or when and where it should
leave out of sight these things in order to place itself, as far as possible,
in the exact position of the chief actor?
If criticism dispenses praise or censure, it
should seek to place itself as nearly as possible at the same point of view as
the person acting, that is to say, to collect all he knew and all the motives
on which he acted, and, on the other hand, to leave out of the consideration
all that the person acting could not or did not know, and above all, the
result. But this is only an object to aim at, which can never be reached
because the state of circumstances from which an event proceeded can never be
placed before the eye of the critic exactly as it lay before the eye of the
person acting. A number of inferior circumstances, which must have influenced
the result, are completely lost to sight, and many a subjective motive has
never come to light.
The latter can only be learnt from the memoirs of
the chief actor, or from his intimate friends; and in such things of this kind
are often treated of in a very desultory manner, or purposely misrepresented.
Criticism must, therefore, always forego much which was present in the minds of
those whose acts are criticised.
On the other hand, it is much more difficult to
leave out of sight that which criticism knows in excess. This is only easy as
regards accidental circumstances, that is, circumstances which have been mixed
up, but are in no way necessarily related. But it is very difficult, and, in
fact, can never be completely done with regard to things really essential.
Let us take first, the result. If it has not
proceeded from accidental circumstances, it is almost impossible that the
knowledge of it should not have an effect on the judgment passed on events
which have preceded it, for we see these things in the light of this result,
and it is to a certain extent by it that we first become acquainted with them
and appreciate them. Military history, with all its events, is a source of
instruction for criticism itself, and it is only natural that criticism should
throw that light on things which it has itself obtained from the consideration
of the whole. If therefore it might wish in some cases to leave the result out
of the consideration, it would be impossible to do so completely.
But it is not only in relation to the result, that
is, with what takes place at the last, that this embarrassment arises; the same
occurs in relation to preceding events, therefore with the data which furnished
the motives to action. Criticism has before it, in most cases, more information
on this point than the principal in the transaction. Now it may seem easy to
dismiss from the consideration everything of this nature, but it is not so easy
as we may think. The knowledge of preceding and concurrent events is founded
not only on certain information, but on a number of conjectures and
suppositions; indeed, there is hardly any of the information respecting things
not purely accidental which has not been preceded by suppositions or
conjectures destined to take the place of certain information in case such should
never be supplied. Now is it conceivable that criticism in after times, which
has before it as facts all the preceding and concurrent circumstances, should
not allow itself to be thereby influenced when it asks itself the question,
What portion of the circumstances, which at the moment of action were unknown,
would it have held to be probable? We maintain that in this case, as in the
case of the results, and for the same reason, it is impossible to disregard all
these things completely.
If therefore the critic wishes to bestow praise or
blame upon any single act, he can only succeed to a certain degree in placing
himself in the position of the person whose act he has under review. In many
cases he can do so sufficiently near for any practical purpose, but in many
instances it is the very reverse, and this fact should never be overlooked.
But it is neither necessary nor desirable that
criticism should completely identify itself with the person acting. In War, as
in all matters of skill, there is a certain natural aptitude required which is
called talent. This may be great or small. In the first case it may easily be
superior to that of the critic, for what critic can pretend to the skill of a
Frederick or a Buonaparte? Therefore, if criticism is not to abstain altogether
from offering an opinion where eminent talent is concerned, it must be allowed
to make use of the advantage which its enlarged horizon affords. Criticism must
not, therefore, treat the solution of a problem by a great General like a sum in
arithmetic; it is only through the results and through the exact coincidences
of events that it can recognise with admiration how much is due to the exercise
of genius, and that it first learns the essential combination which the glance
of that genius devised.
But for every, even the smallest, act of genius it
is necessary that criticism should take a higher point of view, so that, having
at command many objective grounds of decision, it may be as little subjective
as possible, and that the critic may not take the limited scope of his own mind
as a standard.
This elevated position of criticism, its praise
and blame pronounced with a full knowledge of all the circumstances, has in
itself nothing which hurts our feelings; it only does so if the critic pushes
himself forward, and speaks in a tone as if all the wisdom which he has
obtained by an exhaustive examination of the event under consideration were
really his own talent. Palpable as is this deception, it is one which people
may easily fall into through vanity, and one which is naturally distasteful to
others. It very often happens that although the critic has no such arrogant
pretensions, they are imputed to him by the reader because he has not expressly
disclaimed them, and then follows immediately a charge of a want of the power
of critical judgment.
If therefore a critic points out an error made by
a Frederick or a Buonaparte, that does not mean that he who makes the criticism
would not have committed the same error; he may even be ready to grant that had
he been in the place of these great Generals he might have made much greater
mistakes; he merely sees this error from the chain of events, and he thinks
that it should not have escaped the sagacity of the General.
This is, therefore, an opinion formed through the
connection of events, and therefore through the RESULT. But there is another
quite different effect of the result itself upon the judgment, that is if it is
used quite alone as an example for or against the soundness of a measure. This
may be called JUDGMENT ACCORDING TO THE RESULT. Such a judgment appears at
first sight inadmissible, and yet it is not.
When Buonaparte marched to Moscow in 1812, all
depended upon whether the taking of the capital, and the events which preceded
the capture, would force the Emperor Alexander to make peace, as he had been
compelled to do after the battle of Friedland in 1807, and the Emperor Francis
in 1805 and 1809 after Austerlitz and Wagram; for if Buonaparte did not obtain
a peace at Moscow, there was no alternative but to return—that is, there was
nothing for him but a strategic defeat. We shall leave out of the question what
he did to get to Moscow, and whether in his advance he did not miss many
opportunities of bringing the Emperor Alexander to peace; we shall also exclude
all consideration of the disastrous circumstances which attended his retreat,
and which perhaps had their origin in the general conduct of the campaign.
Still the question remains the same, for however much more brilliant the course
of the campaign up to Moscow might have been, still there was always an
uncertainty whether the Emperor Alexander would be intimidated into making
peace; and then, even if a retreat did not contain in itself the seeds of such
disasters as did in fact occur, still it could never be anything else than a
great strategic defeat. If the Emperor Alexander agreed to a peace which was
disadvantageous to him, the campaign of 1812 would have ranked with those of
Austerlitz, Friedland, and Wagram. But these campaigns also, if they had not
led to peace, would in all probability have ended in similar catastrophes.
Whatever, therefore, of genius, skill, and energy the Conqueror of the World
applied to the task, this last question addressed to fate(*) remained always the same. Shall we then discard
the campaigns of 1805, 1807, 1809, and say on account of the campaign of 1812
that they were acts of imprudence; that the results were against the nature of
things, and that in 1812 strategic justice at last found vent for itself in
opposition to blind chance? That would be an unwarrantable conclusion, a most
arbitrary judgment, a case only half proved, because no human, eye can trace
the thread of the necessary connection of events up to the determination of the
conquered Princes.
Still less can we say the campaign of 1812 merited
the same success as the others, and that the reason why it turned out otherwise
lies in something unnatural, for we cannot regard the firmness of Alexander as
something unpredictable.
What can be more natural than to say that in the
years 1805, 1807, 1809, Buonaparte judged his opponents correctly, and that in
1812 he erred in that point? On the former occasions, therefore, he was right,
in the latter wrong, and in both cases we judge by the result.
All action in War, as we have already said, is
directed on probable, not on certain, results. Whatever is wanting in certainty
must always be left to fate, or chance, call it which you will. We may demand
that what is so left should be as little as possible, but only in relation to
the particular case—that is, as little as is possible in this one case, but not
that the case in which the least is left to chance is always to be preferred.
That would be an enormous error, as follows from all our theoretical views.
There are cases in which the greatest daring is the greatest wisdom.
Now in everything which is left to chance by the
chief actor, his personal merit, and therefore his responsibility as well,
seems to be completely set aside; nevertheless we cannot suppress an inward
feeling of satisfaction whenever expectation realises itself, and if it
disappoints us our mind is dissatisfied; and more than this of right and wrong
should not be meant by the judgment which we form from the mere result, or
rather that we find there.
Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the
satisfaction which our mind experiences at success, the pain caused by failure,
proceed from a sort of mysterious feeling; we suppose between that success
ascribed to good fortune and the genius of the chief a fine connecting thread,
invisible to the mind’s eye, and the supposition gives pleasure. What tends to
confirm this idea is that our sympathy increases, becomes more decided, if the
successes and defeats of the principal actor are often repeated. Thus it
becomes intelligible how good luck in War assumes a much nobler nature than
good luck at play. In general, when a fortunate warrior does not otherwise
lessen our interest in his behalf, we have a pleasure in accompanying him in
his career.
Criticism, therefore, after having weighed all
that comes within the sphere of human reason and conviction, will let the
result speak for that part where the deep mysterious relations are not disclosed
in any visible form, and will protect this silent sentence of a higher
authority from the noise of crude opinions on the one hand, while on the other
it prevents the gross abuse which might be made of this last tribunal.
This verdict of the result must therefore always
bring forth that which human sagacity cannot discover; and it will be chiefly
as regards the intellectual powers and operations that it will be called into
requisition, partly because they can be estimated with the least certainty,
partly because their close connection with the will is favourable to their
exercising over it an important influence. When fear or bravery precipitates
the decision, there is nothing objective intervening between them for our
consideration, and consequently nothing by which sagacity and calculation might
have met the probable result.
We must now be allowed to make a few observations
on the instrument of criticism, that is, the language which it uses, because
that is to a certain extent connected with the action in War; for the critical
examination is nothing more than the deliberation which should precede action
in War. We therefore think it very essential that the language used in
criticism should have the same character as that which deliberation in War must
have, for otherwise it would cease to be practical, and criticism could gain no
admittance in actual life.
We have said in our observations on the theory of
the conduct of War that it should educate the mind of the Commander for War, or
that its teaching should guide his education; also that it is not intended to
furnish him with positive doctrines and systems which he can use like mental
appliances. But if the construction of scientific formulae is never required,
or even allowable, in War to aid the decision on the case presented, if truth
does not appear there in a systematic shape, if it is not found in an indirect
way, but directly by the natural perception of the mind, then it must be the
same also in a critical review.
It is true as we have seen that, wherever complete
demonstration of the nature of things would be too tedious, criticism must
support itself on those truths which theory has established on the point. But,
just as in War the actor obeys these theoretical truths rather because his mind
is imbued with them than because he regards them as objective inflexible laws,
so criticism must also make use of them, not as an external law or an algebraic
formula, of which fresh proof is not required each time they are applied, but
it must always throw a light on this proof itself, leaving only to theory the
more minute and circumstantial proof. Thus it avoids a mysterious,
unintelligible phraseology, and makes its progress in plain language, that is,
with a clear and always visible chain of ideas.
Certainly this cannot always be completely
attained, but it must always be the aim in critical expositions. Such
expositions must use complicated forms of science as sparingly as possible, and
never resort to the construction of scientific aids as of a truth apparatus of
its own, but always be guided by the natural and unbiassed impressions of the
mind.
But this pious endeavour, if we may use the
expression, has unfortunately seldom hitherto presided over critical
examinations: the most of them have rather been emanations of a species of
vanity—a wish to make a display of ideas.
The first evil which we constantly stumble upon is
a lame, totally inadmissible application of certain one-sided systems as of a
formal code of laws. But it is never difficult to show the one-sidedness of
such systems, and this only requires to be done once to throw discredit for
ever on critical judgments which are based on them. We have here to deal with a
definite subject, and as the number of possible systems after all can be but
small, therefore also they are themselves the lesser evil.
Much greater is the evil which lies in the pompous
retinue of technical terms—scientific expressions and metaphors, which these
systems carry in their train, and which like a rabble-like the baggage of an
Army broken away from its Chief—hang about in all directions. Any critic who
has not adopted a system, either because he has not found one to please him, or
because he has not yet been able to make himself master of one, will at least
occasionally make use of a piece of one, as one would use a ruler, to show the
blunders committed by a General. The most of them are incapable of reasoning
without using as a help here and there some shreds of scientific military
theory. The smallest of these fragments, consisting in mere scientific words
and metaphors, are often nothing more than ornamental flourishes of critical
narration. Now it is in the nature of things that all technical and scientific
expressions which belong to a system lose their propriety, if they ever had
any, as soon as they are distorted, and used as general axioms, or as small
crystalline talismans, which have more power of demonstration than simple
speech.
Thus it has come to pass that our theoretical and
critical books, instead of being straightforward, intelligible dissertations,
in which the author always knows at least what he says and the reader what he
reads, are brimful of these technical terms, which form dark points of
interference where author and reader part company. But frequently they are
something worse, being nothing but hollow shells without any kernel. The author
himself has no clear perception of what he means, contents himself with vague
ideas, which if expressed in plain language would be unsatisfactory even to
himself.
A third fault in criticism is the misuse of
historical examples, and a display of great reading or learning. What the
history of the Art of War is we have already said, and we shall further explain
our views on examples and on military history in general in special chapters.
One fact merely touched upon in a very cursory manner may be used to support
the most opposite views, and three or four such facts of the most heterogeneous
description, brought together out of the most distant lands and remote times
and heaped up, generally distract and bewilder the judgment and understanding
without demonstrating anything; for when exposed to the light they turn out to
be only trumpery rubbish, made use of to show off the author’s learning.
But what can be gained for practical life by such
obscure, partly false, confused arbitrary conceptions? So little is gained that
theory on account of them has always been a true antithesis of practice, and
frequently a subject of ridicule to those whose soldierly qualities in the
field are above question.
But it is impossible that this could have been the
case, if theory in simple language, and by natural treatment of those things
which constitute the Art of making War, had merely sought to establish just so
much as admits of being established; if, avoiding all false pretensions and irrelevant
display of scientific forms and historical parallels, it had kept close to the
subject, and gone hand in hand with those who must conduct affairs in the field
by their own natural genius.
(*) Compare Hinterlassene Werke, 2nd edition, vol. iv. p. 276 et seq.
(*) Compare Hinterlassene Werke, 2nd edition, vol. iv. p. 107 et seq.
(*) Compare Hinterlassene Werke, 2nd edition. vol. vii. p. 193 et seq.
(*) “Frage an der Schicksal,” a familiar quotation from Schiller.—TR.
