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Rh their foes. But one thing their generals lacked, and that was education for war. Strategy was almost a sealed book to them; organization a matter of secondary importance. It was no part of their duty, they declared, to train the judgment of their subordinates; they were soldiers, and not pedagogues. Knowledge of foreign armies and their methods they considered useless; and of war prepared and conducted on “business principles” they had never even dreamt.

The popular idea that war is a mere matter of brute force, redeemed only by valour and discipline, is responsible for a

greater evil than the complacency of the amateur. It blinds both the people and its representatives to their bounden duties. War is something more than a mere outgrowth of politics. It is a political act, initiated and controlled by the government, and it is an act of which the issues are far more momentous than any other. No branch of political science requires more careful study. It is not pretended that if military history were thoroughly studied all statesmen would become Moltkes, or that every citizen would be competent to set squadrons in the field. War is above all a practical art, and the application of theory to practice is not to be taught at a university or to be learned by those who have never rubbed shoulders with the men in the ranks. But if war were more generally and more thoroughly studied, the importance of organization, of training, of education and of readiness would be more generally appreciated; abuses would no longer be regarded with lazy tolerance; efficiency would be something more than a political catchword, and soldiers would be given ample opportunities of becoming masters of every detail of their profession. Nor is this all. A nation that understood something about war would hardly suffer the fantastic tricks which have been played so often by the best-meaning statesmen. And statesmen themselves would realize that when war is afoot their interference is worse than useless; that preparation for defence, whether by the multiplication of roads, the construction of railways, of arsenals, dockyards, fortresses, is not the smallest of their duties; and lastly, that so far as possible diplomacy and strategy should keep step. Each one of these is of far greater importance than in the past. In the wars of the 18th century, English cabinets and Dutch deputies could direct strategical operations without bringing ruin on their respective countries. The armies of Austria in 1792-1795, controlled as they were by the Aulic Councils, were more formidable in the field than those of the French Republic. In the campaigns of 1854 and 1859 the plans of Newcastle and Napoleon III. worked out to a successful issue; and if Lincoln and Stanton, his Secretary of War, imperilled the Union in 1862, they saw the downfall of the Southern Confederacy in 1865. But in every case amateur was pitted against amateur. The Dutch deputies were hardly less incapable of planning or approving a sound plan of campaign than Louis XIV. The Aulic Council was not more of a marplot than the Committee of Public Safety. Newcastle was not a worse strategist than the tsar Nicholas I. Napoleon III. and his advisers were quite a match for the courtier generals at Vienna; while Lincoln and Stanton were not much more ignorant than Jefferson Davis. The amateur, however, can no longer expect the good fortune to be pitted against foes of a capacity no higher than his own. The operations of Continental armies will be directed by soldiers of experience whose training for war has been incessant, and who will have at their command troops in the highest state of efficiency and preparation. It is not difficult to imagine, under such conditions, with what condign punishment mistakes will be visited. Napoleon III. in 1859 committed as many blunders as he did in 1870. But the Austrians had no Moltke to direct them; their army corps were commanded by men who knew less of generalship than a Prussian major, and their armament was inferior. Had they been the Austrians of to-day, it is probable that the French and the allies would have been utterly defeated. And to come to more recent campaigns, while American officers have not hesitated to declare that if the Spaniards at Santiago had been Germans or French, the invasion would have ended in disastrous failure, it is impossible to doubt

that had the Boers of 1899 possessed a staff of trained strategists, they would have shaken the British Empire to its foundations. The true test of direction of war is the number of mistakes. If they were numerous, although the enemy may not have been skilful enough to take advantage of them, the outlook for the future under the same direction, but against a more practised enemy, is anything but bright.

As regards preparation for defence, history supplies us with numerous illustrations. The most conspicuous, perhaps, is

the elaborate series of fortifications which were constructed by Vauban for the defence of France; and there can be no question that Louis XIV., in erecting this mighty barrier against invasion, gave proof of statesmanlike foresight of no mean order. An instance less familiar, perhaps, but even more creditable to the brain which conceived it, was Wellington's preparation of Portugal in 1809-1811. Not only did the impregnable stronghold of Torres Vedras, covering Lisbon, and securing for the sea-power an open door to the continent of Europe, rise as if by magic from the earth, but the whole theatre of war was so dealt with that the defending army could operate wherever opportunity might offer. No less than twenty supply depots were established on different lines of the advance. Fortifications protected the principal magazines. Bridges were restored and roads improved. Waterways were opened up, and flotillas organized; and three auxiliary bases were formed on the shores of the Atlantic. Again, the famous “quadrilaterals” of Lombardy and Rumelia have more than fulfilled the purpose for which they were constructed; and both Austria and Turkey owe much to the fortresses which so long protected their vulnerable points. Nor has the neglect of preparation failed to exert a powerful effect. Moltke has told us that the railway system of Germany before 1870 had been developed without regard to strategical considerations. Yet the fact remains that it was far better adapted both for offence and defence than those of Austria and France; and, at the same time, it can hardly be denied that the unprovided state of the great French fortresses exercised an evil influence on French strategy. Both Metz and Strassburg were so far from forming strong pivots of manœuvres, and thus aiding the operations of the field armies, that they required those armies for their protection; and the retreat on Metz, which removed Bazaine's army from the direct road to Paris and placed it out of touch with its supports, was mainly due to the unfinished outworks and deficient armament of the virgin city. Since 1870 it has been recognized that preparation of the theatre of war is one of the first duties of a government. Every frontier of continental Europe is covered by a chain of entrenched camps. The great arsenals are amply fortified and strongly garrisoned. Strategy has as much to say to new railways as trade; and the lines of communication, whether by water or by land, are adequately protected from all hostile enterprises.

We now come to the importance of close concert between strategy and diplomacy. On the continent of Europe they can

easily keep pace, for the theatre of war is always within easy reach. But when the ocean intervenes between two hostile states it is undoubtedly difficult to time an ultimatum so that a sufficient armed force shall be at hand to enforce it, and it has been said in high places that it is practically impossible. The expedition to Copenhagen in 1807, when the British ultimatum was presented by an army of 27,000 men carried on 300 transports, would appear to traverse this statement. But at the beginning of the 20th century an army and a fleet of such magnitude could neither be assembled nor dispatched without the whole world being cognizant. It is thus perfectly true that an appreciable period of time must elapse between the breaking off of negotiations and the appearance on the scene of an invading army. Events may march so fast that the statesman's hand may be forced before the army has embarked. But because a powerful blow cannot at once be struck, it by no means follows that the delivery or the receipt of an ultimatum should at once produce a dangerous situation. Dewey's brilliant victory at Manila lost