The French had the practically exclusive use of the telegraph. Chappé's invention synchronised with the outbreak of the Revolution. In a report of July 1793, the word télégramme appears for the first time. The first telegram in the world's history was sent from Lille to Paris just when Napoleon was beginning his active career as a soldier. It announced to the Government the capture of Quesnoy from the Austrians. The Lille line was extended to Dunkirk in 1798 and to Brussels in 1803. Other lines were built to Brest, Lyon, and Strasbourg. The last was extended to the vicinity of Basle, from which place a dispatch was sent from the commander-in-chief of the Army of the Rhine on May 8, 1800, giving details of the battle of Moskirch on the previous day. Dispatched at 10 a.m. the message was in the hands of the Government at Paris by 1 p.m. It is hardly necessary to lay stress on the advantage which Napoleon and other French generals thus enjoyed in being able to communicate rapidly with Paris, and the effect which such facilities exercised on reinforcements and supplies. We make so bold as to state that, imperfect though it was, the French telegraph system of Napoleon's days was worth more to him than all the lore of Alexander, Hannibal, and Cæsar.

These four factors, to which we have lightly referred, namely, the Spirit of Nationalism: Conscription: Living on the Country: and Rapidity of Communication, help to explain that 'revolution' of war to which several writers on the Napoleonic campaigns directly refer. With these advantages Napoleon quickly realised that the 'pieces' with which he played could be given a range, a mobility, and a striking power far superior to the attributes of the legions of his opponents. Earlier in this article we ventured to refer to the analogy between war and chess, but we did so somewhat apologetically, for we were unaware at the time of any Napoleonic process of thought which might have supported our arguments. But by one of those coincidences which do occur in real life we have discovered evidence which suggests that Napoleon may possibly have discovered on the chess-board the key to his military success. Hardly had the paragraphs above referred to been written when a habit of dilatory browsing took us by

the merest chance to the pleasant meads of Madame de Rémusat. She tells us that when Napoleon played chess he liked to move the pieces occasionally in any way that suited his plans and without any particular regard for the established rules of the game. If it seemed advantageous at any moment to give his king the unlimited movements of the queen, he was in the habit of composedly adopting the new principle. Is it putting too great a strain on the reader's imagination to ask him to believe that this was no childish inconsequence on the part of Napoleon: that the advantage of playing with pieces with powers greater than those of his opponent opened up a startling military vista: and that the chess-board supplemented, if it did not eclipse, the reading and re-reading the campaigns of people who fought on old and restricted lines?

Be this as it may, we trust that we have adduced sufficient evidence to show that war in Napoleon's day differed considerably from war before his time: that success was won by him in a way different from that of his predecessors: and that the statement made by many writers that war was thus revolutionised is justified. If Napoleon gave as his secret of success the famous phrase, Read and re-read the campaigns of Alexander, Hannibal, Cæsar,' etc., it must not be forgotten-though it often is overlooked-that another recipe he gave for victory was, 'Above all, it is necessary to use common The tendency to look backward prevailed, however, in his country long after his death, and with results that should do much to shake any lingering belief in the efficacy of the study of past campaigns as a guide for future war. After the staggering disasters of 1870-1 French military students and writers turned eagerly to the campaigns of Napoleon, hoping thereby to be able to discover a means of binding victory to the chariot wheels of France, but disregarding or minimising the fact that steam and electricity alone had so changed conditions since the era of Napoleon as once again to bring about a revolution in war. From the exhaustive study of Napoleon's correspondence and campaigns sprung what was known as the ' French School' of strategy in opposition to the rival or 'German' school. Students of war awaited with keen professional interest

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the inevitable trial between the two systems which eventually took place in the clash of 1914; and the champions of the theory that strategy was an affair of rigid 'rules' and 'principles,' to which a hundred years were but as a day, looked forward with complacency to the result. In this they were doomed to disappointment. Merely to say that the French school was discredited is a euphemism and to understate the case. It collapsed at Its débris was swept away. Properly speaking, it never even got into its stride. Unfortunately, however, for themselves, and unfortunately for the advancement of military science, the very orgy of success which had been achieved by the Germans misled them. By detaching a fraction of their strength to deal with Russia before France was unmistakably crushed they vouchsafed the Allies an opportunity seldom granted in war. But to those who really probed the matter the outstanding fact was not that the Germans had lost the Marne, but that they had come so near to victory. It was undeniable that the French system of strategy based on Napoleonic campaigns and conditions had not stood the test applied. It was realised that strategy, like everything else, must move with the times. Rules are subordinate to, and not the masters of, conditions. 'Principles' may permeate progress, but they cannot dominate it. Strategy is not a sun which bookish Joshuas can bid remain suspended in the military firmament. E pur si muove.

The difference between the conditions of war in 1914 and those of a century earlier were very great, and a failure to make proper allowances for such difference reacted, as we have seen, severely on the French. Steam and electricity, however, had changed war only in degree; and in this way the difference between 1914 and to-day is greater even than the difference between 1914 and the Napoleonic era. Aircraft, Gas, and Mechanisation have between them produced a difference not of degree but of kind. They have not merely 'revolutionised' war but subverted it. The influence exerted by them is not a mere turning round' of war but a 'standing war on its head.' Obviously here is a crisis; but it is a crisis marked by a wide dissimilarity of opinion as to how it should be met. The compilers of the Field Vol. 249.-No. 494.

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Service Regulations pin their faith to the old maxim, 'The ultimate military aim in war is the destruction of the enemy's main forces on the battlefield.' But the power inherent in aircraft and gas, and to a certain extent also in tanks, to select a more vulnerable even if a more distant objective, has caused Colonel Fuller to disagree with the compilers of the military bible. Captain Liddell Hart, in his 'Paris, or the Future of War,' openly derides their conclusion. He goes even so far as to question whether armies are not obsolete. The advent of the aeroplane has, he points out, introduced new and boundless possibilities.

We shall not have written this article in vain if we have persuaded our readers not to look for guidance in the accumulated lore of past campaigns, and if we have weaned them from Evesham and Egospotami. These are definitely of a remote past. And what possible connexion is there between the sieges and winter quarters of Gustavus and Turenne and these days when a capital may be wrecked in an afternoon, and when arsenical smoke with a concentration of one part in ten million of air will incapacitate a man completely in a minute? Even the era of 1914 is centuries away; Mons and the Marne are as remote as the Metaurus and Marathon. If any protagonist of military history doubts this assertion let him endeavour to compare the actual 1914 with the same campaign fought under the conditions of to-day. His difficulty will lie not in estimating the divergence between the actual and the hypothetical campaigns, but in discovering a moment at which any similarity may be assumed. The advice of Napoleon to read and re-read the campaigns of the past is to-day acting as a clog on military thought. The statement of Clausewitz that Examples from history make everything clear' is, when quoted to-day, obvious nonsense. History affords us no precedent of wars fought with aircraft, gas, and mechanised armies. In the next great contest we shall be forced to play with new pieces; the 'rules' will be different; the principles' we shall have to discover as we go along. Prospice not Respice must be our motto. There is a good deal in what Verdy du Vernois said sixty years ago: To the devil with history and principles. What is the problem?"

F. E. WHITTON.

Art. 5.-MUSIC AND THE PLAIN MAN.

1. Music. By Sir W. H. Hadow. Williams and Norgate, 1924.

2. Ludwig von Beethoven's Pianoforte Sonatas. By William Behrend. Translated from the Danish by Ingeborg Lund. Dent, 1927.

3. The Spell of Music. By J. A. Fuller-Maitland. Murray, 1927.

4. Music, Classical, Romantic and Modern. By Eaglefield Hull, Mus. Doc. Dent, 1927.

5. The Appeal of Jazz. By R. W. S. Mendl. Philip Allan, 1927.

THE plain man' will never read the literature of music until it is better written. English criticism of painting made a good beginning with Sir Joshua's 'Discourses,' and was definitely established as a form of general reading when an anonymous graduate of the University of Oxford began to put forth, in 1843, certain absolute and imperious volumes written with determined loftiness and splendour. The taste of our day finds the early Ruskin self-conscious in manner, pontifical in attitude, and occasionally wrong-headed in matter; but there is no doubt at all that his work created a new spirit both in the appreciation of pictures and in the way of writing about them. People visited Italy with opened eyes, and art-criticism, once stiff with conventions of correctness,' became almost passionate with convictions. Ruskin's intense sincerity impelled him to minute and tireless study as well as to prophetic earnestness of expression. Those who now despise him and unburden themselves in a jargon of vague technicalities convey a suspicion that it is not the deeps of knowledge which they hide in their cloud of words.

The criticism of music has not yet found a Ruskin, though some have written well at lower levels. The long series of weekly articles by Mr Bernard Shaw, still buried in the files of a 'World' that has come to an end, contained sound stuff under the disguise of witty irrelevance. Mr Shaw was catholic in his sympathies and creative in his enthusiasm. He affirmed constantly the