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Answers to Textbook Questions and Problems

CHAPTER 1 The Science of Macroeconomics

Questions for Review

1. Microeconomics is the study of how individual firms and households make decisions and how they

interact with one another. Microeconomic models of firms and households are based on principles of

optimization: firms and households do the best they can, given the constraints they face. For example,

households choose which goods to purchase to maximize their utility, whereas firms choose inputs and

outputs to maximize profits. In contrast, macroeconomics is the study of the economy as a whole; it

focuses on issues such as how total output, total employment, and the overall price level are

determined. These economy-wide variables are based on the interaction of many households and many

firms; therefore, microeconomics forms the basis for macroeconomics.

2. Economists build models as a means of summarizing the relationships among economic variables.

Models are useful because they abstract from the many details in the economy and allow one to focus

on the most important economic connections.

3. A market-clearing model is a model in which prices adjust to equilibrate supply and demand. Market-

clearing models are useful in situations where prices are flexible. Yet, in many situations, flexible

Chapter 1—The Science of Macroeconomics 1

 prices may not be a realistic assumption. For example, labor contracts often set wages for up to three

years, and firms such as magazine publishers may change their prices only every few years. Most

macroeconomists believe that price flexibility is a reasonable assumption for studying long-run issues.

Over the long run, prices respond to changes in demand or supply, even though in the short run they

may be slow to adjust.

Problems and Applications

1. First, monetary policy in the United States continues to be a major topic of conversation in 2018. The

Federal Reserve must decide how quickly to raise the federal funds rate. It watches for wage and price

increases as it does so. Second, the United States is implementing more protectionist policies,

restricting international trade and immigration. There is continuing uncertainty regarding how this will

affect consumers, workers, and firms and how other countries will respond. Third, the United States

has enacted tax reforms that will affect the entire economy, altering households’ and firms’ decisions

and posing issues for the federal budget.

2. Many philosophers of science believe that the defining characteristic of a science is the use of the

scientific method of inquiry to establish stable relationships. Scientists examine data, often provided by

controlled experiments, to support or disprove a hypothesis. Economists are more limited in their use

of experiments. They cannot conduct controlled experiments on the economy; they must instead rely

on the natural course of developments in the economy to collect data. To the extent that economists use

the scientific method of inquiry—that is, developing hypotheses and testing them—economics has the

characteristics of a science.

3. We can use a simple variant of the supply-and-demand model for pizza to answer this question.

Assume that the quantity of ice cream demanded depends not only on the price of ice cream and

income but also on the price of frozen yogurt:

Chapter 1—The Science of Macroeconomics 2

 Qd = D(PIC, PFY, Y).

We expect that demand for ice cream will rise when the price of frozen yogurt rises because ice cream

and frozen yogurt are substitutes. That is, when the price of frozen yogurt goes up, households will

consume less of it and instead fulfill more of their frozen dessert desires with ice cream. The next part

of the model is the supply function for ice cream, Qs = S(PIC). Finally, in equilibrium, supply must

equal demand, so that Qs = Qd. The exogenous variables are Y and PFY, and the endogenous variables

are Q and PIC. Figure 1-1 uses this model to show that a fall in the price of frozen yogurt results in an

inward shift of the demand curve for ice cream. The new equilibrium has a lower price and quantity of

ice cream.

4. The price of haircuts changes rather infrequently. From casual observation, hairstylists tend to charge

the same price over a one- or two-year period, regardless of the demand for haircuts or the supply of

cutters. A market-clearing model for analyzing the market for haircuts has the unrealistic assumption

of flexible prices. Such an assumption is unrealistic in the short run, when we observe that prices are

inflexible. Over the long run, however, the price of haircuts does tend to adjust; a market-clearing

model is therefore appropriate.

Chapter 1—The Science of Macroeconomics 3

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His efforts were all for the good of Prussia, and his subjects
recognized what he had done for the fatherland. Zimmermann, the
Hanoverian physician, thus describes him in his old age:—
“He is not of tall stature, and seems bent under his load of
laurels and his many years of struggle. His blue coat, much worn like
his body, long boots to above the knees, and a white snuff-
besprinkled vest, gave him a peculiar aspect. But the fire of his eyes
showed that Frederick’s soul had not grown old. Though his bearing
was that of an invalid, yet one must conclude from the quickness of
his movements and the bold decisiveness of his look, that he could
yet fight like a youth. Set up his unimportant figure among a million
of men, and every one would recognize in him the king, so much
sublimity and constancy resided in this unusual man!”
And the same writer says of his palace:—
“At Sans Souci there reigned such quiet that one might notice
every breath. My first visit to this lonely spot was of an evening in the
late fall. I was indeed surprised when I saw before me a small
mansion, and learned that in it lived the hero who had already
shaken the world with his name. I went around the entire house,
approached the windows, saw light in them, but found no sentry
before the doors, nor met a man to ask me who I was or what I
craved. Then first I understood the greatness of Frederick. He needs
for his protection not armed minions or firearms. He knows that the
love and respect of the people keep watch at the doors of his modest
abode.”
Frederick’s military genius was coupled with absolute control of
his country’s resources. Though Gustavus Adolphus was both
general and king, he was not an autocrat. The constitution of
Sweden prescribed his bounds. In ancient days, only Alexander
stood in the position of Frederick, and Cæsar, during the latter
portion of his campaigns. Hannibal was always limited in his
authority. Alexander, working in a far larger sphere, had personal
ambitions and a scope which Frederick lacked, yet each worked for
the good of his country. Frederick was not a conqueror. He fought to
defend his possessions. His military education was narrow; his
favorite studies and occupations essentially peaceful. But from
history he had sucked the ambition to make more powerful the
country which owed him allegiance, and he had digested the deeds
of the great commanders as only a great soldier can. Unconscious of
his own ability, necessity soon forced him to show what he was
worth. Like the Romans, he laid down one rule: Never wait for your
opponent’s attack. If you are on the defensive, let this be still of an
offensive character in both campaigns and battles. This rule he
followed through life.
Frederick most resembled Hannibal. He possessed Hannibal’s
virtue,—the secret of keeping a secret. He never divulged his plans.
From the start he was a captain, and so he remained to the end.
How did he learn his trade? Alexander and Hannibal learned theirs
under Philip and Hamilcar in Greece and Spain. Cæsar taught
himself in Gaul; Gustavus Adolphus, in Denmark, Russia, and
Poland. But Frederick had had no opportunities, except to learn the
pipe-clay half of the art of war. His five years’ retirement after his
court-martial must have done for him more than any one ever knew.
The fertility of his intelligence, and his power of applying what he
learned, were the foundation of his skill. His first campaign advanced
him more than a life of war does the greatest among others. The
First Silesian War was a school out of which Frederick emerged the
soldier he always remained.
That Frederick was not a warrior for the sake of conquest was
well shown in his moderation after the First Silesian War. He
demanded only his rights, as he understood them. And after the
Second Silesian, and the Seven Years’ War, he asked no more than
he got at the peace of Dresden, when he might have made far
greater claims. Indeed, Frederick’s whole life showed his preference
for the arts of peace. After the glamour of the first step had vanished,
war was but his duty to Prussia.
Frederick had assimilated the theory of war from the history of
great men; but its study was never a favorite pursuit. He was a born
soldier. As Cæsar taught himself from ambition, so Frederick taught
himself from necessity. What he did had not a theoretical but an
essentially practical flavor. He rose to the highest intellectual and
characteristic plane of the art, not by imitation of others, but by native
vigor. Frederick had by heart the lesson of Leuctra and Mantinæa,
but it required genius to apply the oblique order as he did it at
Leuthen. No man has ever so perfectly done this. No one in modern
times has had such troops.
Frederick placed war among the liberal arts. Perhaps the least
straight-laced of any captain, he held that only broad principles can
govern it; that the use of the maxims of war depends on the
personality of the soldier and the demands of the moment. His
“Instructions” to his generals set out Frederick’s whole art. It is full of
simple, common sense; apt rules, practical to the last degree. But it
was the man who made them so fruitful. Just because they do
represent the man they are interesting in this connection.
Frederick is the first writer on the military art who goes to the root
of the matter. He always wrote profusely,—most plentifully in bad
French verse,—but his “Instructions” are admirable throughout. At
the head of the paper stands this motto: “Always move into the field
sooner than the enemy;” and this was his course in campaign and
battle alike. He asked of the enemy a categorical yes or no to his
ultimatum, and upon no struck an instant blow. So novel was
Frederick’s quick decisiveness that he was at first looked upon in
Europe as a rank disturber of the peace. But his was only the old
Roman method revamped.
Underlying this rule was the good of Prussia. This motive he
ground into his men’s souls. He demanded as a daily habit
extraordinary exertions. His men must perform the unusual at all
times. And “from highest officer to last private, no one is to argue,
but to obey,” says he. A habit of obedience supplanted fear of
punishment. The king’s zeal flowed down through every channel to
the ranks. He was himself notoriously the hardest-worked man in
Prussia, and his men appreciated the fact.
Next in importance to discipline comes the care of the troops. In
his day subsistence tied armies down to predetermined manœuvres.
Frederick carried his rations with him, and in his rapid movements
made requisitions on the country, as Napoleon, a generation later,
did more fully.
Then follows the study of topography. Positions were to
Frederick only links in a chain, or resting places, but he ably utilized
the lay of the land in his battles. He taught his generals, wherever
they might be, to look at the surrounding country and ask
themselves, “What should I do if I was suddenly attacked in this
position?” He enunciated many maxims scarcely known at his day.
“If you divide your forces you will be beaten in detail. If you wish to
deliver a battle bring together as many troops as possible.” Frederick
did not try to keep everything, but put all his energy into the one
important matter. His was no hard and fast system. He did what was
most apt. His battle plans were conceived instantly on the ground.
What was intricate to others was simple to him and to the Prussian
army. Frederick held Hannibal up as a pattern. “Always,” said the
king, “lead the enemy to believe you will do the very reverse of what
you intend to do.”
Minor operations are clearly treated of. In general the motif of
these “Instructions” is attack and initiative. “Prussians,” said he, “are
invariably to attack the enemy.” Close with him even if weaker. Make
up for weakness by boldness and energy. He opposed passive
defence. Every one of his battles was offensive. He complained,
indeed, that he had to risk much all his life.
Frederick’s irrepressible courage under misfortune is equalled in
history only by Hannibal’s. Fortune was not his servant as she was
Alexander’s and Cæsar’s. He thanked himself for his good luck, or
rather his successes were due to the fact that he made use of good
luck when he had it, and threw no chances away. The magnificence
of his warlike deeds is traceable almost solely to his own mental
power and remarkable persistency. No danger or difficulty ever, in
the remotest degree, changed his purpose or affected his reasoning
power. It was this kept the ascendant on his side.
Despite sternest discipline, Frederick was familiar with his men,
who knew him as Vater Fritz, and bandied rough jokes with him.
“The Austrians are three to one of us, and stoutly entrenched,” said
the king, riding the outposts before Leuthen. “And were the devil in
front and all around them, we’ll hustle them out, only thou lead us
on!” answered a brawny grenadier. “Good-night, Fritz.” He gained
such personal love from his men that it seems to have been
transmitted as a heritage of the Hohenzollerns. He spurred his men
to the most heroic efforts, the most extraordinary feats of daring and
endurance. As the complement to this quality, he infused in his
enemies a dread of his presence. He utilized the mistakes they
made and led them into still others, less from any system than by
doing the right thing at the right moment. Strict rules aid only the
minds whose conceptions are not clear, and whose execution lacks
promptness. Rules were as nothing to Frederick. He observed them,
not because they were rules, but because they were grounded on
truths which his own mind grasped without them. He broke them
when there was distinct gain in so doing. His operations against six
armies surrounding him was based on his own maxim, that “Whoso
attempts to defend everything runs danger of losing everything,” and
he turned from one to the other, risking much to gain much. This idea
of Frederick’s was a novel one in his century, whose warfare
consisted in an attempt to protect and hold everything by fortresses
and partial detachments. In working out this idea he is
unapproached.
Frederick never allowed his enemies to carry out their own
plans. His movements imposed limitations upon them. He impressed
his own personality on every campaign. To carry his victuals with him
enabled him to outmanœuvre them, for his enemies relied
exclusively on magazines established beforehand. He could select
his routes according to the exigencies of the moment, while they
must keep within reach of their depots.
Tactically, Frederick stands highest of all soldiers. Strategically
he was less great. In strategic movements, his brother, Prince Henry,
did occasional work worthy to be placed beside the king’s. Tactically,
no one could approach him. His method of handling the three arms
was perfect.
Gustavus Adolphus had given new impulse to systematic,
intelligent war. But what he did was not understood. His imitators
jumbled the old and new systems. They placed too much reliance on
fortresses and magazines, and on natural and artificial obstacles;
they made strained efforts to threaten the enemy’s communications;
they manœuvred for the mere sake of doing something and apart
from any general plan; they avoided decisive movements and
battles.
Frederick, by making his armies less dependent on magazines,
acquired a freer, bolder, and more rapid style. The allies aimed to
parcel out Prussia. Frederick met them with decision. Surrounded on
all sides by overwhelming numbers, he was compelled to defend
himself by hard knocks. And his individual equipment as well as the
discipline of his army enabled him to do this with unequalled
brilliancy. In all history there is no such series of tactical feats as
Frederick’s.
Each captain must be weighed by the conditions under which he
worked. We cannot try Alexander by the standard of Napoleon.
While Napoleon’s battle tactics have something stupendous in their
magnificence, Frederick’s battles, in view of numbers and difficulties,
are distinctly finer. Frederick’s decisiveness aroused fresh interest in
battle. Manœuvres now sought battle as an object, while sieges
became fewer and of small moment.
All Europe was agog at Frederick’s successes, but no one
understood them. Lloyd alone saw below the surface. As Gustavus
had been misinterpreted, so now Frederick. Some imitated his
minutiæ down to the pig-tails of his grenadiers. Some saw the cure-
all of war in operations against the enemy’s flanks and rear. Some
saw in detachments, some in concentration, the trick of the king.
Only Lloyd recognized that it all lay in the magnificent personality of
the king himself, that there was no secret, no set rule, no
legerdemain, but that here again was one of the world’s great
captains. The imitators of Frederick caught but the letter. The spirit
they could not catch. Until two generations more had passed, and
Lloyd and Jomini had put in printed form what Frederick and
Napoleon did, the world could not guess the riddle.
 His own fortresses were of importance to Frederick because his
enemy respected them. But he paid small heed to the enemy’s. He
could strike him so much harder by battle, that he never frittered
away his time on sieges, except as a means to an end. The allies
clung to their fortified positions. Frederick despised them, and
showed the world that his gallant Prussians could take them by
assault.
This period, then, is distinguished for the revival of battles, and
of operations looking towards battle. Of these Frederick was the
author. Battles in the Seven Years’ War were not haphazard. Each
had its purpose. Pursuit had, however, not yet been made effective
so to glean the utmost from victory. No single battle in this period
had remarkable results. Frederick’s battles were generally fought to
prevent some particular enemy from penetrating too far into the
dominions of Prussia. In this they were uniformly successful. But in
the sense of Napoleon’s battles they were not decisive. The superior
decisiveness of Napoleon’s lay in the strategic conditions and in his
superiority of forces. No battles—as battles—could be more
thoroughly fought out than Frederick’s; no victories more brilliant.
Frederick not only showed Europe what speed and decision can
do in war, but he made many minor improvements in drill, discipline,
and battle-tactics. He introduced horse-artillery. His giving scope to
such men as Seydlitz and Ziethen made the Prussian cavalry a
model for all time. He demonstrated that armies can march and
operate continuously, with little rest, and without regard to seasons.
Light troops grew in efficiency. War put on an aspect of energetic
purpose, but without the ruthless barbarity of the Thirty Years’ War.
No doubt Napoleon, at his best, was the greater soldier. But
Napoleon had Frederick’s example before him, as well as the
lessons of all other great captains by heart. Napoleon’s motive was
aggressive; Frederick’s, pure defence. Hence partly the larger
method. But Frederick in trial or disaster was unspeakably greater
than Napoleon, both as soldier and man.
In the forty-six years of his reign Frederick added sixty per cent.
to the Prussian dominion, doubled its population, put seventy million
thalers in its treasury, and created two hundred thousand of the best
troops in existence. Prussia had been a small state, which the
powers of Europe united to parcel out. He left it a great state, which
all Europe respected, and planted in it the seed which has raised its
kings to be emperors of Germany. This result is in marked contrast
to what Napoleon’s wars did for France.
Whoever, under the sumptuous dome of the Invalides, has
gazed down upon the splendid sarcophagus of Napoleon, and has
stepped within the dim and narrow vault of the plain old garrison
church at Potsdam, where stand the simple metal coffins of
Frederick the Great and of his father, must have felt that in the latter
shrine, rather than the other, he has stood in the presence of the
ashes of a king.
Whatever may be said of Frederick’s personal method of
government, or of the true Hohenzollern theory that Prussia
belonged to him as an heritage to make or to mar as he saw fit, it
cannot be denied that he was true to the spirit of his own verses,
penned in the days of his direst distress:—

“Pour moi, menacé du naufrage,

Je dois, en affrontant l’orage,
Penser, vivre et mourir en Roi.”
 LECTURE VI.
NAPOLEON.

THE career of Napoleon Bonaparte is so near to our own times and

so commonly familiar, that it is not essential to describe any of those
operations which were, within the memory of some men yet living,
the wonder and dread of Europe. In certain respects Napoleon was
the greatest of all soldiers. He had, to be sure, the history of other
great captains to profit by; he had not to invent; he had only to
improve. But he did for the military art what constitutes the greatest
advance in any art, he reduced it to its most simple, most perfect
form; and his and Frederick’s campaigns furnished the final material
from which Jomini and his followers could elucidate the science; for it
has taken more than two thousand years of the written history of war
to produce a written science of war.
I shall not touch upon Napoleon’s life as statesman or lawgiver,
nor on his services in carrying forward the results of the Revolution
toward its legitimate consequence,—the equality of all men before
the law. In these rôles no more useful man appears in the history of
modern times. I shall look at him simply as a soldier.
Napoleon’s career is a notable example of the necessity of
coexistent intellect, character, and opportunity to produce the
greatest success in war. His strength distinctly rose through half his
career, and as distinctly fell during the other half. His intellectual
power never changed. The plan of the Waterloo campaign was as
brilliant as any which he ever conceived. His opportunity here was
equal to that of 1796. But his execution was marred by weakening
physique, upon which followed a decline of that decisiveness which
is so indispensable to the great captain. It will, perhaps, be
interesting to trace certain resemblances between the opening of his
first independent campaign in 1796, and his last one in 1815, to
show how force of character won him the first and the lack of it lost
him the last; and to connect the two campaigns by a thread of the
intervening years of growth till 1808, and of decline from that time
on.
When Napoleon was appointed to the command of the Army of
Italy he had for the moment a serious problem. In this army were
able and more experienced officers of mature powers and full of
manly strength, who looked on this all but unknown, twenty-seven
years old, small, pale, untried commander-in-chief, decidedly
askance. But Napoleon was not long in impressing his absolute
superiority upon them all. They soon recognized the master-hand.
The army lay strung out along the coast from Loano to Savona,
in a worse than bad position. The English fleet held the sea in its
rear, and could make descents on any part of this long and ill-held
line. Its communications lay in prolongation of the left flank, over a
single bad road, subject not only to interruption by the English, but
the enemy, by forcing the Col di Tenda, could absolutely cut it off
from France. The troops were in woful condition. They had neither
clothing nor rations. They were literally “heroes in rags.” On the
further side of the Maritime Alps lay the Austrian general, Beaulieu,
commanding a superior army equally strung out from Mount Blanc to
Genoa. His right wing consisted of the Piedmontese army under Colli
at Ceva; his centre was at Sassello; with his left he was reaching out
to join hands with the English at Genoa. Kellerman faced, in the
passes of the Alps, a force of twenty-five thousand Sardinians, but
for the moment was out of the business.
 1796.
Napoleon spent but few days in providing for his troops, and
then began to concentrate on his right flank at Savona. He knew that
his own position was weak, but he also divined from the reports
brought in from the outposts that the enemy’s was worse. From the
very start he enunciated in his strategic plan the maxim he obeyed
through life: Move upon your enemy in one mass on one line so that
when brought to battle you shall outnumber him, and from such a
direction that you shall compromise him. This is, so to speak, the
motto of Napoleon’s success. All perfect art is simple, and after
much complication or absence of theoretical canons from ancient
times to his, Napoleon reduced strategy down to this beautifully
simple, rational rule.
Nothing in war seems at first blush so full of risk as to move into
the very midst of your enemy’s several detachments. No act in truth
is so safe, if his total outnumbers yours and if you outnumber each of
his detachments. For, as always seemed to be more clear to
Napoleon and Frederick than to any of the other great captains, you
can first throw yourself upon any one of them, beat him and then turn
upon the next. But to do this requires audacity, skill, and, above all,
tireless legs. And success is predicated in all cases on the
assumption that God is on the side of the heaviest battalions.
So Napoleon, who was very familiar with the topography of Italy,
at once determined to strike Beaulieu’s centre, and by breaking
through it, to separate the twenty-five thousand Piedmontese in the
right wing from the thirty-five thousand Austrians in the left wing, so
that he might beat each separately with his own thirty-seven
thousand men.
Beaulieu’s reaching out toward Genoa facilitated Napoleon’s
manœuvre, for the Austrian would have a range of mountains
between him and his centre under Argenteau, whom he had at the
same time ordered forward on Savona via Montenotte. Napoleon’s
manœuvre was strategically a rupture of Beaulieu’s centre. Tactically
it first led to an attack on the right of Argenteau’s column. The details
of the manœuvre it would consume hours to follow. Suffice it to say
that by a restless activity which, barring Frederick, had not been
seen in war since the days of Cæsar, Napoleon struck blow after
blow, first upon Argenteau, throwing him back easterly, then on Colli,
throwing him back westerly, absolutely cut the allies in two, fought
half a dozen battles in scarce a greater number of days, and in a
short fortnight had beaten the enemy at all points, had captured
fifteen thousand prisoners, fifty guns, and twenty-one flags.
Still the problem was serious. Beaulieu, if active, could shortly
concentrate one hundred thousand men. Napoleon must allow him
not a moment of breathing spell. He issued a proclamation to his
troops which sounds like the blare of a trumpet. It set ablaze the
hearts of his men; it carried dread to his enemies, and Napoleon
followed it up by a march straight on Turin. Alarmed and
disconcerted, the King of Sardinia sued for peace. Napoleon
concluded an armistice with him, and thus saw himself dis-
embarrassed of the enemy’s right wing and free to turn on the left
under Beaulieu. His columns were at once launched on Alexandria,
and by his skilful manœuvres and unparalleled alertness he soon got
the better of the Austrians. He had at a stroke made himself the most
noted general of Europe. The rest of the campaign was equally
brilliant and successful.
Napoleon had shown his army that he commanded not by the
mere commission of the Directory, but by the divine right of genius.
He had not only taken advantage of every error of his opponents, but
had so acted as to make them commit errors, and those very errors
of which he had need. His army had been far from good. But “I
believe,” says Jomini, “that if Napoleon had commanded the most
excellent troops he would not have accomplished more, even as
Frederick in the reversed case would not have accomplished less.”
We recognize in this first independent campaign of Napoleon the
heroic zeal of Alexander, the intellectual subtlety of Hannibal, the
reckless self-confidence of Cæsar, the broad method of Gustavus,
the heart of oak of Frederick. But one fault is discoverable, and this,
at the time, was rather a virtue,—Napoleon underrated his
adversary. By and by this error grew in the wrong direction, and
became a strong factor in his failures.
Through the rest of this campaign, which numbered the victories
of Lodi, Castiglione, Bassano, Arcole, the most noteworthy thing
except his own personal diligence is the speed with which Napoleon
manœuvred his troops. To state an instance: from September 5 to
September 11, six days, Napoleon’s men fought one pitched battle
and two important combats and marched, Masséna eighty-eight
miles, Augereau ninety-six miles, and the other corps less distances.
He was far from being uniformly lucky. He had many days of serious
backsets. But whenever luck ran in his favor, he seized it and made
it useful; when against him, he gamely strove to stem its tide. If
Fortune frowned, he wooed her unceasingly till she smiled again.
The campaign which began in April, 1796, really lasted till April,
1797. Napoleon pushed the Austrians out of Italy and well back
towards Vienna. His triumphs culminated in the brilliant victory of
Rivoli, and his success at the truce of Leoben. At Rivoli, with thirty
thousand men, Napoleon defeated the enemy and captured twenty
thousand prisoners. The men who had left Verona and fought at San
Michele on the 13th of January, marched all night to Rivoli, there
conquered on the 14th, and again marching to Mantua, some thirty
miles, compelled Provera to lay down his arms on the 15th.
Napoleon could rightfully boast to have equalled Cæsar in speed of
foot.
The men of the Revolution had cut loose from eighteenth century
methods of warfare by rising en masse and putting the personal
element into the scale. But it was reserved for Napoleon to substitute
a new method for the old. From Nice to Leoben he showed the world
what modern war can do. He made himself independent of
magazines, as Frederick had done but rarely. With a smaller army he
always had more men at the point of contact. This was Napoleon’s
strongest point. He divined what his enemy would do, not from his
tent but from the saddle, seeing with his own eyes and weighing all
he saw and heard. He was every day and all day long in motion; he
rode unheard-of distances. He relied on no one but himself, as, with
his comparatively small army, he could well do; and correctly seeing
and therefore correctly gauging circumstances, he had the courage
to act upon his facts. He sought battle as the result of every
manœuvre. The weight of his intellect and his character were equally
thrown into all he did. And his abnormal ambition drove him to
abnormal energy. In this his first campaign and in one year, with
moderate forces, he had advanced from Nice to within eighty miles
of Vienna, and had wrung a peace from astonished Austria.
Napoleon next undertook the Egyptian campaign. His ambition
had grown with success. But matters in France were not in a
condition of which he could personally avail, and he believed he
could increase his reputation and power by conquests in the East.
His imagination was boundless. Perhaps no great soldier can be free
from imagination, or its complement, enthusiasm. Napoleon had it to
excess, and in many respects it helped him in his hazardous
undertakings. At this time he dreamed himself another Alexander
conquering the Eastern world, thence to return, as Alexander did not,
with hordes of soldiers disciplined by himself and fanatically attached
to his person, to subjugate all Europe to his will. The narration of this
campaign of sixteen months may be made to sound brilliant; its
result was miscarriage. It is full of splendid achievements and
marred but by one mishap,—the siege of Acre. But the total result of
the campaign was failure to France, though gain to Napoleon, who
won renown, and, abandoning his army when the campaign closed,
returned to Paris at a season more suited to his advancement.
Napoleon’s military conduct in this campaign shows the same
marvellous energy, the same power of adapting means to end, of
keeping all his extraordinary measures secret, the better to impose
on the enemy by their sudden development, the same power over
men. But the discipline of the army was disgraceful. The plundering
which always accompanied Napoleon’s movements—for, unlike
Gustavus and Frederick, he believed in allowing the soldier freedom
beyond bounds if only he would march and fight—was excessive.
The health of the army was bad; its deprivations so great that suicide
was common to avoid suffering which was worse. And yet Napoleon,
by his unequalled management, kept this army available as a tool,
and an excellent one.
Napoleon now became First Consul. The campaign of 1800 was
initiated by the celebrated crossing of the Alps. This feat, of itself,
can no more be compared, as it has been, to Hannibal’s great
achievement, nor indeed to Alexander’s crossing the Paropamisus,
than a Pullman excursion to Salt Lake City can be likened to Albert
Sidney Johnston’s terrible march across the Plains in 1857.
Napoleon’s crossing was merely an incident deftly woven into a
splendid plan of campaign. From Switzerland, a geographical salient
held by them, the French could debouch at will into Italy or Germany.
Mélas, the Austrian general in Italy, had his eyes fixed upon
Masséna in Genoa. A large reserve army was collected by Napoleon
in France, while Moreau pushed toward the Danube. Mélas naturally
expected that the French would issue from Provence, and kept his
outlook towards that point. When Napoleon actually descended from
the Great St. Bernard upon his rear, he was as badly startled as
compromised. This splendid piece of strategy was followed up with
Napoleon’s usual restless push, and culminated in the battle of
Marengo. This was at first a distinct Austrian victory, but good
countenance, Mélas’ neglect to pursue his gain, and Napoleon’s
ability to rally and hold his troops until absent Dessaix could rejoin
him, turned it into an overwhelming Austrian defeat. And Napoleon,
by the direction given to his mass, had so placed Mélas that defeat
meant ruin. He was glad to accept an armistice on Napoleon’s own
terms.

MARENGO CAMPAIGN
This superb campaign had lasted but a month, and had been
characterized by the utmost dash and clearness of perception. Again
Napoleon’s one mass projected on one properly chosen line had
accomplished wonders.
Napoleon once said to Jomini, “The secret of war lies in the
secret of communications. Keep your own and attack your enemy’s
in such a way that a lost battle may not harm you, a battle won may
ruin your adversary. Seize your enemy’s communications and then
march to battle.” Napoleon’s success came from study of the
situation. His art was founded on an intimate knowledge of all the
facts, coupled with such reasoning power as enabled him to gauge
correctly what his enemy was apt to do. Without the art the study
would be useless. But the art could not exist apart from study.
After Marengo there were five years of peace. These and the
four years between Wagram and the Russian campaign were the
only two periods of rest from war in Napoleon’s career. Succeeding
this came the memorable Austerlitz campaign. Napoleon had had for
some months three of his best officers in Germany studying up
topography, roads, bridges, towns, in the Black Forest region and
toward the Tyrol and Bohemia. To thus make himself familiar with the
status was his uniform habit.

Ulm-Austerlitz Campaign
Napoleon, now Emperor, was at Boulogne, threatening and
perhaps at times half purposing an invasion of England. He
commanded the best army he ever had. The Austrians, not
supposing him ready, inundated Bavaria with troops, without waiting
for their allies, the Russians, and marched up the Danube to the Iller,
under Field-Marshal Mack. Napoleon put an embargo on the mails,
broke up from Boulogne at twenty-four hours’ notice, and reached
the vicinity of the enemy with an overwhelming force before Mack
was aware of his having left the sea. His line of march was about
Mack’s right flank, because this was the nearest to Boulogne and
gave him a safe base on the confederate German provinces. So well
planned was the manœuvre, so elastic in its design for change of
circumstances, that it fully succeeded, step for step, until Mack was
surrounded at Ulm and surrendered with his thirty thousand men.
Here again we find the Napoleonic rule fairly overwhelming Mack
with superior numbers. Except in 1796 and 1814, Napoleon always
had more men than the enemy on the field at the proper time. “They
ascribe more talent to me than to others,” he observed, “and yet to
give battle to an enemy I am in the habit of beating, I never think I
have enough men; I call to my aid all that I can unite.”
The chart herewith given of the grand manœuvre of Ulm is so
simple as to suggest no difficulties of execution. But there is
probably nothing in human experience which taxes strength,
intellect, judgment, and character to so great a degree as the
strategy and logistics of such a movement, unless it be the tactics of
the ensuing battle. The difficulties are, in reality, gigantic.
Napoleon headed direct for Vienna, and on the way absolutely
lived on the country. “In the movements and wars of invasion
conducted by the Emperor, there are no magazines; it is a matter for
the commanding generals of the corps to collect the means of
victualling in the countries through which they march,” writes Berthier
to Marmont. Napoleon took Vienna and marched out towards Brünn,
where the Austrians and Russians had concentrated. Here he was
far from secure, if equal talent had been opposed to him; but he took
up a position near Austerlitz, from which he could retreat through
Bohemia, if necessary, and, calmly watching the enemy and allowing
several chances of winning an ordinary victory to pass, he waited,
with an audacity which almost ran into braggadocio, for the enemy to
commit some error from which he could wrest a decisive one. And
this the allies did, as Napoleon divined they would do. They tried to
turn his right flank and cut him off from Vienna. Napoleon massed his
forces on their centre and right, broke these in pieces, and won the
victory of which he was always most proud. Napoleon’s conduct here
showed distinctly a glint of what he himself so aptly calls the divine
part of the art.
There is always a corresponding danger in every plan which is of
the kind to compass decisive results. In this case Napoleon risked
his right wing. But to judge how much it is wise to risk and to guess
just how much the enemy is capable of undertaking is a
manifestation of genius.
The era of the great battles of modern war dates from Austerlitz.
Marengo was rather two combats than one great battle. Frederick’s
battles were wonders of tactics and courage, but they differ from the
Napoleonic system. In Frederick’s battles the whole army was set in
motion for one manœuvre at one time to be executed under the
management of the chief. If the manœuvre was interrupted by
unforeseen events, the battle might be lost. In Napoleon’s system,
the centre might be broken and the wings still achieve victory; one
wing might be crushed while the other destroyed the enemy. A bait
was offered the enemy by the exhibition of a weak spot to attract his
eye, while Napoleon fell on the key-point with overwhelming odds.
But in this system the control passed from the hand of the leader. All
he could do was to project a corps in a given direction at a given
time. Once set in motion, these could not readily be arrested. Such a
system required reserves much more than the old method. “Battles
are only won by strengthening the line at a critical moment,” says
Napoleon. Once in, Napoleon’s corps worked out their own
salvation. He could but aid them with his reserves.
There is a magnificence of uncertainty and risk, and
corresponding genius in the management of the battles of Napoleon;
but for purely artistic tactics they do not appeal to us as do
Frederick’s. The motif of Alexander’s battles is more akin to
Napoleon’s; that of Hannibal’s, to Frederick’s.
It has been said that Napoleon never considered what he should
do in case of failure. The reverse is more exact. Before delivering a
battle, Napoleon busied himself little with what he would do in case
of success. That was easy to decide. He busied himself markedly
with what could be done in case of reverse.
Like all great captains, Napoleon preferred lieutenants who
obeyed instead of initiating. He chafed at independent action. This
was the chief’s prerogative. But as his armies grew in size he gave
his marshals charge of detail under general instructions from himself.
Dependence on Napoleon gradually sapped the self-reliance of more
than one of his lieutenants, and though there are instances of noble
ability at a distance from control, most of his marshals were able
tacticians, rather than great generals. Napoleon grew impatient of
contradiction or explanation; and he sometimes did not learn or was
not told of things he ought to know. He was no longer so active.
Campaigning was a hardship. His belief in his destiny became so
strong that he began to take greater risks. Such a thing as failure did
not exist for him. His armies were increasing in size, and railroads
and telegraphs at that day did not hasten transportation and news.
The difficulties he had to contend with were growing fast.
These things had the effect of making Napoleon’s military plans
more magnificent, more far-reaching. But all the less could he pay
heed to detail, and from now on one can, with some brilliant
exceptions, perceive more errors of execution. In the general
conception he was greater than ever, and this balanced the scale.
His ability to put all his skill into the work immediately in hand was
marvellous. But with a vast whole in view, the parts were, perhaps of
necessity, lost sight of.
The campaigns of 1806 and 1807 were in sequence. To move on
the Prussians, who, under the superannuated Duke of Brunswick,
were concentrated in Thuringia, Napoleon massed on his own right,
disgarnishing his left, turned their left,—in this case their strategic
flank, because the manœuvre cut them off from Berlin and their
allies, the Russians,—and with overwhelming vigor fell on the
dawdling enemy at Jena and Auerstädt. The Prussians had
remained stationary in the art of war where they had been left by
Frederick, and had lost his burning genius.