It is a wonderful art which transfigures a sheet of cold grey canvas into a throbbing vitality, and on its inanimate spread visualizes a living picture from which one feels they can never turn their eyes away.
It is a wonderful art which takes a rugged, knotted block of marble, standing upon a coarse wooden bench, and cuts out of its uncomely crudeness—as I saw it done—the face of my father, with its every feature illumined with prophetic light, so true to life that I felt that to my touch it surely must respond.
But even such arts as these crumble; they are as dust under our feet compared with that much greater art, the art of dealing ably with human life in all its varying conditions and phases.
It is in this art that we seek by a most careful culture and training to perfect our officers.
They are trained in those expert measures which enable them to handle satisfactorily those that cannot handle themselves, those that have lost their grip on things, and that if unaided go down under the high, rough tides. Trained to meet emergencies of every character—to leap into the breach, to span the gulf, and to do it without waiting to be told how.
Trained to press at every cost for the desired and decided-upon end.
Trained to obey orders willingly, and gladly, and wholly—not in part.
Trained to give no quarter to the enemy, no matter what the character, nor in what form he may present himself, and to never consider what personal advantage may be derived.
Trained in the art of the winsome, attractive coquetries of the round, brown doughnut and all its kindred.
Trained, if needs be, to seal their services with their life’s blood.