[Illustration: 1. A musician of the Gordon Highlanders, age, seventeen. 2. A Boer fighting “man,” age, twelve. Twice distinguished for bravery in action. He fought at Spion Kop, Colenso, Dundee, and Ladysmith.] As soon as the British recruit is accepted he is turned over to the drill sergeant, who proceeds to make a soldier of him; and in all the world no better man exists than the British drill sergeant for the special line of duty of whipping recruits into shape. He does nothing else, and consequently becomes very proficient at his calling. These drill masters are all alike; to see one is to see all. He is a species of soldier by himself, and there is nothing like him that I have ever seen. He does for the British army the work that is done by the subaltern officer of the American army. He is by no means gentle, but he is not unnecessarily severe, as is the German or French drill master; he merely understands his men better than any other master, and consequently gets better results from them in a shorter space of time. He takes a slouching youth, of slovenly gait, from Whitechapel, and in an incredibly short time turns him out into Hyde Park a dashing young soldier, or sends him to the Cape in khaki, as willing a fighter as can be found. I have seen a German drill master strike a recruit for some trifling mistake or inattention; I have heard a Frenchman curse his squad by all the saints in the calendar; but I know of nothing half so effective as the quiet sarcasm that the English or Irish drill sergeant can command when he is completely out of patience with an awkward “rookie”; it is more deadly than oaths or blows; it always accomplishes the end. Up to the present, the British army has been almost built, trained, and run by non-commissioned officers, many of whom are superior to the officers over them in all but birth and breeding. These rankers are capable of commanding in so far as capability depends upon understanding every detail of their profession.