nemy of thy land?
Surely thy valour would melt at the clash of swords and the voice of the
drum?'

And the answer of my soul was like the march of armed men.

Then said I softly, for I was touched by this unwonted valour of my soul,
'Soul! wouldst thou die for thy friend?'

And the voice of my soul came sweet as the sound of bells at evening. It
seemed, indeed, as though it could dream of naught sweeter than to die for
one's friend.

This colloquy of inner and outer set me further reflecting. Can it be that
this manhood is, after all, rather a quality of the spirit than of the
body; that it is to be sought rather in the stout heart than in the
strong arm; that big words and ready blows may, like a display of
bunting, betoken no true loyalty, and be but the gaudy sign to a sorry
inn? Dr. Watts, it may be remembered, declared the mind to be the standard
of the man. As he was the author of a book on 'The Human Mind,' envious
persons may meanly conceive that his statement was but a subtly-disguised
advertisement of his literary wares.

'Were I so tall to reach the Pole,
Or grasp the ocean in my span,
I must be measured by my soul:
The mind's the standard of the man.'

The fact of Dr. Watts being also a man of low stature does not affect the
truth or untruth of this fine verse, which may serve to comfort many. One
may assume that it was Jack, and not the giant, whom we would need to
describe as the true man of the two; and one seems to have heard of some
'fine,' 'manly' fellows, darlings of the football field and the American
bar, whose actions somehow have not altogether justified those epithets,
or, at any rate, certain readings of them. Theirs is a manhood, one
fancies, that is given to shine more at race-meetings and in hotel
parlours than at home--revealed to the barmaid, and strangely hidden from
the wife, who, indeed, has less opportunities for perceiving it.

This kind of manhood is, perhaps, rather a fashion than a personal
quality: a way of carrying the stick, of wearing, or not wearing, the
hair; it resides in the twirl of the moustache, or the cut of the trouser;
you must seek it in the quality of the boot and the shape of the hat
rather than in the actions of the wearer.

Take that matter of the hair. When next the street-boy sorrowfully
exclaims on your passing that 'it's no wonder the barbers all 'list for
soldiers,' or some puny idiot at your club--a lilliputian model of popular