ion and simplicity, and are full of spirited accounts of
adventure, of rough and various service. The narrative which they afford
of the siege of Delhi is of absorbing interest. The picture of the
little army of besiegers, wasted by continual disease and exposure to
the heats of an Indian summer,--worn by the constant sallies and attacks
of a host of enemies trained in arms,--saddened by the receipt of evil
tidings from all quarters,--feeling that upon their final success rested
not only the hope of the continuance of British supremacy in India, but
the very lives of those dear to them,--and, worst of all, compelled
to submit to a succession of incompetent generals, whose timidity and
irresolution baffled the best designs of officers and the dashing
bravery of the troops;--the pictures which Hodson gives of this little
army, of its unflagging spirit and resolution, and its valorous deeds,
are drawn with such truth as to bring the successive scenes vividly
before the imagination. Hodson himself was one of the best and most
useful of a noble corps of officers. His modesty does not hide the
grounds of the enthusiasm which was felt for him by his men,--of the
admiration that he excited among his fellows. The story of the capture
of the King and Princes, after the fall of Delhi, is one of the most
interesting stories of daring ever told. You hold your breath as you
read it. It was a gallant deed, done in the most gallant way.

Altogether, the book is one of thoroughly manly tone and temper,--a book
to make those who read it manlier, to put to shame the cowardice of easy
life, to make men more honest, more enduring, more energetic, by the
example which it sets before them. Hodson's life was short, but its
result will last. There was no sham about it, no meanness,--nothing but
what was large, true, and generous. As one turns the last page, it is
with no regret that such a man should have died in the fight, for he
was a Christian soldier. He was the _preux chevalier_ of our times. The
words in which Sir Ector mourns for his brother, Sir Lancelot, are fit
for his epitaph. "'Ah, Sir Lancelot,' said hee, 'thou were head of
all christen knights! An now I dare say,' said Sir Ector, 'that, Sir
Lancelot, there thou liest, thou were never matched of none earthly
knight's hands; and thou were the curtiest knight that ever bare shield;
and thou were the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrood horse;
and thou were the truest lover of