SHADOWS OF THE PAST.

CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY LETTERS.

[From Curtis Kenyon to his Father.]

"St. John's College, Oxford,

"MY DEAR FATHER, — Very sorry indeed to hear that you have the gout, and do not know how to amuse yourself. I can't imagine you at all without your daily walks, and feel sure you must miss them exceedingly. Well, you must not complain, for you have reached a good old age, and so far have known but little of ill health; but, my dear father, are you sure it is the gout, which usually visits a man long before your time of life? It may perhaps be a bunion, which, though neither interesting nor aristocratic, is very painful. No; of course you won't hear of it, so we will say it is the gout; but why, my dear old dad, did you never have it before?

"To-day is the anniversary of Inkermann, and I have been fighting the battle over again, with a few friends,

and drinking health to all those still surviving, who conquered on the fifth of November, 1854, and peace to the dead; and this has put an idea into my head, which would serve to occupy your time just now, and be a great pleasure and satisfaction to me. Will you write out an account of the events of your life? The dear mother will, I am sure, readily help you, and in years to come it will be as interesting to your grandchildren as it will now be to me. It is very late, so I must be off to bed.

"With much love to the dear Madre and yourself, Your affectionate son,

"CURTIS KENYON.

"P.S.—Begin at the beginning, and go all through. Open confession is good for the soul; so tell when you were naughty, as well as when you were good."

[From General Sir Charles Kenyon, K.C.B., V.C., to his

Son.]

"Lowesby House, Cheltenham,
"November 7th.

"MY DEAR SON CURTIS,--Very glad to receive your letter, but wish you had said how you are getting on. Remember you are the only child we have left, and upon you our old hearts are set. I trust you will do well in your next exam.; and then you must really decide in earnest upon your future life. If you wish to follow in my footsteps, there will be no difficulty in the matter, and your mother and I will not say a word.

against it. Our family has given many a gallant soldier to our country, and we will not grudge you, although you are our only child. Think it well over, my dear boy, and let us know when you have decided.

"The gout is veritable, although it has attacked me thus late in life for the first time; and for this your mother must be thankful, as it does not improve my temper, I am afraid. There are not many Crimean men left, I am sorry to say; occasionally I meet a tough old fellow like myself, and enjoy a chat over the days that

are gone.

"As to my writing my history, Curtis, I fear I have not the 'cacoethes scribendi;' and I fully intended to tell you that I could not follow out your idea; but your dear mother's wish is law to me, and she says I must do it, and seems so eager upon the subject that I really mean to try. I do not expect to be very successful, but hope to warm upon the theme when I begin. I must tell my story in my own way, and shall most likely hunt up my old journal to help me. There is no hurry about the grandchildren, my dear boy-let me see, are you eighteen or nineteen this Christmas? Still I hope I

may be spared to see some little heads about my table, even though I have reached the age of man.' I feel young enough still, if I were not thus tied by the leg.

"I shall not let you read a word of my story till it is finished; if that day ever comes. Your mother is looking forward to seeing you home in six weeks' time. With love from us both, my dear boy,

"Your affectionate father,

"CHARLES KENYON."

CHAPTER II.

BRIEF MEMORIES OF BOYHOOD.

I WAS born in 1809, the year that the battle of Talavera was fought and won. Almost the first words that I heard were of war, and their constant repetition impressed them upon my memory even in babyhood. The name of Nelson was green in the recollection of every Englishman, although the battle of Trafalgar had been fought four years before, when the gallant admiral ended his life of glory in a still more glorious death, and the nation yet mourned him. But these memories are indistinct and dream-like.

My first actual remembrance is when, as a boy of five years old, I heard the joy-bells pealing out their heartstirring sounds, and was told that there was a "rejoicing" for the peace which had come at last-this was in 1814, when Napoleon Bonaparte was banished to the island of Elba (which was assigned to him in full sovereignty), and Louis the Eighteenth was proclaimed king of France; when the allied sovereigns visited England, and the long and desolating warfare which had lasted for so many years between these two countries, together with nearly all the powers of Europe, was thought to be at an end; but such was not the case, for Napoleon having

learnt that it was proposed at the Congress of Vienna that he should be sent to St. Helena (a measure opposed by the Duke of Wellington, and relinquished), made his escape from Elba, and landed at Cannes on the first of March, 1815, and on the twentieth of the same month entered Paris at the head of an army. Louis the Eighteenth withdrew to Ghent, and Napoleon resumed his former position as emperor. This the allied powers refused to permit, and war again commenced, which this time deprived me of the guidance and guardianship of a father, who, though but little known to me, was dearly loved, both from the glimpses I had had of his affection and the wondrous tales I had heard from my mother of his goodness, and from my elder brothers of his renowned bravery. Not that he was killed in action. Although more than once wounded slightly, he gallantly led his men through those three days of bloodshed which preceded final victory-the action of Quatre Bras on June the sixteenth, the engagement that followed on the seventeenth, and the battle of Waterloo on the eighteenth. On the last-named occasion, when the brunt of the day had been borne and success was at hand, my father is said to have fallen exhausted with loss of blood from his wounds, which were found to be of a more serious nature than could have been imagined from the manner in which, regardless of them, he had fought while he could stand. He did not die even then. He lived to come back to us all, and went with the other brave fellows of that hard-fought field to receive his medal. Young as I was, that day is indelibly fixed upon my memory, and I can see my dear father now as he then stood, with his