[Frontispiece: CHARLES STEWART PARNELL Taken in the sitting-room at
Wonersh Lodge, Eltham by Mrs. Parnell]
CHARLES STEWART PARNELL
His Love Story and Political Life
BY
KATHARINE O'SHEA
(Mrs. Charles Stewart Parnell)
"_No common soul was his; for good or ill
There was a mighty power_"
HAWKSHAW--_Sonnet IX_
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1921
First published in Two Volumes 1914
One Volume Edition 1921
DEDICATED TO
LOVE
Had the whole rich world been in my power,
I should have singled out thee, only thee,
From the whole world's collected treasury."
MOORE
_PUBLISHERS' NOTE_
_Of all the love stories in history possibly none had more intense
reactions upon politics than that of Charles Stewart Parnell and
Katharine O'Shea, which is unfolded with candour so compelling in
this record of their life._
_The engrossing interest in Ireland has demanded a new and popular
edition of Mrs. Parnell's book. No real comprehension of the Irish
question is possible without a thorough knowledge of Parnell's life
and his part in the creation of the modern Home Rule movement; and no
intimate knowledge of Parnell's character and the springs of his
policy during the critical decade of the 'eighties can be had without
studying the revelations of his correspondence with his wife._
_In this edition some abridgment has been necessary to bring the book
within the compass of a single volume. The less material parts of
Mrs. Parnell's narrative of her own girlhood have been curtailed, and
the long correspondence of Captain O'Shea has been summarised in a
note appended to Chapter xxvii. One or two omissions are indicated
in footnotes. The text has been subject to no other interference._
_La Belle Sauvage,
September_, 1921.
{ix}
MRS. PARNELL'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
On October 6th, 1891, nearly twenty-three years ago, Charles Stewart
Parnell died in the arms of his wife; nearly twenty-three years ago
the whole of the civilized world awoke to laud--or to condemn--the
dead chief. It ranked him with the greatest heroes, or with the
vilest sinners, of the world, because he had found and kept the haven
of her arms with absolute disregard of that world's praise or blame,
till death, the only power greater than the love that held him there,
tore him from them.
And then the hate that followed him to the grave turned to the woman
he had loved, to vent upon her its baffled spleen; not considering
that such a man as he would keep the heart of his wife as closely in
death as he had kept it in life, so closely that none could come near
it, so secretly that none could find the way to plant therein a
sting. And so for these more than twenty-two years, I, his wife,
have lived upon memories so happy and so precious that, after time
had brought back some meaning to my life, I took a certain pleasure
in reading all men had to say of him whom they so little knew. Never
in all the "lives," "articles," or "appreciations" I read had there
been one that could say--or one that desired to say--that Parnell was
not a man who stands out sharp and clear from other men for good or
ill.
But now, after all these years, one of Parnell's erstwhile followers
has arisen to explain to another generation that Parnell was not
really such a man as this, that he {x} was one of Ireland's eternal
failures. One who held her dear indeed, but one who balanced her
welfare against the clutches of a light o' love with all the
foolishness of callow degeneracy, so fondly imagined chivalry by the
weak. Not a man who gave his country his whole life, and found the
peace and courage of that life in the heart of the woman he loved.
No, that is how a man lives and loves, whether in secret or before
the whole world. That is how Parnell lived and loved, and now after
these long years I break my silence lest the unmanly echo of excuse
given forth by Mr. O'Brien in an age that loves excuse may cling
about the name of the man I loved. It is a very poignant pain to me
to give to the world any account of the sacred happiness of eleven
years of my life and of the agony of sorrow that once seemed too
great to bear; but I have borne it, and I am so near him now that I
fear to leave near the name of that proud spirit the taint of excuse
that he loathed.
Parnell never posed as "rather the victim than the destroyer of a
happy home," as Mr. O'Brien suggested in the _Cork Free Press_ of
last year, and he maintained to the last day of his life that he
suffered no "dishonour and discredit" in making the woman he loved
his own.
And because Parnell contravened certain social laws, not regarding
them as binding him in any way, and because I joined him in this
contravention since his love made all else of no account to me, we
did not shrink at the clamour of the upholders of those outraged
laws, nor resent the pressing of the consequences that were
inevitable and always foreseen. The freedom of choice we had
ourselves claimed we acknowledged for others, and were wise enough to
smile if, in some instances, the greatness of our offence was loudly
proclaimed by those who he {xi} knew lived in a freedom of love more
varied than our own. For the hypocrisy of those statesmen and
politicians who, knowing for ten years that Parnell was my lover, had
with the readiest tact and utmost courtesy accepted the fact as
making a sure and safe channel of communication with him, whom they
knew as a force to be placated; for those who, when the time came to
stand by him in order to give Ireland the benefits they had promised
him for her, repudiated him from under the cloak of the religion they
thereby forswore, he, and I with him, felt a contempt unspeakable.
In this book I am giving to the public letters so sacred to my lover
and myself that no eyes other than our own should ever have seen
them, but that my son was jealous for his father's honour, and that I
would not my lover's life should seem in these softer days a lesser
thing, beset with fears and indecisions that he did not know. I
have, lived in those eleven years of Parnell's love so constantly
that nothing has been lost to me of them, and the few details of them
that I give will show a little of what manner of man he was, while
still I keep for my own heart so much that none shall ever know but
he and I.
In regard to the political aspect of the book those who know the
Irish history of those days will understand. My lover was the leader
of a nation in revolt, and, as I could, I helped him as "King's
Messenger" to the Government in office. It has been erroneously said
by some of the Irish Party that I "inspired" certain measures of his,
and biased him in various ways politically. Those who have said so
did not know the man, for Parnell was before all a statesman;
absolutely convinced of his policy and of his ability to carry that
policy to its logical conclusion. Self-reliant and far-seeing, the
master of his own mind.
{xii}
I was never a "political lady," and, apart from him, I have never
felt the slightest interest in politics, either Irish or English, and
I can honestly say that except for urging him to make terms with the
Government in order to obtain his liberation from prison, I did not
once throughout those eleven years attempt to use my influence over
him to "bias" his public life or politics; nor, being convinced that
his opinions and measures were the only ones worth consideration, was
I even tempted to do so. In my many interviews with Mr. Gladstone I
was Parnell's messenger, and in all other work I did for him it was
understood on both sides that I worked for Parnell alone.
KATHARINE PARNELL.
_Brighton, April_, 1914.
{xiii}
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
1. MY EARLY LIFE
2. VISITORS AT RIVENHALL
3. MY FATHER'S DEATH AND MY MARRIAGE
4. A DAY ON THE DOWNS
5. MORE FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES
6. CAPTAIN O'SHEA ENTERS POLITICAL LIFE
7. MR. PARNELL AND THE IRISH PARTY
8. THE FIRST MEETING WITH MR. PARNELL
9. AT ELTHAM
10. THE LAND LEAGUE TRIALS
11. PARLIAMENTARY ASSOCIATIONS
12. HOBBIES AND A CHALLENGE
13. ASTRONOMY, "SEDITION," AND ARREST
14. KILMAINHAM DAYS
15. MORE KILMAINHAM LETTERS
16. THE "KILMAINHAM TREATY"
17. THE PHOENIX PARK MURDERS AND AFTER
18. ENVOY TO GLADSTONE
19. THE FIRST HOME RULE BILL
20. MR. PARNELL IN DANGER--FOUNDING OF NATIONAL LEAGUE
{xiv}
21. A WINTER OF MEMORIES
22. HORSES AND DOGS
23. SEASIDE HOLIDAYS
24. LONDON REMEMBRANCES
25. THE PARNELL COMMISSION
26. BRIGHTON HAUNTS
27. THE DIVORCE CASE
28. A KING AT BAY
29. PARNELL AS I KNEW HIM
30. MARRIAGE, ILLNESS AND DEATH
INDEX
{1}
Charles Stewart Parnell
CHAPTER I
MY EARLY LIFE
"_Go forth; and if it be o'er stoney way
Old Joy can lend what newer grief must borrow,
And it was sweet, and that was yesterday.
And sweet is sweet, though purchased with sorrow._"
F. THOMPSON.
My father, Sir John Page Wood, was descended from the Woods of
Tiverton, and was the eldest of the three sons of Sir Matthew Wood,
Baronet, of Hatherley House, Gloucestershire. He was educated at
Winchester and at Trinity College, Cambridge, and after entering into
holy orders, before he was twenty-four years of age, was appointed
private chaplain and secretary to Queen Caroline, performing the last
offices for her at her death in 1820, and attending her body to its
final resting-place in Brunswick. He then became chaplain to the
Duke of Sussex, and in 1824 was appointed by the Corporation of
London to the rectory of St. Peter's, Cornhill.
In 1820 my father married Emma Caroline, the youngest of the three
daughters of Admiral Michell (and my father's uncle, Benjamin Wood,
M.P. for Southwark at the time, married the second daughter, Maria,
the "Aunt Ben" of this book). She was eighteen. My father was still
at Cambridge. The improvident young pair found it difficult to live
on the small allowance that was {2} considered sufficient for my
father at college. They appear to have been very happy
notwithstanding their difficulties, which were augmented a year later
by the birth of a son; and while my father became "coach" to young
men of slower wit, my mother, who was extremely talented with her
brush, cheerfully turned her beautiful miniature painting to account
for the benefit of her young husband and son. She soon became an
exhibitor of larger works in London, and the brothers Finden engraved
several of her pictures.
She and my father seem to have idolized their first child, "Little
John," and his early death, at about four years old, was their first
real sorrow. The boy was too precocious, and when he was three years
old his proud young parents were writing "he can read well now, and
is getting on splendidly with his Latin!"
Constable, the artist, was a friend of my mother's, who thought
highly of her work, and gave her much encouragement, and the young
people seem to have had no lack of friends in the world of art and
letters. Of my mother, Charles Sheridan said he "delighted in her
sparkling sallies," and the young Edwin Landseer was "mothered" by
her to his "exceeding comfort."
My mother was appointed bedchamber woman to Queen Caroline, and
became very fond of her. The consort of George IV. appears to have
taken the greatest interest in "Little John," and I had until a short
time ago--when it was stolen--a little workbox containing a
half-finished sock the Queen was knitting for the little boy when her
fatal illness began.
My parents then lived in London for some years while my father did
duty at St. Peter's. In 1832 my father became vicar of Cressing, in
Essex, and he took my {3} mother and their (I think three) children
there, leaving a curate in charge of St. Peter's. Thirteen children
in all were born to my parents (of whom I was the thirteenth), and of
my brothers and sisters there were seven living at the time of my
birth.
There was little room for all these young people in the vicarage at
Cressing, and it was so extremely damp as to be unhealthy; so my
parents moved to Glazenwood, a charming house with the most beautiful
gardens I have ever seen in a place of moderate size. I think my
brother Fred died here; but my first memories are of Rivenhall, where
my parents moved soon after my birth. Rivenhall Place belonged to a
friend of my father's, Sir Thomas Sutton Weston, of Felix Hall. The
beautiful old place was a paradise for growing children, and the
space and beauty of this home of my youth left me with a sad distaste
for the little houses of many conveniences that it has been my lot to
inhabit for the greater part of my life.
In politics my father was a thoroughgoing Whig, and as he was an able
and fluent speaker, and absolutely fearless in his utterances, he
became a great influence in the county during election times. I
remember, when he was to speak at a political meeting, how he laughed
as he tied me up in enormous orange ribbons and made me drive him
there, and how immensely proud of him I was (though, of course, I
could not understand a word of it all) as he spoke so persuasively
that howls and ribald cries turned to cheers for "Sir John's man."
When he went to London to "take duty" at St. Peter's Cornhill, he and
I used to stay at the Green Dragon, Bishopsgate Street. There was a
beautiful old courtyard to this hotel with a balcony, overhung with
creepers, {4} running all round the upper rooms. I loved this place,
and when I was too young to care much for the long service and
sermons, I was quite content that my father should tuck me up safely
in bed before going to evensong at St. Peter's.
Sometimes I was not well enough to go to London with him, and on
these occasions comforted myself as much as possible with a
compensating interest in the habits of the Rev. Thomas Grosse, who
took my father's place at Cressing. He was very good and kind to me,
and in the summer evenings, when he knew I was missing my father, he
would take me out to look for glow-worms, and show me the stars,
teaching me the names of the planets. Years afterwards the knowledge
I thus gained became a great happiness to me, as I taught Mr. Parnell
all I knew of astronomy, and opened up to him a new world of
absorbing interest.
Friends of my brother Evelyn frequently stayed at Rivenhall, and one
of them, a colonel of Light Dragoons, was engaged to one of my elder
sisters. This gentleman appealed to my youthful mind as being all
that a hero should be, and I used to stick a red fez on my golden
curls and gallop my pony past the dining-room windows so that he
might see and admire the intrepid maiden, as the prince in my fairy
book did!
I loved the winter evenings at Rivenhall when my brothers were not at
home. My father used to sit by the fire reading his _Times_, with
his great white cat on his knee, while I made his tea and hot
buttered toast, and my mother and sister Anna read or sketched. I
used to write the plots of tragic little stories which my "Pip"[1]
used to read and call "blood-stained bandits," owing to the {5}
violent action and the disregard of convention shown by all the
characters concerned.
However, these childish efforts of mine led to greater results, as
one evening my mother and sister laughingly offered to buy my "plot"
in order to "write it up" into a novel. I was, of course, very proud
to sell my idea, and thenceforth both my mother and sister wrote many
successful novels, published by Chapman and Hall--and, I believe, at
prices that are rarely realized by present-day novelists.
I was thus the unwitting means of greatly relieving my parents'
anxiety of how to meet, with their not very large income, the heavy
expense of educating and maintaining my brothers, and the
responsibilities of their position.
My brothers loved to tease me, and, as I was so much younger than
they, I never understood if they were really serious or only laughing
at me. Evelyn was specially adroit in bewildering me, and used to
curb my rebellion, when I was reluctant to fetch and carry for him,
by drawing a harrowing picture of my remorse should he be killed "in
the next war." The horror of this thought kept me a ready slave for
years, till one day, in a gust of temper, I burst out with: "I shan't
be sorry at all when you're killed in a war cos' I didn't find your
silly things, and I wish you'd go away and be a dead hero now, so
there!" I remember the horrified pause of my mother and sister and
then the howl of laughter and applause from Evelyn and Charlie.
Evelyn was very good to me after this, and considered, more, that
even little girls have their feelings.
As a matter of fact, my mother was so entirely wrapped up in Evelyn
that I think I was jealous, even though I {6} had my father so much
to myself. My mother was most affectionate to all her children, but
Evelyn was her idol, and from the time when, as a mere lad, he was
wounded in the Crimean War, to the day of her death, he was first in
all her thoughts.
Of my brothers and sisters I really knew only four at all well.
Clarissa had died at seventeen, and Fred when I was very young; Frank
was away with his regiment, my sister Pollie was married and away in
India before I was born, and my sister Emma married Sir Thomas
Barrett-Lennard while I was still very young. She was always very
kind to me, and I used to love going to visit her at her house in
Brighton. Visiting Sir Thomas Barrett-Lennard's country seat,
Belhus, I did not like so much, because, though Belhus is very
beautiful, I loved Rivenhall better.
My mother was a fine musician, and as I grew older, I began to long
to play as she did. There was a beautiful grand piano in the
drawing-room, and I used to try to pick out tunes upon it. My mother
had spent much money on her eldest daughter's--Maria's
(Pollie)--musical education. At the end of this Pollie said she
detested it, and would never play a note again if she could help it.
When I asked that I might be taught to play my mother said, "No.
There is the piano; go and play it if you really want to learn." In
time I could play very well by ear, and began to compose a little and
seek for wider knowledge. My love of music led me to try
composition, and I used to set to music any verses that took my
fancy. Among these I was much pleased with Longfellow's "Weariness,"
and was so encouraged by my mother's praise of the setting that I
sent the poet a copy. I was a very happy girl when he wrote to thank
me, {7} saying that mine was the best setting of his poem he had ever
heard.
Armed with the manuscript of this music and some others, the next
time I went to London with my father I went to Boosey's, the musical
publishers, and asked their representative to publish them.
"Quite impossible, my dear young lady," he answered at once. "We
never take beginners' work!" I plaintively remarked that even Mozart
was a "beginner" once, and could not understand why he laughed.
Still, with a smile, he consented to look at the manuscript, and to
my joy he ceased to laugh at me and tried some of it over, finally
agreeing, much to my joy, to publish "Weariness" and a couple of
other songs.
I remember my father's pleasure and the merry twinkle in his eye as
he gravely assented to my suggestion that we were a very gifted
family!
While my brother Frank (who was in the 17th Foot) was stationed at
Aldershot he invited my sister Anna and myself down to see a review.
He was married, and we stayed with him and his wife and children in
the married officers' quarters, which appeared to us to be very gay
and amusing.
I greatly enjoyed seeing the cavalry, with all the officers and men
in full dress.
Many of the officers came over to call after the review, and among
them was Willie O'Shea, who was then a cornet in the 18th Hussars.
There was a small drama acted by the officers in the evening which my
brother's wife took us to see, and there were many of the 18th
Hussars, who paid us much attention, though, personally, I found the
elderly and hawk-eyed colonel of the regiment far more interesting
than the younger men.
[1] Sir John.
{8}