Charles Stewart Parnell: His Love Story and Political Life

by Kitty O'Shea

"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 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 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, 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.