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JavaScript Data
Structures and
Algorithms
An Introduction to Understanding and
Implementing Core Data Structure and
Algorithm Fundamentals
—
Sammie Bae
JavaScript Data Structures
and Algorithms
An Introduction to Understanding
and Implementing Core Data
Structure and Algorithm
Fundamentals
Sammie Bae
JavaScript Data Structures and Algorithms
Sammie Bae
Hamilton, ON, Canada
Acknowledgments ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xix
Introduction ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������xxi
v
Table of Contents
vi
Table of Contents
String Shortening������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 43
Encryption����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 45
RSA Encryption���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 46
Summary������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 50
vii
Table of Contents
Chapter 8: Recursion���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 99
Introducing Recursion����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 99
Rules of Recursion�������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 100
Base Case���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 100
Divide-and-Conquer Method����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 101
Classic Example: Fibonacci Sequence�������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 101
Fibonacci Sequence: Tail Recursion������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 102
Pascal’s Triangle������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 103
Big-O for Recursion������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 105
Recurrence Relations���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 105
Master Theorem������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 106
Recursive Call Stack Memory��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 107
Summary���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 109
Exercises����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 109
viii
Table of Contents
ix
Table of Contents
x
Table of Contents
xi
Table of Contents
xii
Table of Contents
xiii
Table of Contents
Index��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 351
xiv
About the Author
Sammie Bae is a data engineer at Yelp and previously
worked for the data platform engineering team at
NVIDIA. He developed a deep interest in JavaScript
during an internship at SMART Technologies (acquired by
Foxconn), where he developed Node.js-based JavaScript
APIs for serial port communication between electronic
board drivers and a web application. Despite how relevant
JavaScript is to the modern software engineering industry,
currently no books besides this one teach algorithms and
data structures using JavaScript. Sammie understands how
difficult these computer science concepts are and aims to
provide clear and concise explanations in this book.
xv
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Charles Stewart
Parnell: His Love Story and Political Life
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Charles Stewart Parnell: His Love Story and Political Life
Language: English
KATHARINE O'SHEA
(Mrs. Charles Stewart Parnell)
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.
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.
MRS. PARNELL'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
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 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 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.
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.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
1. MY EARLY LIFE
2. VISITORS AT RIVENHALL
9. AT ELTHAM
INDEX
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.
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!"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
CHAPTER II
VISITORS AT RIVENHALL
"A chiel's amang you takin' notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it!"—BURNS.
Anthony Trollope was a great friend of my father and mother, and used
to stay with us a good deal for hunting. He was a very hard rider to hounds,
and was a cause of great anxiety to my mother, for my sister Anna loved an
intrepid "lead" out hunting, and delighted in following Trollope, who stuck
at nothing. I used to rejoice in his "The Small House at Allington," and go
about fitting the characters in the book to the people about me—a mode of
amusement that palled considerably on the victims.
I was always glad when our young cousin George (afterwards Sir
George) Farwell (Lord Justice Farwell) came to see us. A dear lad, who
quite won my childish admiration with his courtly manners and kind,
considerate ways.
The Hon. Grantley-Barkley (who was seventy, I believe) was a dear old
man who was very fond of me—as I was of him. I was but a child when he
informed my parents that he wished to marry me when I was old enough!
He was a dear friend of my father's, but, though the latter would not
consider the matter seriously, my mother, who was an extraordinarily
sympathetic woman, encouraged the idea.
The dear old man used to write long letters to me before I could answer
them in anything but laborious print, and he wrote sheets to my mother
inquiring of my welfare and the direction of my education. I still have many
of the verses he composed in my honour, and though the last line of the
verse that I insert worries me now as much as it did when I received it, so
many years ago, I still think it very pretty sentiment:
"Then the Bird that above me is singing
Shall chase the thought that is drear,
When the soul to her side it is winging
The limbs must be lingering near!"
This little one-sided romance died a natural death as I grew up, my old
friend continuing to take the kindest interest in me, but accepting the fact
that I was no exception to the law of youth that calls to youth in mating.
I was staying there at the time, and though I was considered too young to
be really "out," as a rule I had my share in any festivities that were going
on. I remember my brother-in-law saying casually to my sister Emma, who
was giving a dinner party that evening: "Who is Katie to go in with,
milady?" and she answered promptly, "Oh, she shall go in with O'Shea." A
mild witticism that rather ruffled my youthful sense of importance.
I had been so much the companion of older men than he that I was
pleased with his youthful looks and vivacity. His dress pleased me also,
and, though it would appear a terrible affair in the eyes of a modern young
man, it was perfectly correct then for a young officer in the 18th Hussars,
and extremely becoming to Willie: a brown velvet coat, cut rather fully,
sealskin waistcoat, black-and-white check trousers, and an enormous
carbuncle and diamond pin in his curiously folded scarf.
However, in the few days of that visit we became very good friends, and
I was immensely pleased when, on parting, Willie presented me with a
really charming little poem written about my "golden hair and witsome
speech."
Week after week went by in our trance of contentment. I did not look
forward, but was content to exist in the languorous summer heat—dreaming
through the sunny days with Willie by my side, and thinking not at all of the
future. I suppose my elders were content with the situation, as they must
have known that such propinquity could have but one ending.
There was a man by whom I was attracted and who had paid me
considerable attention—E.S., stationed at Purfleet. He was a fine athlete,
and used to fill me with admiration by jumping over my pony's back
without touching him at all. I sometimes thought idly of him during these
days with Willie, but was content to drift along, until one day my sister
asked me to drive over with a note of invitation to dinner for the officers at
Purfleet.
In the cool of the evening I set out, with Willie, of course, in attendance.
Willie, on arrival, sprang out of the pony cart to deliver the note, and as he
was jumping in again glanced up at the window above us, where it
happened E. S. and another officer were standing. Without a moment's
hesitation Willie leant forward and kissed me full on the lips. Furious and
crimson with the knowledge that the men at the window had seen him kiss
me, I hustled my poor little pony home, vowing I would never speak to
Willie again; but his apologies and explanation that he had only just wanted
"to show those fellows that they must not make asses of themselves"
seemed so funny and in keeping with the dreamy sense I had of belonging
to Willie that I soon forgave him, though I felt a little stab of regret when I
found that E. S. declined the invitation to dinner. He never came again.
Willie had now to rejoin his regiment, and in the evening before his
going, as I was leaving the drawing-room, he stopped to offer me a rose,
kissing me on the face and hair as he did so.
A few mornings after I was sleeping the dreamless sleep of healthy
girlhood when I was awakened by feeling a thick letter laid on my cheek
and my mother leaning over me singing "Kathleen Mavourneen" in her rich
contralto voice. I am afraid I was decidedly cross at having been awakened
so suddenly, and, clasping my letter unopened, again subsided into slumber.
It was some time after this that the 18th Hussars were stationed at
Brighton. Willie loved early morning gallops on the Downs, and, on one
occasion, he rode off soon after daybreak on his steeplechaser, Early Bird,
for a gallop on the race-course. At the early parade that morning Willie was
missing, and, as inquiries were being made as to his whereabouts, a trooper
reported that Early Bird had just been brought in dead lame, and bleeding
profusely from a gash in the chest.
He had been found limping his way down the hill from the race-course.
Willie's brother officers immediately set out to look for him, and found him
lying unconscious some twenty yards from a chain across the course which
was covered with blood, and evidently the cause of the mishap. They got
him down to the barracks on a stretcher, and there he lay with broken ribs
and concussion of the brain.
I was at Rivenhall when I heard of the accident to Willie, and for six
unhappy weeks I did little else than watch for news of him. My sister, Lady
Barrett-Lennard, and Sir Thomas had gone to Preston Barracks to nurse
him, and as soon as it was possible they moved him to their own house in
Brighton. For six weeks he lay unconscious, and then at last the good news
came that he was better, and that they were going to take him to Belhus to
convalesce.
Before Willie left I was back at Belhus on the occasion of a dinner party,
and was shyly glad to meet him again and at his desire to talk to me only.
While the others were all occupied singing and talking after dinner we
sat on the yellow damask sofa, and he slipped a gold and turquoise locket
on a long gold and blue enamel chain round my neck. It was a lovely thing,
and I was very happy to know how much Willie cared for me.
CHAPTER III
MY FATHER'S DEATH AND MY MARRIAGE
"Fair shine the day on the house with open door;
Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney,
But I go for ever and come again no more."
—STEVENSON.
The following autumn my father, mother, and I went to stay at Belhus on
a long visit, my father going to Cressing each week for the Sunday duty,
and returning to us on Monday morning.
Among other visitors that winter, I well remember Mr. John Morley—
now Lord Morley—as he was told off for me to entertain during the day. He
was a very brilliant young man, and my elders explained to me that his
tense intellect kept them at too great a strain for pleasurable conversation.
"You, dear Katie, don't matter, as no one expects you to know anything!"
remarked my sister with cheerful kindness. So I calmly invited John Morley
to walk with me, and, as we paced through the park from one lodge to the
other, my companion talked to me so easily and readily that I forgot my rôle
of "fool of the family," and responded most intelligently to a really very
interesting conversation.
With the ready tact of the really clever, he could already adapt himself to
great or small, and finding me simply ready to be interested, was most
interesting, and I returned to my family happily conscious that I could now
afford to ignore my brother Evelyn's advice to "look lovely and keep your
mouth shut!"
John Morley, so far as I remember him then, was a very slight young
man with a hard, keen face, the features strongly marked, and fair hair. He
had (to me) a kindly manner, and did not consider it beneath him to talk
seriously to a girl so young in knowledge, so excessively and shyly
conscious of his superiority, and so much awed by my mission of keeping
him amused and interested while my elders rested from his somewhat
oppressive intellectuality. I remember wondering, in some alarm, as to what
topic I should start if he suddenly stopped talking. But my fear was entirely
groundless; he passed so easily from one thing interesting to me to another
that I forgot to be self-conscious, and we discussed horses and dogs, books
and their writers—agreeing that authors were, of all men, the most
disappointing in appearance—my father, soldiers, and "going to London,"
with the greatest pleasure and mutual self-confidence. And I think that, after
that enlightening talk, had I been told that in after years this suave, clever
young man was to become—as Gladstone's lieutenant—one of my bitterest
foes, I should perhaps have been interested, but utterly unalarmed, for I had
in this little episode lost all awe of cleverness as such.
My mother and sisters were discussing what was best to be done, and my
mother was speaking sadly as I went into her room. "We must sell the cow,
and, of course, the pig," my eldest sister (Emma) replied in her sweet,
cheerful voice, which produced a little laugh, though a rather dismal one,
and our sorrow was chased away for the moment.
During that year we lived chiefly at Rivenhall. It was a very quiet, sad
year, but we had a few pleasant visitors. Sir George Dasent, of the Times,
and also Mr. Dallas, who wrote leading articles for the same paper, were
frequent visitors, and Mr. Chapman (of Chapman and Hall, publishers),
with pretty Mrs. Chapman, Mr. Lewes, and many other literary people were
very welcome guests. My mother and sister Anna (Mrs. Steele) were
writing books, and much interested in all things literary. At the end of the
year we joined my eldest sister and her husband at Brighton, and soon after
this Willie returned from Spain and called on us at once, with the ever-
faithful Cunninghame Graham. I now yielded to Willie's protest at being
kept waiting longer, and we were married very quietly at Brighton on
January 25, 1867. I narrowly escaped being married to Mr. Cunninghame
Graham by mistake, as Willie and he—the "best man"—had got into wrong
positions. It was only Mr. Graham's horrified "No, no, no," when asked
whether he would have "this woman" to be his wife, that saved us from
many complications.
My mother, brothers and sisters gave me beautiful presents, and my dear
sister Emma gave me my trousseau, while Willie himself gave me a gold-
mounted dressing-bag. My old Aunt H. sent me a gold and turquoise
bracelet. Willie saw this after I had shown him what my sister Mrs. Steele
had given me—a carbuncle locket with diamond centre. Aunt H. was a very
wealthy woman, my sister not at all well off, though in any case her present
would have been much more to me than that of Aunt H. However, Willie
merely remarked of Anna's gift: "That is lovely, darling, and this," taking up
Aunt H.'s bracelet, "this will do for the dog," snapped it round the neck of
my little Prince.
Long afterwards he and I went to call on Aunt H., and as usual I had
Prince under my arm. I noticed Aunt H. break off in a sentence, and fix a
surprised and indignant eye on my dog. I had forgotten all about Prince's
collar being Aunt H.'s bracelet, and only thought she did not like my
bringing the dog to call, till I caught Willie's eye. He had at once taken in
the situation, and became so convulsed with laughter that I hastily made my
adieu and hustled him off.
Willie had sold out of the army just before his marriage, and his Uncle
John, who had married a Spanish lady and settled in Madrid, offered Willie
a partnership in his bank, O'Shea and Co., if he would put the £4,000 he
received for his commission into it. This was too good an offer to be
refused, so I said good-bye to my people, and bought some little presents
for the servants at home, including a rich silk dress for my old nurse Lucy,
who had been in my mother's service since the age of sixteen, and who was
much upset that her youngest and dearest nursling should be taken away to
such "heathenish, far-off places."
Before leaving England Willie and I stayed for a few days in London,
and his mother and sister Mary called on us. They had not attended the
marriage, as they would not lend their countenance to a "mixed" marriage,
though once accomplished they accepted the situation. They were very nice
and kind, and so gently superior that at once I became politely antagonistic.
They brought me some beautiful Irish poplins which were made into gowns
to wear in Madrid to impress the Spanish cousins, and a magnificent
emerald bracelet, besides £200 worth of lovely Irish house-linen. My
mother-in-law and sister-in-law were most generous indeed, and I then, and
always, acknowledged them to be thoroughly good, kind-hearted women,
but so hidebound with what was to me bigotry, with conventionality and
tactlessness, that it was really a pain to me to be near them. They admired
me, and very plainly disapproved of me; I admired them for their Parisian
finish—(for want of a better term)—and for their undoubted goodness, but,
though I was rather fond of Mary, they wearied me to death.
That week we crossed over to Boulogne, and there we had to stay for a
few days, as I was too ill from the crossing to go farther. The second
morning Willie, seeing I was better, wanted to go out to déjeuner, and told
me to lie still in bed, and he would tell them to send a maid with my food,
as he knew that I, not being used to French customs, would not like a waiter
to bring it. To make sure of my not being disturbed he locked the door. To
my horror half an hour after he had gone there was a tap at the door, and a
manservant opened it with his key, and marched in, despite my agitated
protests in very home-made French. Once in, however, he made me so
comfortable by his deft arrangement of a most tempting meal and paternal
desire that "Madame should eat and recover herself," that I was able to
laugh at Willie's annoyance on his return to find the waiter once more in
possession and removing the tray.
We then went to Paris to stay with my mother-in-law and Mary for a few
days, while they found me a French maid and showed me the sights. I had a
great quantity of very long hair in those days, and Willie insisted on my
having it very elaborately dressed—much to my annoyance—in the latest
French fashion, which I did not consider becoming to me. My maid was
also much occupied in making the toilet of my little dog. He was a lovely
little creature, and Caroline would tie an enormous pale blue bow on him as
a reward for the painful business of combing him. From the time Willie
gave me this little dog to the day it died, about six years afterwards, it went
everywhere with me. He was as good and quiet as possible when with me,
but if I ever left him for a moment the shrill little howls would ring out till
the nearest person to him would snatch him up, and fly to restore him to his
affectionate, though long-suffering, mistress.
While I was abroad I often used to get away by myself to spend many
happy hours in the beautiful churches with Prince tucked under my arm,
and often a friendly old priest would give us a smile as he passed on his
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