Lord Clonmel, chief justice of the Irish Court of King’s Bench—His
character—Lady Tyrawly’s false charge against him—Consequent duel
between him and Lord Tyrawly—Eclaircissement—Lord Tyrawly and Miss
Wewitzer—Lord Clonmel’s hints “How to rule a wife”—Subsequent
conversation with his lordship at Sir John Tydd’s.
The first chief judge who favoured me with his intimacy was Lord
Clonmel, chief justice of the King’s Bench. His character appears at
full length in my “Historical Memoirs of Ireland,” vol. i. p. 38, and a
curious but true character it is. I was introduced to his lordship’s
notice through Sir John Tydd (the truest friend he had), and received
from him many instances of attention; and he gave me, early in life,
some of the very best practical maxims. As he was one of the celebrated
_official_ “fire-eaters” (whom I shall hereafter mention), and fought
several duels, it may be amusing to extract here, from the work in
question, a few distinguishing traits of his lordship.—“Mr. Scott never
omitted one favourable opportunity of serving himself. His skill was
unrivalled, and his success proverbial. He was full of anecdotes, though
not the most refined: these in private society he not only told, but
_acted_; and when he perceived that he had made a very good exhibition,
he immediately withdrew, that he might leave the most lively impression
of his pleasantry behind him. His boldness was his first
introduction—his policy, his ultimate preferment.—Courageous, vulgar,
humorous, artificial, he knew the world well, and he profited by that
knowledge:—he cultivated the powerful; he bullied the timid; he fought
the brave; he flattered the vain; he duped the credulous; and he amused
the convivial. He frequently, in his prosperity, acknowledged favours he
had received when he was obscure, and _occasionally_ requited them.
Half-liked, half-reprobated, he was too high to be despised, and too low
to be respected. His language was coarse, and his principles arbitrary;
but his passions were his slaves, and his cunning was his instrument. In
public and in private he was the same character; and, though a most
fortunate man and a successful courtier, he had scarcely a sincere
friend or a _disinterested_ adherent.”—What regard I had for his
lordship was literally so.
His duel with Lord Tyrawly was caused and attended by circumstances
which combine to form a curious narrative:—Lady Tyrawly had an utter
dislike for her husband (then the Honourable James Cuffe). They had no
children, and she made various efforts to induce him to consent to a
distinct and total separation. There being no substantial cause for such
a measure, Mr. Cuffe looked upon it as ridiculous, and would not
consent.—At length, the lady hit upon an excellent mode for carrying her
wishes into effect, and ensuring a separate maintenance: but I have
never heard of the precedent being followed.
Mr. Cuffe found her one day in tears, a thing not frequent with her
ladyship, who had a good deal of the amazon about her. She sobbed—threw
herself on her knees—went through the usual evolutions of a repentant
female—and, at length, told her husband that she was unworthy of his
future protection,—had been faithless to him, and was a lost and guilty
woman.
I suppose there is a routine of contrition, explanation, rage, honour,
&c. &c. which generally attends developments of this nature; and I take
for granted that the same was duly performed by the Honourable Mr. and
Mrs. Cuffe. Suffice it to say, that the latter was put into a
sedan-chair and ordered out of the house forthwith to private lodgings,
until it was the will of her injured lord to send a deed of annuity for
her support.
Mr. Cuffe next proceeded to summon a friend, and inform him that his
wife had owned “that villain Scott,” the attorney-general, and the
pretended friend of his family, to be her seducer!—that not his love,
but his honour was so deeply concerned, as to render the death of one or
the other necessary;—and, without further ceremony, a message was sent,
for mortal combat, to the attorney-general, urging the lady’s
confession, his own dishonourable breach of trust, and Mr. Cuffe’s
determination to fight him.
Mr. Scott, well knowing that a _declaration_, or even an _oath_, of
innocence would, by the world, be considered either as honourable
perjury on his part, to save Mrs. Cuffe’s reputation, or as a mode of
screening himself from her husband’s vengeance (and in no case be
believed even by the good-natured part of society); made up his mind for
the worst.
The husband and supposed gallant accordingly met: no explanation could
be listened to: the ground was duly measured—the flints hammered—the
parties bowed to each other (as was then usual), and exchanged shots;
and each having heard the bullets humanely whiz past his skull, without
indicating a desire of becoming more intimately acquainted therewith,
Mr. Scott told his antagonist that he was totally mistaken, and gave his
honour that he never had the slightest familiarity with the lady, who,
he concluded, must have lost her reason.[54]
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Footnote 54:
A Mr. George Bathron, of Durrow, an apothecary, had, about 1783, been
accused of a similar misdemeanour with the wife of a brother volunteer
in the same town, but with more reason. He however got over it better:
he denied the fact plump; and the ensuing Sunday, after having
received the sacrament in church, swore that he never in his life had
“behaved _unlike_ a _gentleman_ by Mrs. Delany.” This completely
satisfied the husband; and the apothecary was considered a trustworthy
person—of high honour, moral tendency, and shamefully _calumniated_.
-----
There was no cause for denying credence to this; while, on the other
hand, it was but too likely that Mr. Cuffe had been tricked by his lady
wife. She was sure of a _separation_, for he had _turned her out_: and
if he had fallen on the field of honour, she would have had a noble
jointure;—so that she was _in utrumque parata_,—secure under every
chance—death or Doctor Duigenan.
On his return, he sent her a most severe reprimand; and announced but a
moderate annuity, which she instantly and haughtily refused, positively
declaring that she _never had made any confession of guilt_! that the
whole was a scheme of his own vicious jealousy, to get rid of her; and
that she had only said, he might _just as well_ suspect the
attorney-general, who had never said a _civil_ thing to her, as _any
body else_! She dared him to _prove_ the least impropriety on her part;
and yet he had cruelly turned her out of his house, and proclaimed his
innocent wife to be a guilty woman.
Mr. Cuffe saw she had been too many for him every way!—he durst not give
more publicity to the affair; and therefore agreed to allow her a very
large annuity, whereon she lived a happy life, and died not many years
since at Bath.
The _subsequent_ connexion of Lord Tyrawly had likewise a singular
termination. Miss Wewitzer, sister to the late celebrated violinist of
that name, soon filled Mrs. Cuffe’s vacant place; and by her my lord had
many children—the eldest being the present Colonel Cuffe, member of
Parliament for Mayo; a very good man, honourable and friendly. I never
saw two persons live more happily together than Lord Tyrawly and Miss
Wewitzer, whom he considered as his wife. She was unexceptionably
correct, and he wholly attached to her. She had been remarkably pretty,
and celebrated as _Rosetta_ (in Bickerstaff’s opera). I was intimate
with Lord Tyrawly, and have entertained a great regard for Colonel Cuffe
from his boyhood.
The death of Lady Tyrawly at length gave his lordship the long-expected
opportunity of realising his promises and intentions, for the sake of
his family; and Lord Tyrawly and Miss Wewitzer being regularly married,
she became the _real_ Lady Tyrawly—whom she had so many years
represented.
Now, here was a cohabitation of considerably more than twenty years, in
happiness and tranquillity, followed up by an honourable and just
arrangement, wherefrom it might be rationally supposed an increase of
happiness would ensue. But no sooner did the parties become legally man
and wife, than Madam Discord introduced herself! It is singular, but
true, that (as if Nature originally intended every living thing to
_remain_ totally free and independent) the moment any two animals,
however fond before, are fastened together by a cord or chain they
cannot break, they begin to quarrel without any reason, and tear each
other, solely because they can’t get loose again.[55]
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Footnote 55: