g fired the shot, an accusation which was at once
confirmed by the mendacious but courtierlike victim of the accident.
Wellington also, Lady Shelley records, "after wounding a retriever early
in the day and later on peppering the keeper's gaiters, inadvertently
sprinkled the bare arms of an old woman who chanced to be washing
clothes at her cottage window." Lady Shelley, who "was attracted by her
screams," promptly told the widow that "it ought to be the proudest
moment of her life. She had had the distinction of being shot by the
great Duke of Wellington," but the eminently practical instinct of the
great Duke at once whispered to him that something more than the moral
satisfaction to be derived from this reflection was required, so he very
wisely "slipped a golden coin into her trembling hand."

For many years Lady Shelley lived on very friendly and intimate terms
with the Duke, who appears to have confided to her many things about
which he would perhaps have acted more wisely if he had held his tongue.
When he went on an important diplomatic mission to Paris in 1822, she
requested him to buy her a blouse--a commission which he faithfully
executed. All went well until 1848. Then a terrific explosion occurred.
It is no longer "My dearest Lady! Mind you bring the blouse! Ever yours
most affectionately, Wellington," but "My dear Lady Shelley," who is
addressed by "Her Ladyship's most obedient humble servant, Wellington,"
and soundly rated for her conduct. The reason for this abrupt and
volcanic change was that owing to an indiscretion on the part of Lady
Shelley a very important letter about the defenceless state of the
country, which the Duke had addressed to Sir John Burgoyne, then the
head of the Engineer Department at the Horse Guards, got into the
newspapers. The Duke's wrath boiled over, and was expressed in terms
which, albeit the reproaches were just, showed but little chivalrous
consideration towards a peccant but very contrite woman. He told her
that he "had much to do besides defending himself from the consequences
of the meddling gossip of the ladies of modern times," and he asked
indignantly, "What do Sir John Burgoyne and his family and your Ladyship
and others--talking of old friendship--say to the share which each of
you have had in this transaction, which, in my opinion, is disgraceful
to the times in which we live?" What Sir John Burgoyne and his family
might very reasonably have said in answer to this f