And when you have a hero who needs no augmenting of heroism, no spectacular embellishment as it were,--what a gorgeous figure he becomes, to be sure! Peter Warren, fighting Irish lad, venturesome sailor, sometime Admiral and Member of Parliament, and at all times a merry and courageous soldier of the high seas, falls heir to as pretty and stirring a reputation as ever set a gilded aureole about the head of a man.
Though he was in the British navy and a staunch believer in "Imperial England," he was so closely associated with New York for so many years that no book about the city could be written without doing him some measure of honour.

No figure is so fit as Sir.

Peter's to represent those picturesque Colonial days when the "Sons of Liberty" had not begun to assemble, and this New York of ours was well-nigh as English as London town itself.

So, resplendent in his gold-laced uniform and the smartly imposing hat of his rank and office, let him enter and make his bow,--Admiral Sir.

Peter Warren, by your leave, Knight of the Bath, Member of Parliament, destined to lie at last in the stately gloom of the Abbey, with the rest of the illustrious English dead.
He came of a long line of Irishmen, and certainly did that fine fighting race the utmost credit.