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"The old hero, Putnam," says a Boston letter of 1774, "arrived in town on Monday, bringing with him one hundred and thirty sheep from the little parish of Brooklyn." It was at Dr. Warren's house that the "old hero" staid, and thither flocked crowds of people to see him, and talk over the thrilling events of the time.
Gibson reading and I writing, and went a good way in it till interrupted by Sir W. Warren's coming, of whom I always learne something or other, his discourse being very good and his brains also. He being gone we to our business again, and wrote more of it fair, and then late to bed. Pepys, dated at Greenwich, 1 Jan. 1665-6, which he calls his New Year's Gift to his hon. friend, Sir Wm.
He was nothing but a baby boy, but he had quite a retrospect or panorama passing before his eyes as he lay on the dirty caravan floor. He saw the old court at home; he saw the pretty farm of Warren's Grove; he saw that tiring day in London when it seemed to both Cecile and himself that they should never anywhere get a lodging for the night; then he was back again with kind, with dear Mrs.
Sir Redvers Buller has aimed his blow in a right direction, for, if it can be delivered with effect, if he can drive the Boers back, their army will be in a perilous situation. The plan evidently is that while Clery's division holds the Boers in front, Warren's should strike upon their right flank.
He is stronger than he was by the greater part of Sir Charles Warren's division, and it is to be hoped, by plenty of heavy artillery and by an organised transport; but the Boers are stronger than they were by a new position, by three weeks of fortification, and by the consciousness of their last victory. Upon Sir Redvers Buller's fate depends more than anyone cares to say.
I kicked it off it hurt. At least I think I did, although I'm not sure. I kicked it off somewhere." Miss Warren's words had a way of rushing forth head over heels, in a glad, frolicky manner which was most delightful, although somewhat damaging to grammar.
So to read and talk with my wife till by and by called to the office about Sir W. Warren's business, where we met a little, and then home to supper and to bed. This day I went, by Mr. Povy's direction, to a coachmaker near him, for a coach just like his, but it was sold this very morning. 3rd. Up, and all the morning at the Office.
Was Warren to tire simply of his folly, Magsie to carelessly fill his place in the ranks of her admirers, Rachael to gracefully forgive and forget? It was an unpalatable role, yet she saw no other open to her. What was to be gained by coldness, by anger, by controversy? Was a man capable of Warren's curious infatuation to be merely scolded and punished like a boy? She was helpless and she knew it.
"I don't think I shall bother you," she said, pointedly; "Mr. Bennet would show me, if I asked him, I reckon." Once more Miss Warren's well-bred and superior smile shone forth to arouse resentment. "I think if I were you, Miss Worthington, that I would ask some one else first, because," very kindly, "Gridley Bennet is a perfect old maid about his game.
So up and to the office, where the greatest business was Sir J. Minnes and Sir W. Batten against me for Sir W. Warren's contract for masts, to which I may go to my memorandum book to see what past, but came off with conquest, and my Lord Barkely and Mr. Coventry well convinced that we are well used. So home to dinner, and thither came to me Mr. Mount and Mr.
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