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Rh But Dora said, "I don't know that it's our money. Let's wait and ask Father."

But H. O. did not care about waiting, and I felt for him. Dora is rather like grown-ups in that way; she does not seem to understand that when you want a thing you do want it, and that you don't wish to wait, even a minute.

So we went and asked Albert-next-door's uncle. He was pegging away at one of the rotten novels he has to write to make his living, but he said we weren't interrupting him at all.

"My hero's folly has involved him in a difficulty," he said. "It is his own fault. I will leave him to meditate on the incredible fatuity—the hare-brained recklessness—which have brought him to this pass. It will be a lesson to him. I, meantime, will give myself unreservedly to the pleasures of your conversation."

That's one thing I like Albert's uncle for. He always talks like a book, and yet you can always understand what he means. I think he is more like us, inside of his mind, than most grown-up people are. He can pretend beautifully. I never met anyone else so good at it, except our robber, and we began it, with him.


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Rh But it was Albert's uncle who first taught us how to make people talk like books when you're playing things, and he made us learn to tell a story straight from the beginning, not starting in the middle like most people do. So now Oswald remembered what he had been told, as he generally does, and began at the beginning, but when he came to where Alice said she was the priestess, Albert's uncle said—

"Let the priestess herself set forth the tale in fitting speech."

So Alice said, "O high priest of the great idol, the humblest of thy slaves took the school umbrella for a divining-rod, and sang the song of inver—what's-it's-name?"

"Invocation perhaps?" said Albert's uncle.

"Yes; and then I went about and about and the others got tired, so the divining-rod fell on a certain spot, and I said, 'Dig', and we dug—it was where the loose board is for the gas men—and then there really and truly was a half-sovereign lying under the boards, and here it is."

Albert's uncle took it and looked at it.

"The great high priest will bite it to see if it's good," he said, and he did. "I congratulate you," he went on; "you are indeed

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260 among those favoured by the Immortals. First you find half-crowns in the garden, and now this. The high priest advises you to tell your Father, and ask if you may keep it. My hero has become penitent, but impatient. I must pull him out of this scrape. Ye have my leave to depart."

Of course we know from Kipling that that means, "You'd better bunk, and be sharp about it," so we came away. I do like Albert's uncle. I shall be like that when I'm a man. He gave us our Jungle books, and he is awfully clever, though he does have to write grown-up tales.

We told Father about it that night. He was very kind. He said we might certainly have the half-sovereign, and he hoped we should enjoy ourselves with our treasure-trove.

Then he said, "Your dear Mother's Indian Uncle is coming to dinner here to-morrow night. So will you not drag the furniture about overhead, please, more than you're absolutely obliged; and H. O. might wear slippers or something. I can always distinguish the note of H. O.'s boots."

We said we would be very quiet, and Father went on—


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Rh "This Indian Uncle is not used to children, and he is coming to talk business with me. It is really important that he should be quiet. Do you think, Dora, that perhaps bed at six for H. O. and Noël——"

But H. O. said, "Father, I really and truly won't make a noise. I'll stand on my head all the evening sooner than disturb the Indian Uncle with my boots."

And Alice said Noël never made a row anyhow.

So Father laughed and said, "All right." And he said we might do as we liked with the half-sovereign. "Only for goodness' sake don't try to go in for business with it," he said. "It's always a mistake to go into business with an insufficient capital."

We talked it over all that evening, and we decided that as we were not to go into business with our half-sovereign it was no use not spending it at once, and so we might as well have a right royal feast. The next day we went out and bought the things. We got figs, and almonds and raisins, and a real raw rabbit, and Eliza promised to cook it for us if we would wait till to-morrow, because of the Indian Uncle coming to dinner. She was very busy cooking nice things for him to eat. We got


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262 the rabbit because we are so tired of beef and mutton, and Father hasn't a bill at the poultry shop. And we got some flowers to go on the dinner-table for Father's party. And we got hardbake and raspberry noyau and peppermint rock and oranges and a cocoanut, with other nice things. We put it all in the top long drawer. It is H. O.'s play drawer, and we made him turn his things out and put them in Father's old portmanteau. H. O. is getting old enough now to learn to be unselfish, and besides, his drawer wanted tidying very badly. Then we all vowed by the honour of the ancient House of Bastable that we would not touch any of the feast till Dora gave the word next day. And we gave H. O. some of the hardbake, to make it easier for him to keep his vow. The next day was the most rememorable day in all our lives, but we didn't know that then. But that is another story. I think that is such a useful way to know when you can't think how to end up a chapter. I learnt it from another writer named Kipling. I've mentioned him before, I believe, but he deserves it!


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Now it is coming near the end of our treasure-seeking, and the end was so wonderful that now nothing is like it used to be. It is like as if our fortunes had been in an earthquake, and after those, you know, everything comes out wrong-way up.

The day after the Uncle speared the pudding with us opened in gloom and sadness. But you never know. It was destined to be a day when things happened. Yet no sign of this appeared in the early morning. Then all was misery and upsetness. None of us felt quite well; I don't know why: and Father had one of his awful colds, so Dora persuaded him not to go to London, but to stay cosy and warm in the study, and she made him some gruel. She makes it better than Eliza does; Eliza's gruel is all little lumps, and when you suck them it is dry oatmeal inside. 281


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282 We kept as quiet as we could, and I made H. O. do some lessons, like the G. B. had advised us to. But it was very dull. There are some days when you seem to have got to the end of all the things that could ever possibly happen to you, and you feel you will spend all the rest of your life doing dull things just the same way. Days like this are generally wet days. But, as I said, you never know.

Then Dicky said if things went on like this he should run away to sea, and Alice said she thought it would be rather nice to go into a convent. H. O. was a little disagreeable because of the powder Eliza had given him, so he tried to read two books at once, one with each eye, just because Noël wanted one of the books, which was very selfish of him, so it only made his headache worse. H. O. is getting old enough to learn by experience that it is wrong to be selfish, and when he complained about his head Oswald told him whose fault it was, because I am older than he is, and it is my duty to show him where he is wrong. But he began to cry, and then Oswald had to cheer him up because of Father wanting to be quiet. So Oswald said—

"They'll eat H. O. if you don't look out!"


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Rh And Dora said Oswald was too bad.

Of course Oswald was not going to interfere again, so he went to look out of the window and see the trams go by, and by and by H. O. came and looked out too, and Oswald, who knows when to be generous and forgiving, gave him a piece of blue pencil and two nibs, as good as new, to keep.

As they were looking out at the rain splashing on the stones in the street they saw a four-wheeled cab come lumbering up from the way the station is. Oswald called out—

"Here comes the coach of the Fairy Godmother. It'll stop here, you see if it doesn't!"

So they all came to the window to look. Oswald had only said that about stopping and he was stricken with wonder and amaze when the cab really did stop. It had boxes on the top and knobby parcels sticking out of the window, and it was something like going away to the seaside and something like the gentleman who takes things about in a carriage with the wooden shutters up, to sell to the drapers' shops. The cabman got down, and some one inside handed out ever so many parcels of different shapes and sizes, and the cabman stood holding them in his arms and grinning over them.


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284 Dora said, "It is a pity some one doesn't tell him this isn't the house." And then from inside the cab some one put out a foot feeling for the step, like a tortoise's foot coming out from under his shell when you are holding him off the ground, and then a leg came and more parcels, and then Noël cried—

"It's the poor Indian!"

And it was.

Eliza opened the door, and we were all leaning over the banisters. Father heard the noise of parcels and boxes in the hall, and he came out without remembering how bad his cold was. If you do that yourself when you have a cold they call you careless and naughty. Then we heard the poor Indian say to Father—

"I say, Dick, I dined with your kids yesterday—as I daresay they've told you. Jolliest little cubs I ever saw! Why didn't you let me see them the other night? The eldest is the image of poor Janey—and as to young Oswald, he's a man! If he's not a man, I'm a nigger! Eh!—what? And Dick, I say, I shouldn't wonder if I could find a friend to put a bit into that business of yours—eh?"

Then he and Father went into the study and the door was shut—and we went down and


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Rh looked at the parcels. Some were done up in old, dirty newspapers, and tied with bits of rag, and some were in brown paper and string from the shops, and there were boxes. We wondered if the Uncle had come to stay and this was his luggage, or whether it was to sell. Some of it smelt of spices, like merchandise—and one bundle Alice felt certain was a bale. We heard a hand on the knob of the study door after a bit, and Alice said—

"Fly!" and we all got away but H. O., and the Uncle caught him by the leg as he was trying to get upstairs after us.

"Peeping at the baggage, eh?" said the Uncle, and the rest of us came down because it would have been dishonourable to leave H. O. alone in a scrape, and we wanted to see what was in the parcels.

"I didn't touch," said H. O. "Are you coming to stay? I hope you are."

"No harm done if you did touch," said the good, kind, Indian man to all of us. "For all these parcels are for you."

I have several times told you about our being dumb with amazement and terror and joy, and things like that, but I never remember us being dumber than we were when he said this.


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286 The Indian Uncle went on: "I told an old friend of mine what a pleasant dinner I had with you, and about the threepenny bit, and the divining-rod, and all that, and he sent all these odds and ends as presents for you. Some of the things came from India."

"Have you come from India, Uncle?" Noël asked; and when he said "Yes" we were all very much surprised, for we never thought of his being that sort of Indian. We thought he was the Red kind, and of course his not being accounted for his ignorance of beavers and things.

He got Eliza to help, and we took all the parcels into the nursery and he undid them and undid them and undid them, till the papers lay thick on the floor. Father came too and sat in the Guy Fawkes chair. I cannot begin to tell you all the things that kind friend of Uncle's had sent us. He must be a very agreeable person.

There were toys for the kids and model engines for Dick and me, and a lot of books, and Japanese china tea sets for the girls, red and white and gold—there were sweets by the pound and by the box—and long yards and yards of soft silk from India, to make frocks for the girls—and a real Indian sword for


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Rh Oswald and a book of Japanese pictures for Noël, and some ivory chess men for Dicky: the castles of the chessmen are elephant-and-castles. There is a railway station called that; I never knew what it meant before. The brown paper and string parcels had boxes of games in them—and big cases of preserved fruits and things. And the shabby old newspaper parcels and the boxes had the Indian things in. I never saw so many beautiful things before. There were carved fans and silver bangles and strings of amber beads, and necklaces of uncut gems—turquoises and garnets, the Uncle said they were—and shawls and scarves of silk, and cabinets of brown and gold, and ivory boxes and silver trays, and brass things. The Uncle kept saying, "This is for you, young man," or "Little Alice will like this fan," or "Miss Dora would look well in this green silk, I think. Eh!—what?"

And Father looked on as if it was a dream, till the Uncle suddenly gave him an ivory paper-knife and a box of cigars, and said, "My old friend sent you these, Dick; he's an old friend of yours too, he says." And he winked at my Father, for H. O. and I saw him. And my Father winked back, though he has always told us not to.


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288 That was a wonderful day. It was a treasure, and no mistake! I never saw such heaps and heaps of presents, like things out of a fairy tale—and even Eliza had a shawl. Perhaps she deserved it, for she did cook the rabbit and the pudding; and Oswald says it is not her fault if her nose turns up and she does not brush her hair. I do not think Eliza likes brushing things. It is the same with the carpets. But Oswald tries to make allowances even for people who do not wash their ears.

The Indian Uncle came to see us often after that, and his friend always sent us something. Once he tipped us a sovereign each—the Uncle brought it; and once he sent us money to go to the Crystal Palace, and the Uncle took us; and another time to a circus; and when Christmas was near the Uncle said—

"You remember when I dined with you, some time ago, you promised to dine with me some day, if I could ever afford to give a dinner-party. Well, I'm going to have one—a Christmas party. Not on Christmas Day, because every one goes home then—but on the day after. Cold mutton and rice pudding. You'll come? Eh!—what?"

We said we should be delighted, if Father had no objection, because that is the proper


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Rh thing to say, and the poor Indian, I mean the Uncle, said, "No, your Father won't object—he's coming too, bless your soul!"

We all got Christmas presents for the Uncle. The girls made him a handkerchief case and a comb bag, out of some of the pieces of silk he had given them. I got him a knife with three blades; H. O. got a siren whistle, a very strong one, and Dicky joined with me in the knife, and Noël would give the Indian ivory box that Uncle's friend had sent on the wonderful Fairy Cab day. He said it was the very nicest thing he had, and he was sure Uncle wouldn't mind his not having bought it with his own money.

I think Father's business must have got better—perhaps Uncle's friend put money in it and that did it good, like feeding the starving. Anyway we all had new suits, and the girls had the green silk from India made into frocks, and on Boxing Day we went in two cabs—Father and the girls in one, and us boys in the other.

We wondered very much where the Indian Uncle lived, because we had not been told. And we thought when the cab began to go up the hill towards the Heath that perhaps the Uncle lived in one of the poky little houses up at the


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290 top of Greenwich. But the cab went right over the Heath and in at some big gates, and through a shrubbery all white with frost like a fairy forest, because it was Christmas time. And at last we stopped before one of those jolly, big, ugly red houses with a lot of windows, that are so comfortable inside, and on the steps was the Indian Uncle, looking very big and grand, in a blue cloth coat and yellow sealskin waistcoat, with a bunch of seals hanging from it.

"I wonder whether he has taken a place as butler here?" said Dicky. "A poor, broken-down man——"

Noël thought it was very likely, because he knew that in these big houses there were always thousands of stately butlers.

The Uncle came down the steps and opened the cab door himself, which I don't think butlers would expect to have to do. And he took us in. It was a lovely hall, with bear and tiger skins on the floor, and a big clock with the faces of the sun and moon dodging out when it was day or night, and Father Time with a scythe coming out at the hours, and the name on it was "Flint. Ashford. 1776;" and there was a fox eating a stuffed duck in a glass case, and horns of stags and other animals over the doors.


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Rh "We'll just come into my study first," said the Uncle, "and wish each other a Merry Christmas." So then we knew he wasn't the butler, but it must be his own house, for only the master of the house has a study.

His study was not much like Father's. It had hardly any books, but swords and guns and newspapers and a great many boots, and boxes half unpacked, with more Indian things bulging out of them.

We gave him our presents and he was awfully pleased. Then he gave us his Christmas presents. You must be tired of hearing about presents, but I must remark that all the Uncle's presents were watches; there was a watch for each of us, with our names engraved inside, all silver except H. O.'s, and that was a Waterbury, "To match his boots," the Uncle said. I don't know what he meant.

Then the Uncle looked at Father, and Father said, "You tell them, sir."

So the Uncle coughed and stood up and made a speech. He said—

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are met together to discuss an important subject which has for some weeks engrossed the attention of the honourable member opposite and myself."


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292 I said, "Hear, hear," and Alice whispered, "What happened to the guinea-pig?" Of course you know the answer to that.

The Uncle went on—

"I am going to live in this house, and as it's rather big for me, your Father has agreed that he and you shall come and live with me. And so, if you're agreeable, we're all going to live here together, and, please God, it'll be a happy home for us all. Eh!—what?"

He blew his nose and kissed us all round. As it was Christmas I did not mind, though I am much too old for it on other dates. Then he said, "Thank you all very much for your presents; but I've got a present here I value more than anything else I have."

I thought it was not quite polite of him to say so, till I saw that what he valued so much was a threepenny bit on his watch-chain, and, of course, I saw it must be the one we had given him.

He said, "You children gave me that when you thought I was the poor Indian, and I'll keep it as long as I live. And I've asked some friends to help us to be jolly, for this is our house-warming. Eh!—what?"

Then he shook Father by the hand, and they blew their noses; and then Father said, "Your Uncle has been most kind—most——"


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Rh But Uncle interrupted by saying, "Now, Dick, no nonsense!"

Then H. O. said, "Then you're not poor at all?" as if he were very disappointed.

The Uncle replied, "I have enough for my simple wants, thank you, H. O.; and your Father's business will provide him with enough for yours. Eh!—what?"

Then we all went down and looked at the fox thoroughly, and made the Uncle take the glass off so that we could see it all round and then the Uncle took us all over the house, which is the most comfortable one I have ever been in. There is a beautiful portrait of Mother in Father's sitting-room. The Uncle must be very rich indeed. This ending is like what happens in Dickens's books; but I think it was much jollier to happen like a book, and it shows what a nice man the Uncle is, the way he did it all.

Think how flat it would have been if the Uncle had said, when we first offered him the one and threepence farthing, "Oh, I don't want your dirty one and threepence! I'm very rich indeed." Instead of which he saved up the news of his wealth till Christmas, and then told us all in one glorious burst. Besides, I can't help it if it is like Dickens,


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294 because it happens this way. Real life is often something like books.

Presently, when we had seen the house, we were taken into the drawing-room, and there was Mrs Leslie, who gave us the shillings and wished us good hunting, and Lord Tottenham, and Albert-next-door's Uncle—and Albert-next-door, and his Mother (I'm not very fond of her), and best of all our own Robber and his two kids, and our Robber had a new suit on. The Uncle told us he had asked the people who had been kind to us, and Noël said, "Where is my noble editor that I wrote the poetry to?"

The Uncle said he had not had the courage to ask a strange editor to dinner; but Lord Tottenham was an old friend of Uncle's, and he had introduced Uncle to Mrs Leslie, and that was how he had the pride and pleasure of welcoming her to our house-warming. And he made her a bow like you see on a Christmas card.

Then Alice asked, "What about Mr Rosenbaum? He was kind; it would have been a pleasant surprise for him."

But everybody laughed, and Uncle said—

"Your father has paid him the sovereign he lent you. I don't think he could have borne another pleasant surprise."

And I said there was the butcher, and he


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Rh was really kind; but they only laughed, and Father said you could not ask all your business friends to a private dinner.

Then it was dinner-time, and we thought of Uncle's talk about cold mutton and rice. But it was a beautiful dinner, and I never saw such a dessert! We had ours on plates to take away into another sitting-room, which was much jollier than sitting round the table with the grown-ups. But the Robber's kids stayed with their Father. They were very shy and frightened, and said hardly anything, but looked all about with very bright eyes. H. O. thought they were like white mice; but afterwards we got to know them very well, and in the end they were not so mousy. And there is a good deal of interesting stuff to tell about them; but I shall put all that in another book, for there is no room for it in this one. We played desert islands all the afternoon and drank Uncle's health in ginger wine. It was H. O. that upset his over Alice's green silk dress, and she never even rowed him. Brothers ought not to have favourites, and Oswald would never be so mean as to have a favourite sister, or, if he had, wild horses should not make him tell who it was.

And now we are to go on living in the big house on the Heath, and it is very jolly.


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296 Mrs Leslie often comes to see us, and our own Robber and Albert-next-door's uncle. The Indian Uncle likes him because he has been in India too and is brown; but our Uncle does not like Albert-next-door. He says he is a muff. And I am to go to Rugby, and so are Noël and H. O., and perhaps to Balliol afterwards. Balliol is my Father's college. It has two separate coats of arms, which many other colleges are not allowed. Noël is going to be a poet and Dicky wants to go into Father's business. The Uncle is a real good old sort; and just think, we should never have found him if we hadn't made up our minds to be Treasure Seekers!

Noël made a poem about it—

Lo! the poor Indian from lands afar, Comes where the treasure seekers are; We looked for treasure, but we find The best treasure of all is the Uncle good and kind.

I thought it was rather rot, but Alice would show it to the Uncle, and he liked it very much. He kissed Alice and he smacked Noël on the back, and he said, "I don't think I've done so badly either, if you come to that, though I was never a regular professional treasure seeker. Eh!—what?"


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It was all very well for Father to ask us not to make a row because the Indian Uncle was coming to talk business, but my young brother's boots are not the only things that make a noise. We took his boots away and made him wear Dora's bath slippers, which are soft and woolly, and hardly any soles to them; and of course we wanted to see the Uncle, so we looked over the banisters when he came, and we were as quiet as mice—but when Eliza had let him in she went straight down to the kitchen and made the most awful row you ever heard, it sounded like the Day of Judgement, or all the saucepans and crockery in the house being kicked about the floor, but she told me afterwards it was only the tea-tray and one or two cups and saucers, that she had knocked over in her 265


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266 flurry. We heard the Uncle say, "God bless my soul!" and then he went into Father's study and the door was shut—we didn't see him properly at all that time.

I don't believe the dinner was very nice. Something got burned I'm sure—for we smelt it. It was an extra smell, besides the mutton. I know that got burned. Eliza wouldn't have any of us in the kitchen except Dora—till dinner was over. Then we got what was left of the dessert, and had it on the stairs—just round the corner where they can't see you from the hall, unless the first landing gas is lighted. Suddenly the study door opened and the Uncle came out and went and felt in his great coat pocket. It was his cigar-case he wanted. We saw that afterwards. We got a much better view of him then. He didn't look like an Indian but just like a kind of brown, big Englishman, and of course he didn't see us, but we heard him mutter to himself—

"Shocking bad dinner! Eh!—what?" When he went back to the study he didn't shut the door properly. That door has always been a little tiresome since the day we took the lock off to get out the pencil sharpener H. O. had shoved into the keyhole. We didn't listen—really and truly—but the Indian Uncle has


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Rh a very big voice, and Father was not going to be beaten by a poor Indian in talking or anything else—so he spoke up too, like a man, and I heard him say it was a very good business, and only wanted a little capital—and he said it as if it was an imposition he had learned, and he hated having to say it. The Uncle said, "Pooh, pooh!" to that, and then he said he was afraid that what that same business wanted was not capital but management. Then I heard my Father say, "It is not a pleasant subject: I am sorry I introduced it. Suppose we change it, sir. Let me fill your glass." Then the poor Indian said something about vintage—and that a poor, broken-down man like he was couldn't be too careful. And then Father said, "Well, whisky then," and afterwards they talked about Native Races and Imperial something or other and it got very dull.

So then Oswald remembered that you must not hear what people do not intend you to hear—even if you are not listening; and he said, "We ought not to stay here any longer. Perhaps they would not like us to hear——"

Alice said, "Oh, do you think it could possibly matter?" and went and shut the study door softly but quite tight. So it was


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268 no use staying there any longer, and we went to the nursery.

Then Noël said, "Now I understand. Of course my Father is making a banquet for the Indian, because he is a poor, broken-down man. We might have known that from 'Lo, the poor Indian!' you know."

We all agreed with him, and we were glad to have the thing explained, because we had not understood before what Father wanted to have people to dinner for—and not let us come in.

"Poor people are very proud," said Alice, "and I expect Father thought the Indian would be ashamed, if all of us children knew how poor he was."

Then Dora said, "Poverty is no disgrace. We should honour honest Poverty."

And we all agreed that that was so.

"I wish his dinner had not been so nasty," Dora said, while Oswald put lumps of coal on the fire with his fingers, so as not to make a noise. He is a very thoughtful boy, and he did not wipe his fingers on his trouser leg as perhaps Noël or H. O. would have done, but he just rubbed them on Dora's handkerchief while she was talking. "I am afraid the dinner was horrid." Dora went on, "The


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Rh table looked very nice with the flowers we got. I set it myself, and Eliza made me borrow the silver spoons and forks from Albert-next-door's Mother."

"I hope the poor Indian is honest," said Dicky gloomily, "when you are a poor, broken down man silver spoons must be a great temptation."

Oswald told him not to talk such Tommyrot because the Indian was a relation, so of course he couldn't do anything dishonourable. And Dora said it was all right any way, because she had washed up the spoons and forks herself and counted them, and they were all there, and she had put them into their wash-leather bag, and taken them back to Albert-next-door's Mother.

"And the Brussels sprouts were all wet and swimmy," she went on, "and the potatoes looked grey—and there were bits of black in the gravy—and the mutton was bluey-red and soft in the middle. I saw it when it came out. The apple pie looked very nice—but it wasn't quite done in the apply part. The other thing that was burnt—you must have smelt it, it was the soup."

"It is a pity," said Oswald; "I don't suppose he gets a good dinner every day."


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270 "No more do we," said H. O., "but we shall to-morrow."

I thought of all the things we had bought with our half-sovereign—the rabbit and the sweets and the almonds and raisins and figs and the cocoanut: and I thought of the nasty mutton and things, and while I was thinking about it all Alice said—

"Let's ask the poor Indian to come to dinner with us to-morrow." I should have said it myself if she had given me time.

We got the little ones to go to bed by promising to put a note on their dressing-table saying what had happened, so that they might know the first thing in the morning, or in the middle of the night if they happened to wake up, and then we elders arranged everything.

I waited by the back door, and when the Uncle was beginning to go Dicky was to drop a marble down between the banisters for a signal, so that I could run round and meet the Uncle as he came out.

This seems like deceit, but if you are a thoughtful and considerate boy you will understand that we could not go down and say to the Uncle in the hall under Father's eye, "Father has given you a beastly, nasty dinner, but if you will come to dinner with


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Rh us to-morrow, we will show you our idea of good things to eat." You will see, if you think it over, that this would not have been at all polite to Father.

So when the Uncle left, Father saw him to the door and let him out, and then went back to the study, looking very sad, Dora says.

As the poor Indian came down our steps he saw me there at the gate. I did not mind his being poor, and I said, "Good evening, Uncle," just as politely as though he had been about to ascend into one of the gilded chariots of the rich and affluent, instead of having to walk to the station a quarter of a mile in the mud, unless he had the money for a tram fare.

"Good evening, Uncle." I said it again, for he stood staring at me. I don't suppose he was used to politeness from boys—some boys are anything but—especially to the Aged Poor.

So I said, "Good evening, Uncle," yet once again. Then he said—

"Time you were in bed, young man. Eh!—what?"

Then I saw I must speak plainly with him, man to man. So I did. I said—

"You've been dining with my Father, and we couldn't help hearing you say the dinner was shocking. So we thought as you're an


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272 Indian, perhaps you're very poor"—I didn't like to tell him we had heard the dreadful truth from his own lips, so I went on, "because of 'Lo, the poor Indian'—you know—and you can't get a good dinner every day. And we are very sorry if you're poor; and won't you come and have dinner with us to-morrow—with us children, I mean? It's a very, very good dinner—rabbit, and hardbake, and cocoanut—and you needn't mind us knowing you're poor, because we know honourable poverty is no disgrace, and——" I could have gone on much longer, but he interrupted me to say—

"Upon my word! And what's your name, eh?"

"Oswald Bastable," I said; and I do hope you people who are reading this story have not guessed before that I was Oswald all the time.

"Oswald Bastable, eh? Bless my soul!" said the poor Indian. "Yes, I'll dine with you, Mr. Oswald Bastable, with all the pleasure in life. Very kind and cordial invitation, I'm sure. Good-night, sir. At one o'clock, I presume?"

"Yes, at one," I said. "Good-night, sir."

Then I went in and told the others, and we wrote a paper and put it on the boys' dressing-table, and it said—


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Rh "The poor Indian is coming at one. He seemed very grateful to me for my kindness."

We did not tell Father that the Uncle was coming to dinner with us, for the polite reason that I have explained before. But we had to tell Eliza; so we said a friend was coming to dinner and we wanted everything very nice. I think she thought it was Albert-next-door, but she was in a good temper that day, and she agreed to cook the rabbit and to make a pudding with currants in it. And when one o'clock came the Indian Uncle came too. I let him in and helped him off with his greatcoat, which was all furry inside, and took him straight to the nursery. We were to have dinner there as usual, for we had decided from the first that he would enjoy himself more if he was not made a stranger of. We agreed to treat him as one of ourselves, because if we were too polite, he might think it was our pride because he was poor.

He shook hands with us all and asked our ages, and what schools we went to, and shook his head when we said we were having a holiday just now. I felt rather uncomfortable—I always do when they talk about schools—and I couldn't think of anything to say to show him we meant to treat him as one of ourselves.


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274 I did ask if he played cricket. He said he had not played lately. And then no one said anything till dinner came in. We had all washed our faces and hands and brushed our hair before he came in, and we all looked very nice, especially Oswald, who had had his hair cut that very morning. When Eliza had brought in the rabbit and gone out again, we looked at each other in silent despair, like in books. It seemed as if it were going to be just a dull dinner like the one the poor Indian had had the night before; only, of course, the things to eat would be nicer. Dicky kicked Oswald under the table to make him say something—and he had his new boots on, too!—but Oswald did not kick back; then the Uncle asked—

"Do you carve, sir, or shall I?"

Suddenly Alice said—

"Would you like grown-up dinner, Uncle, or play-dinner?"

He did not hesitate a moment, but said, "Play-dinner, by all means. Eh!—what?" and then we knew it was all right.

So we at once showed the Uncle how to be a dauntless hunter. The rabbit was the deer we had slain in the green forest with our trusty yew bows, and we toasted the joints of it, when the Uncle had carved it, on bits of fire-wood


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Rh sharpened to a point. The Uncle's piece got a little burnt, but he said it was delicious, and he said game was always nicer when you had killed it yourself. When Eliza had taken away the rabbit bones and brought in the pudding, we waited till she had gone out and shut the door, and then we put the dish down on the floor and slew the pudding in the dish in the good old-fashioned way. It was a wild boar at bay, and very hard indeed to kill, even with forks. The Uncle was very fierce indeed with the pudding, and jumped and howled when he speared it, but when it came to his turn to be helped, he said, "No, thank you; think of my liver. Eh!—what?"

But he had some almonds and raisins—when we had climbed to the top of the chest of drawers to pluck them from the boughs of the great trees; and he had a fig from the cargo that the rich merchants brought in their ship—the long drawer was the ship, and the rest of us had the sweets and the coconut. It was a very glorious and beautiful feast, and when it was over we said we hoped it was better than the dinner last night. And he said—

"I never enjoyed a dinner more." He was too polite to say what he really thought about Father's dinner. And we saw that though he might be poor, he was a true gentleman.


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276 He smoked a cigar while we finished up what there was left to eat, and told us about tiger shooting and about elephants. We asked him about wigwams, and wampum, and mocassins, and beavers, but he did not seem to know, or else he was shy about talking of the wonders of his native land.

We liked him very much indeed, and when he was going at last, Alice nudged me, and I said—

"There's one and threepence farthing left out of our half-sovereign. Will you take it, please, because we do like you very much indeed, and we don't want it, really; and we would rather you had it." And I put the money into his hand.

"I'll take the threepenny bit," he said, turning the money over and looking at it, "but I couldn't rob you of the rest. By the way, where did you get the money for this most royal spread—half a sovereign you said—eh, what?"

We told him all about the different ways we had looked for treasure, and when we had been telling some time he sat down, to listen better and at last we told him how Alice had played at divining-rod, and how it really had found a half-sovereign. Then he said he would like to see her do it again. But we explained that the rod would only show gold and silver, and


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Rh that we were quite sure there was no more gold in the house, because we happened to have looked very carefully.

"Well, silver, then," said he; "let's hide the plate-basket, and little Alice shall make the divining-rod find it. Eh!—what?"

"There isn't any silver in the plate-basket now," Dora said. "Eliza asked me to borrow the silver spoons and forks for your dinner last night from Albert-next-door's Mother. Father never notices, but she thought it would be nicer for you. Our own silver went to have the dents taken out; and I don't think Father could afford to pay the man for doing it, for the silver hasn't come back."

"Bless my soul!" said the Uncle again, looking at the hole in the big chair that we burnt when we had Guy Fawkes' day indoors. "And how much pocket-money do you get? Eh!—what?"

"We don't have any now," said Alice; "but indeed we don't want the other shilling. We'd much rather you had it, wouldn't we?"

And the rest of us said, "Yes." The Uncle wouldn't take it, but he asked a lot of questions, and at last he went away. And when he went he said—

"Well, youngsters, I've enjoyed myself very


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278 much. I shan't forget your kind hospitality. Perhaps the poor Indian may be in a position to ask you all to dinner some day."

Oswald said if he ever could we should like to come very much, but he was not to trouble to get such a nice dinner as ours, because we could do very well with cold mutton and rice pudding. We do not like these things, but Oswald knows how to behave. Then the poor Indian went away.

We had not got any treasure by this party, but we had had a very good time, and I am sure the Uncle enjoyed himself.

We were so sorry he was gone that we could none of us eat much tea; but we did not mind, because we had pleased the poor Indian and enjoyed ourselves too. Besides, as Dora said, "A contented mind is a continual feast," so it did not matter about not wanting tea.

Only H. O. did not seem to think a continual feast was a contented mind, and Eliza gave him a powder in what was left of the red-currant jelly Father had for the nasty dinner.

But the rest of us were quite well, and I think it must have been the cocoanut with H. O. We hoped nothing had disagreed with the Uncle, but we never knew.


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Detaille, Jean Baptiste Édouard


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 DETAINER (from detain, Lat. detinere), in law, the act of keeping a person against his will, or the wrongful keeping of a person's goods, or other real or personal property. A writ of detainer was a form for the beginning of a personal action against a person already lodged within the walls of a prison; it was superseded by the Judgment Act 1838.

 DETERMINANT, in mathematics, a function which presents itself in the solution of a system of simple equations.

1. Considering the equations and proceeding to solve them by the so-called method of cross multiplication, we multiply the equations by factors selected in such a manner that upon adding the results the whole coefficient of y becomes = 0, and the whole coefficient of z becomes = 0; the factors in question are b′c″ − b″c′, b″c − bc″, bc′ − b′c (values which, as at once seen, have the desired property); we thus obtain an equation which contains on the left-hand side only a multiple of x, and on the right-hand side a constant term; the coefficient of x has the value a(b′c″ − b″c′) + a′(b″c − bc″) + a″(bc′ − b′c), and this function, represented in the form is said to be a determinant; or, the number of elements being 32, it is called a determinant of the third order. It is to be noticed that the resulting equation is where the expression on the right-hand side is the like function with d, d′, d″ in place of a, a′, a″ respectively, and is of course also a determinant. Moreover, the functions b′c″ − b″c′, b″c − bc″, bc′ − b′c used in the process are themselves the determinants of the second order We have herein the suggestion of the rule for the derivation of the determinants of the orders 1, 2, 3, 4, &c., each from the preceding one, viz. we have

and so on, the terms being all + for a determinant of an odd order, but alternately + and − for a determinant of an even order.

2. It is easy, by induction, to arrive at the general results:—

A determinant of the order n is the sum of the 1.2.3...n products which can be formed with n elements out of n 2 elements arranged in the form of a square, no two of the n elements being in the same line or in the same column, and each such product having the coefficient ± unity.

The products in question may be obtained by permuting in every possible manner the columns (or the lines) of the determinant, and then taking for the factors the n elements in the dexter diagonal. And we thence derive the rule for the signs, viz. considering the primitive arrangement of the columns as positive, then an arrangement obtained therefrom by a single interchange (inversion, or derangement) of two columns is regarded as negative; and so in general an arrangement is positive or negative according as it is derived from the primitive arrangement by an even or an odd number of interchanges. [This implies the theorem that a given arrangement can be derived from the primitive arrangement only by an odd number, or else only by an even number of interchanges,—a theorem the verification of which may be easily obtained from the theorem (in fact a particular case of the general one), an arrangement can be derived from itself only by an even number of interchanges.] And this being so, each product has the sign belonging to the corresponding arrangement of the columns; in particular, a determinant contains with the sign + the product of the elements in its dexter diagonal. It is to be observed that the rule gives as many positive as negative arrangements, the number of each being = 1.2...n.

The rule of signs may be expressed in a different form. Giving to the columns in the primitive arrangement the numbers 1, 2, 3 ... n, to obtain the sign belonging to any other arrangement we take, as often as a lower number succeeds a higher one, the sign −, and, compounding together all these minus signs, obtain the proper sign, + or − as the case may be.

Thus, for three columns, it appears by either rule that 123, 231, 312 are positive; 213, 321, 132 are negative; and the developed expression of the foregoing determinant of the third order is = ab′c″ − ab″c′ + a′b″c − a′bc″ + a″bc′ − a″b′c.

3. It further appears that a determinant is a linear function of the elements of each column thereof, and also a linear function of the elements of each line thereof; moreover, that the determinant retains the same value, only its sign being altered, when any two columns are interchanged, or when any two lines are interchanged; more generally, when the columns are permuted in any manner, or when the lines are permuted in any manner, the determinant retains its original value, with the sign + or − according as the new arrangement (considered as derived from the primitive arrangement) is positive or negative according to the foregoing rule of signs. It at once follows that, if two columns are identical, or if two lines are identical, the value of the determinant is = 0. It may be added, that if the lines are converted into columns, and the columns into lines, in such a way as to leave the dexter diagonal unaltered, the value of the determinant is unaltered; the determinant is in this case said to be transposed.

4. By what precedes it appears that there exists a function of the n 2 elements, linear as regards the terms of each column (or say, for shortness, linear as to each column), and such that only the sign is altered when any two columns are interchanged; these properties completely determine the function, except as to a common factor which may multiply all the terms. If, to get rid of this arbitrary common factor, we assume that the product of the elements in the dexter diagonal has the coefficient +1, we have a complete definition of the determinant, and it is interesting to show how from these properties, assumed for the definition of the determinant, it at once appears that the determinant is a function serving for the solution of a system of linear equations. Observe that the properties show at once that if any column is = 0 (that is, if the elements in the column are each = 0), then the determinant is = 0; and further, that if any two columns are identical, then the determinant is = 0.

5. Reverting to the system of linear equations written down at the beginning of this article, consider the determinant it appears that this is viz. the second and third terms each vanishing, it is But if the linear equations hold good, then the first column of the

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1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Slate

SLATE (properly ; in M. Eng. slat or sclat, from O. Fr. esclat, a small piece of wood used as a tile; esclater, to break into pieces, whence modern Fr. éclat, the root being seen also in Ger. schleissen, to split), in geology, a fissile, fine-grained argillaceous rock which cleaves or splits readily into thin slabs having great tensile strength and durability. Many other rocks are improperly called slate, if they are thin bedded and can be used for roofing and similar purposes. One of the best known of these is the Stonesfield slate, which is a Jurassic limestone occurring near Oxford and famous for its fossils. Slates properly so-called do not, except on rare occasions, split along the bedding, but along planes of cleavage, which intersect the bedding usually at high angles. The original material was a fine clay, sometimes with more or less of sand or ashy ingredients, occasionally with some lime; and the bedding may be indicated by alternating bands of different lithological character, crossing the cleavage faces of the slates, and often interrupting the cleavage, or rendering it imperfect. Cleavage is thus a superinduced structure, and its explanation is to be found in the rearrangement of the minerals, and the development of a certain degree of crystallization by pressure acting on the rock. Slates belong mostly to the older geological systems, being commonest in Pre-Cambrian, Cambrian and Silurian districts, though they may be found of Carboniferous or even of Tertiary age, where mountain-building processes have folded and compressed these more recent formations. The action of pressure is shown also by the fossils which sometimes occur in slates; they have been drawn out and distorted in such a way as to prove that the rock has undergone deformation and has behaved like a plastic mass. Evidence of the same kind is afforded by the shape of the knots and concretions sometimes present in the slate. If the bedding be traced, either in the slates or in the other rocks which accompany them, flexures will be frequently observed (the folding often being of an isoclinal type), while reversed faulting, or thrusting, is usually also conspicuous.

The origin of slaty cleavage is in some measure obscure. This structure is by no means confined to slates, though always best exemplified in them, owing probably to the finegrained, argillaceous materials of which they consist. Grits, igneous rocks, ashbeds and limestones may and often do show cleavage. Coarse rocks and rocks consisting of hard minerals are always imperfectly cleaved. The cleavage of slates must be distinguished from cleavage of minerals, the latter being due to different degrees of cohesion along definite crystallographic planes. The connexion of cleavage with pressure, however, is unmistakable. It is never exhibited except by rocks which have been sub jected to the tangential stresses set up in the earth's crust by folding. These stresses may operate in several ways. They will alter the shape of mineral particles by broadening them in a direction at right angles to the principal pressures, while they are thinned in the direction in which the pressure acted. Probably the size of the particle will be slightly reduced. This method of reasoning, however, does not carry us far, as the minerals of slates vary considerably in form. Pressure will also tend to produce an expansion of the rock mass in a direction (usually nearly vertical) at right angles to the compression, for such rocks as slates are distinctly plastic in great masses. This flowage will help to orientate the particles in the direction of movement, and, operating conjointly with the flattening above explained,will accentuate the liability to cleave in a definite set of planes. The recrystallization induced by pressure is probably of still greater importance. Slates consist largely of thin plates of mica arranged parallel to the cleavage faces. This mica has developed in the rock as it was folded and compressed. In the moist and plastic slate the mineral particles slowly enlarged by the addition of new crystalline molecules. Those faces which were perpendicular to the pressure would grow slowly, as the great pressure would promote solution, and inhibit deposition; the edges or sides, on the other hand, being less exposed to the pressure would receive fresh deposits. In this way thin laminae would form, lying at right angles to the direction of greatest stress. Micas and other platy minerals (such as chlorite), which naturally grow most rapidly on their edges, would show this tendency best, and such minerals usually form a large part of the best slates; but even quartz and felspar, which under ordinary conditions form more equidimensional crystals, would assume lenticular forms. In the necessary co-operation of these three causes, viz. flattening of particles by compression, orientation of particles by flow and formation of laminar crystals, the fundamental explanation of slaty cleavage is found. The planes of cleavage will be approximately perpendicular to the earth pressures which acted in the district; hence the strike of the cleavage (i.e. its trend when followed across the country) will be persistent over considerable areas.

Sketch (by Du Noyer) of a block of variegated slate from Devil's Glen, Co. Wicklow. The crumpled bands mark the bedding, and the fine perpendicular striae in front are the cleavage planes; the fine lines on the darkened side merely represent shadow, and must not be taken for planes of division in the rock. It will be observed that the cleavage planes do not pass through the white bands.

Where the rock masses are not homogeneous (e.g. slates alternating with gritty bands), the cleavage is most perfect in the finest grained rocks. In passing from a slate to a grit the direction of the cleavage changes so that it tends to be more nearly perpendicular to the bedding planes. A structure akin to cleavage, often exemplified by slates especially when they have been somewhat contorted or gnarled, is the Ausweichungsclivage of Albert Heim. It is produced by minute crumplings on the cleavage faces all arranged so that they lie along definite planes crossing the cleavage. These slight inflections of the cleavage may be sharp-sided, and may pass into small faults or steps along which dislocation has taken place. A secondary or false cleavage, less perfect than the true cleavage, may thus be produced (see, Pl. IV. fig. 7). The faces of slates have usually a slightly silky lustre due to the abundance of minute scales of mica all lying parallel and reflecting light simultaneously from their pearly basal planes. In microscopic section the best slates show much colourless mica in small, thin, irregular scales. Green chlorite is usually also abundant in flakes like those of the mica. The principal additional ingredient is quartz in minute lens-shaped grains. The size of the individual particles may be approximately one-five-hundredth of an inch. Minute rods or needles of rutile are also common in slates, and well-formed cubes of pyrites are often visible on the splitting faces. The brownish colour of some slates is due to limonite and haematite, but magnetite occurs in the darker coloured varieties. Other minerals which occur in the rocks of this group are calcite, garnet, biotite, chloritoid, epidote, tourmaline and graphite or dark carbonaceous materials.

By advancing crystallization and increased size of their components, slates pass gradually into phyllites, which consist also of quartz, muscovite and chlorite. In the neighbourhood of intrusive granites and similar plutonic igneous rocks, slates undergo "contact alteration," and great changes ensue in their appearance, structure and mineral composition. They lose their facile cleavage and become hard, dark-coloured, slightly lustrous rocks, which have a splintery character or break into small cuboidal fragments. These are known as "hornfelses" (q.v.). Farther away from the granite the slates are not so much altered, but generally show small rounded or ovoid spots, which may be darker or lighter in colour than the matrix. The spots contain variety of minerals, sometimes mainly white mica or chlorite. In these spotted slates andalusite, chiastolite, garnet and cordierite often occur; chiastolite is especially characteristic; cordierite occurs only where the alteration is intense. The chiastolite-slates show elongated, straight-sided crystals with black cores (see, Pl. IV. fig. 9), which, on transverse section, have the form of a cross constituting the two diagonals of the rhombic or squarish pattern of the mineral. These crystals may be half an inch to several inches in length; they are usually more or less completely weathered to white mica and kaolin. In other cases, especially near mineral veins, slates are filled with black needles of tourmaline or are bleached to pale grey and white colours, or are silicified and impregnated with mineral ores. Frequently in districts where slates are much crumpled they are traversed by numerous quartz veins, which have a thickness varying from several inches up to many feet, and may occasionally be auriferous. (J. S. F.)

Slates are widely used for roofing houses and buildings of every description, and for such purposes they are unequalled, the better sorts possessing all the qualities necessary for protection against wind, rain and storm. The finer varieties are made into writing slates, and in districts where cross cleavage exists slate pencils are made. Slabs are also manufactured, and, being readily cut, planed, dressed and enamelled, are used for chimney pieces, billiard tables, wall linings, cisterns, paving, tomb-stones, ridge rolls, electrical switch-boards and various other architectural and industrial purposes.

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Page:Dictionary of National Biography volume 19.djvu/439

 quarrel with the college. Fordyce took an important part in the compilation of the new 'Pharmacopeia Londinensis,' which was issued in 1788. In 1793 he assisted in forming a Society for the Improvement of Medical and Chirurgical Knowledge, to the 'Transactions' of which he also contributed.

Fordyce was not at first successful in practice, owing, it is said, partly to disregard of appearances in manner and dress; but in later life he was fully occupied till his health began to give way. His habits had always been such as to try his constitution; and in early life, it is said, he often reconciled the claims of pleasure and business by lecturing for three hours in the morning without having gone to bed the night before. He had conceived the idea that man ought to eat only once in the day, and consequently took no meal but a dinner, though this, if anecdotes are trustworthy,was a very liberal one (, Coll. of Phys. 1878, ii. 375). He died of disorders connected with gout on 25 May 1802, at his house in Essex Street, Strand. He was the father of two sons, who died young, and two daughters, who survived him. His portrait, by T. Phillips, is preserved at St. Thomas's Hospital, and was engraved by S. Phillips in 1796.

Fordyce was a man of much intellectual force and of great attainments in medicine. His friend Dr. Wells, no mean judge, thought him more generally skilled in the medical sciences than any other person of his time. He was also a good chemist and mineralogist. One of his chemical papers in the 'Philosophical Transactions' (No. 7 in list below) is important as confirming by an indirect method the views of Priestley and Lavoisier in opposition to the doctrine of Phlogiston. His medical lectures, judging from the manuscript notes, seem to have been lucidly arranged and remarkable for rather elaborate logical analysis. They are said by Dr. Wells to have been composed and delivered entirely without notes, and with a slow, hesitating manner. The 'Elements of Physic' was the text-book for these lectures; but it is on the 'Treatise on Digestion' and the 'Dissertations on Fever' that Fordyce's reputation rests. The former, which was first delivered as the Gulstonian lecture before the College of Physicians, is a work of great ability and conceived in a scientific spirit. Rejecting all purely mechanical and chemical theories, he treats digestion as a physiological process. A similar reaction against the scholastic medical systems of the last century is shown in the 'Dissertations on Fever,' in which the leading principle is that 'observation of the disease is entirely to be adhered to, without any reasoning why or how anything in it takes place.' Fordyce's observations on the temperature of the human body were numerous and historically important. He devised experiments, the results of which were communicated to the Royal Society by Sir C. Blagden, which showed that the body preserves a constant temperature even in heated rooms. He wrote: In 'Philosophical Transactions:' (1) 'Of the Light produced by Inflammation,' vol. lxvi.; (2) 'Examination of Ores in Museum of Dr. W. Hunter,' vol. lxix.; (3) 'New Method of Assaying Copper Ores;' (4) 'On Loss of Weight in Bodies on being Melted or Heated,' vol. lxxv.; (5) 'Account of an Experiment on Heat,' vol. lxxvii.; (6) 'The Croonian Lecture on Muscular Motion;' (7) 'On the Cause of the Additional Weight which Bodies acquire on being Calcined,' vol. lxlxii.; (8) 'Account of a New Pendulum, being the Bakerian Lecture,' vol. Ixxxiv. In 'Transactions' of a society above mentioned: (1) 'Observations on the Small-pox and Causes of Fever;' (2) 'An Attempt to Improve the Evidence of Medicine;' (3) 'Some Observations upon the Composition of Medicines.'
 * 1) 'Elements of Agriculture and Vegetation,' Edinburgh, 1765, 8vo; 2nd edition, London; 3rd edition, ib., 1779 (lectures given to a class of gentlemen interested in agriculture).
 * 2) ' Elements of the Practice of Physic,' 2 vols., London; 2nd edition, 1768-70; 6th edition, ib., 1791.
 * 3) 'Treatise on the Digestion of Food,' London, 1791; 2nd edition, 1791.
 * 4) 'Dissertation on Simple Fever,' London, 1794; 2nd edition, ib., 1800; 'Second Dissertation on Tertian Intermittent Fever,' ib., 1795; 'Third Dissertation on Continued Fever,' 2 pts., 1798-9; 'Fourth Dissertation,' ib., 1802; 'Fifth Dissertation ' (edited after the author's death by Dr. Wells), ib., 1803.
 * 5) 'Syllabus of Lectures on Chemistry,' 12mo, s. d. The first four were translated into German.

 FORDYCE, JAMES, D.D. (1720–1796), presbyterian divine and poet, third son of George Fordyce of Broadford, merchant and provost of Aberdeen (who had twenty children), was born at Aberdeen in the last quarter of 1720. [q. v.] was his elder brother, [q. v.] and Sir [q. v.] were his younger brothers;, M.D. [q. v.], was his nephew. From the Aberdeen High School Fordyce proceeded to Marischal


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 College, where he was educated for the ministry. On 23 Feb. 1743 he was licensed by the Aberdeen presbytery. In September 1744 he was presented by the crown to the second charge at Brechin, Forfarshire. His admission was delayed, as the parishioners stood out for their right of election; he was ordained at Brechin on 28 Aug. 1745. His position was not comfortable, and he did not get on with his colleague. In 1753 he took his degree of M.A. at Marischal College, and in the same year he received a presentation to Alloa, Clackmannanshire. The parishioners wanted another man; however, Fordyce got a call on 5 June, demitted his charge at Brechin on 29 Aug., and was admitted at Alloa on 12 Oct. 1753. Here he won the affections of his flock, and rapidly acquired reputation as a preacher. He published several sermons; in 1760 his sermon before the general assembly on the 'folly, infamy, and misery of unlawful pleasures ' created a profound impression, and stamped him as a pulpit orator of the first rank. The university of Glasgow made him a D.D.

Already Fordyce had turned his thoughts to London, where several members of his family had established themselves. During a visit to his brother Alexander in 1759 an unsuccessful effort had been made by his friends to procure for him a call to a vacant pastorate in Carter Lane. In 1760 he was chosen as colleague to Samuel Lawrence,D.D., minister of the presbyterian congregation in Monkwell Street. He demitted his charge at Alloa on 30 May, and was released from it on 18 June 1760. Lawrence died on 1 Oct., and Fordyce became sole pastor. He preached only on Sunday afternoons, the morning lecturer being Thomas Toller, Lawrence's son-in-law.

Fordyce's eloquence soon drew crowds to Monkwell Street. He had the natural advantages of a dignified presence and a piercing eye; his delivery and gestures were studied with great care. His topics were didactic, but he freed them from dryness by his powers of imagination and a polish and pomp of his style which satisfied cultured tastes. He forsook generalities, and dealt with the ethics of actual life. Garrick is said to have heard him more than once, and to have spoken highly of his oratory. Boswell speaks of his 'long and uninterrupted social connection' with Johnson; he introduced Johnson to Blair. His sympathetic account (in 'Addresses to the Deity,' 1785) of Johnson's religious character has often been quoted. From this and other passages of his writing it is evident that, while he avoided the position of a party preacher and steered clear of controversy, his moderation had not destroyed his evangelical faith.

Fordyce's popularity lasted for about twelve years. Several causes contributed to its decline. In 1772 the failure of his brother Alexander involved the ruin of some of Fordyce's warmest adherents, and the alienation, of many friends. In 1775 the congregation was rent by a quarrel between Fordyce and Toller; the ground of the ill-feeling is not stated, but may perhaps be gathered from the tone of Toller's funeral sermon for Alexander Fordyce. Fordyce's part in the dispute is not excused by his friends; he procured the dismissal of Toller on 28 Feb. 1775; a large part of the congregation withdrew with Toller to an independent meeting-house in Silver Street. Fordyce now undertook the whole of the duties at Monkwell Street; his audience thinned, and disappointment preyed upon his health. Under medical advice he resigned his office at Christmas 1782. His charge at the ordination of his successor, James Lindsay, D.D., on 21 May 1783, is regarded as his finest effort of pulpit eloquence.

He retired to a country residence near Christchurch, Hampshire, where he was a neighbour of Lord Bute, who gave him the range of his library. Several publications, including a poor volume of poems, were the fruits of his leisure. On the death (1792) of his brother, Sir William Fordyce, he removed to Bath. He was troubled with asthma, and, after much suffering from this cause, died suddenly of syncope on 1 Oct. 1796 in his seventy-sixth year, and was buried in one of the parish churches of Bath. A funeral sermon was preached by Lindsay at Monkwell Street on 16 Oct. He married (1771) Henrietta Cummyng, who died at Bath on 10 Jan. 1823, aged 89. There was no issue of the marriage. He published: Also sermon on popery (1754), reprinted 1779; ordination sermon and charge
 * 1) 'The Eloquence of the Pulpit,' &c., 1752, 8vo (ordination sermon; often reprinted with David Fordyce's ' Theodorus').
 * 2) 'The Temple of Virtue,' &c., 1757, 12mo (by David Fordyce; but this edition has additional matter by James Fordyce).
 * 3) ' The Folly … of Unlawful Pleasures,' &c., 1760, 8vo; 2nd edit. Edinb. 1768, 8vo.
 * 4) 'Sermons to Young Women,' 1765, 2 vols. 12mo, often reprinted.
 * 5) 'The Character and Conduct of the Female Sex,' 1776, 8vo.
 * 6) 'Addresses to Young Men,' 1777, 2 vols. 8vo.
 * 7) 'Addresses to the Deity,' 1785, 8vo.
 * 8) 'Poems,' 1786, 8vo.
 * 9) 'A Discourse on Pain,' 1791, 8vo (Chalmers refers to a certain 'cure for the cramp' here given, and connects it with a passage from Beaumont and Fletcher).


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 (1755); sermon on Eccles. xi. 1 (1757); funeral sermon for Lawrence (1760); sermon on Prov. viii. 6, 7 (1775); charge at ordination of Lindsay (1783).

 FORDYCE, WILLIAM (1724–1792), physician, son of Provost Fordyce of Aberdeen, and brother of [q. v.], was born at Aberdeen in 1724, and educated at Marischal College, also serving a medical pupilage with a local practitioner and with his brother John at Uppingham in 1743. It has been inferred that he qualified at Edinburgh, from the fact that he was admitted a member of the Royal Medical Society there, 22 Dec. 1744; but it is more probable that he left Edinburgh without qualifying, volunteering for the army during the war with France which ended in 1748, and obtaining an appointment as surgeon to the guards, with whom he served in three campaigns, enduring many hardships. Probably after the peace he travelled and studied in France. He was at Turin in 1750 (Fragmenta Chirurgica, p. 21), but returned to London in the same year. While retaining for many years his connection with the army, he entered upon general practice in London, and this and the growing note of his brothers introduced him to the best circles. In 1770 he was created M.D. at Cambridge by royal mandate, and was admitted licentiate of the Royal College of Physicians on 10 April 1786. He was knighted by George III in 1787. It is stated (Gent. Mag. lxii. 1218) that he was sent for to greater distances and received greater sums than almost any physician of his time, and accumulated much money. He aided his brother [q. v.] to his dazzling rise of fortune, and suffered great loss when he failed, generously taking upon himself the burden of his brother James's loss also. His generosity and hospitality were very great. His medical skill and knowledge were considerable for his time, as testified by his works, some of which went through numerous editions. The Society of Arts voted him a gold medal for his work on rhubarb. He died at Brook Street, Grosvenor Square, after a long illness, on 4 Dec. 1792, aged 68. At the time of his death he was lord rector of Marischal College, Aberdeen, to which he left 1,000l.

Fordyce's works (all published in London) are:
 * 1) 'A Review of the Venereal Disease and its Remedies,' 1767, fifth edition 1785; German translation, Altenburg, 1769.
 * 2) 'A New Inquiry into the Causes, Symptoms, and Cure of Putrid and Inflammatory Fevers, with an Appendix on the Hectic Fever and on the Ulcerated Sore Throat,' 1773, fourth edition 1777; German translation, Leipzig, 1774.
 * 3) 'The Great Importance and Proper Method of Cultivating and Curing Rhubarb in Britain for Medical Uses,' 1784.
 * 4) 'Fragmenta Chirurgica et Medica,' 1784.
 * 5) 'Letter to Sir John Sinclair on the Virtues of Muriatic Acid in curing Putrid Diseases,' 1790.

 FOREST, JOHN (1474?–1538), martyr, entered the convent of Franciscans of the Observance at Greenwich when about seventeen years of age. Some nine years later he was sent by the convent to study theology in the Franciscan house without Watergate at Oxford. In due time he supplicated the regents for admission to oppose in divinity for the degree of bachelor, but there is no evidence of his having taken any degree, though Pits calls him doctor of theology. After returning to Greenwich he was appointed minister of the English province, but the date is doubtful. In January 1525 Cardinal Wolsey attempted to hold a visitation of the Observants by virtue of his legatine power. This was strongly opposed by most of the friars, but Forest supported his authority, and went so far as to curse nineteen of his recalcitrant brethren at Paul's Cross. This, according to Francis a S. Clara, proves him to have been provincial minister. On the other hand, certain letters from the convent at Greenwich seem to show that he was elected minister to succeed Friar William Peto, who had displeased Henry VIII by his expression of opinion about the divorce. A list of names in Cromwell's hand apparently implies that Forest might be reckoned on as an opponent of Peto on the king's behalf, and he was probably appointed for that reason. The king knew him personally from the fact of his being confessor to the queen (Catherine of Arragon), and at a later time he said that Forest had promised to preach in his support. But after his appointment as minister he became an ardent advocate of the queen's cause, preaching himself on her behalf and preventing other members of his convent from preaching on the other side.


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  discontented friars of his convent frequently complained to Cromwell of his conduct. In the spring of 1533 the king succeeded in procuring his deposition and the appointment of Fr. Jean de la Hey, a Frenchman, as commissary. Forest was sent to some convent in the north, but in the following year was back in London imprisoned at Newgate on a charge of heresy, the basis of which was denial of the king's supremacy. He at first submitted to the court. His confinement, therefore, was not strict, and he was allowed to celebrate divine service and hear confessions. It was found that he used this opportunity of confirming his visitors in the old faith, and employed his leisure in writing a book, 'De auctoritate Ecclesiæ et Pontificis Maximi,' inveighing with great vehemence against the pride and impiety of the king in assuming the title of head of the church. Sentence of death had been passed upon him at the commencement of his imprisonment, and when his relapse was discovered it was immediately carried out. He was burnt on 22 May 1538 in Smithfield with unusual barbarity, being slung alive over a fire instead of being surrounded by faggots. An image called Dderfel Gadern, which had been long venerated in North Wales, was used as fuel to fulfil a Welsh prophecy, which said that it would set a forest on fire. Bishop Hugh Latimer preached a sermon on the occasion, urging him in vain to recant, and the lord mayor, Cromwell, and other great people were present. The book mentioned above is the only literary work which he is said to have composed, and that is not known to be extant. There are, however, some letters of his to Queen Catherine and others printed by Wadding and Parkinson.

FORESTER, JAMES (fl. 1611), theological and medical writer, matriculated in the university of Cambridge as a sizar of Clare Hall, 26 May 1576. He proceeded B.A. in 1579-80, M.A. in 1583, and practised physic (, Athenæ Cantabr. iii. 58). By procurement of Henry Barrow, the puritan, he wrote out part of the book entitled 'A brief Description of the False Church,' but he says that he found fault 'in respect off the sharpe maner of wrytyng thereof,' and caused it to be reformed, but he alleged that he never saw the book in print. He was indicted with Barrow, Greenwood, and others, on 21 March 1592-3, for writing and publishing books to cry down the church of England and the queen's prerogative in ecclesiastical matters. As he expressed penitence, however, his life was spared.

He was the author of:
 * 1) 'The Pearle of Practise, or Practisers Pearle for Phisicke and Chirurgerie found out by J[ohn] H[ester] a Spageriche or Distiller, amongst the Learned Observations and Proved Practises of many expert Men in both Faculties. Published and drawn into methode,' London, 1594, 4to.
 * 2) 'The Marrow and Juice of 260 Scriptures,' London, 1611, 4to.

FORFAR,. [See .]

FORGAILL, DALLAN (fl. 600), Irish saint. [See .]

FORMAN, ANDREW (d. 1522), archbishop of St. Andrews, is said to have been one of the Formans of Hatton, near Berwick-on-Tweed (Scotichron. p. 242). The 'Lord Treasurer's Accounts' record a small payment to him on 22 Oct. 1489 (Accounts of Lord High Treasurer, 123; cf. p. 128). According to Mr. Dickson, he was protonotary by September 1491, and his name appears in that capacity several times in the treasury accounts. In May 1492 he distributed the royal alms in St. Giles's, and in April 1498 won money from James IV at cards (ib. pp. 187, 386; pp. 172, 187, &c.) When Perkin Warbeck landed in Scotland (November 1495) the protonotary appears to have been told off to attend him. He received 74l. 8s. in connection with this service (21 Sept. 1496) at the time of the futile expedition across the Tweed. He probably remained with Warbeck till the impostor sailed from Ayr for Ireland in July 1497 (ib. pp. 299, 344-5, Pref. pp. cxxvii-cliii). Next September 'Andrew Forman, protonotary apostolic and prior of May,' was despatched with the Bishop of Aberdeen and Sir Patrick Hume to make terms with Henry VII. A truce was signed for seven years at Aytoun in Berwickshire (30 Sept. 1497). He was employed in other embassies in 1499 and 1501, and on 8 Oct. 1501 was empowered to treat for the marriage of James IV to Henry VII's daughter


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User talk:Ath

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Author:Orison Swett Marden

Works

 * How they succeeded: life stories of successful men told by themselves

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Gray

For works by Thomas Gray, see Thomas Gray.
 * Gray, a biography in the English Men of Letters series, by Edmund Gosse

title: Gray


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 original determinant is＝0, and therefore the determinant itself is＝0; that is, the linear equations give which is the result obtained above.

We might in a similar way find the values of y and z, but there is a more symmetrical process. Join to the original equations the new equation x + y + z ＝ ; a like process shows that, the equations being satisfied, we have or, as this may be written, which, considering as standing herein for its value x + y + z, is a consequence of the original equations only: we have thus an expression for x + y + z, an arbitrary linear function of the unknown quantities x, y, z; and by comparing the coefficients of, ,  on the two sides respectively, we have the values of x, y, z; in fact, these quantities, each multiplied by are in the first instance obtained in the forms but these are or, what is the same thing, respectively.

6. Multiplication of two Determinants of the same Order.—The theorem is obtained very easily from the last preceding definition of a determinant. It is most simply expressed thus— where the expression on the left side stands for a determinant, the terms of the first line being (a, b, c)(, ′, ″), that is, a + b′ + c″, (a, b, c)(, ′, ″), that is, a + b′ + c″, (a, b, c)(, ′, ″), that is a + b′ + c″; and similarly the terms in the second and third lines are the life functions with (a′, b′, c′) and (a″, b″, c″) respectively.

There is an apparently arbitrary transposition of lines and columns; the result would hold good if on the left-hand side we had written, (′, ′, ′), (″, ″, ″), or what is the same thing, if on the right-hand side we had transposed the second determinant; and either of these changes would, it might be thought, increase the elegance of the form, but, for a reason which need not be explained, the form actually adopted is the preferable one.

To indicate the method of proof, observe that the determinant on the left-hand side, qua linear function of its columns, may be broken up into a sum of (33＝) 27 determinants, each of which is either of some such form as where the term ′ is not a term of the -determinant, and its coefficient (as a determinant with two identical columns) vanishes; or else it is of a form such as that is, every term which does not vanish contains as a factor the abc-determinant last written down; the sum of all other factors ± ′″ is the -determinant of the formula; and the final result then is, that the determinant on the left-hand side is equal to the product on the right-hand side of the formula.

7. Decomposition of a Determinant into complementary Determinants.—Consider, for simplicity, a determinant of the fifth order, 5＝2 + 3, and let the top two lines be then, if we consider how these elements enter into the determinant, it is at once seen that they enter only through the determinants of the second order &c., which can be formed by selecting any two columns at pleasure. Moreover, representing the remaining three lines by it is further seen that the factor which multiplies the determinant formed with any two columns of the first set is the determinant of the third order formed with the complementary three columns of the second set; and it thus appears that the determinant of the fifth order is a sum of all the products of the form the sign ± being in each case such that the sign of the term ± ab′c″d‴e⁗ obtained from the diagonal elements of the component determinants may be the actual sign of this term in the determinant of the fifth order; for the product written down the sign is obviously +.

Observe that for a determinant of the n-th order, taking the decomposition to be 1 + (n − 1), we fall back upon the equations given at the commencement, in order to show the genesis of a determinant.

8. Any determinant formed out of the elements of the original determinant, by selecting the lines and columns at pleasure, is termed a minor of the original determinant; and when the number of lines and columns, or order of the determinant, is n−1, then such determinant is called a first minor; the number of the first minors is＝n 2, the first minors, in fact, corresponding to the several elements of the determinant—that is, the coefficient therein of any term whatever is the corresponding first minor. The first minors, each divided by the determinant itself, form a system of elements inverse to the elements of the determinant.

A determinant is symmetrical when every two elements symmetrically situated in regard to the dexter diagonal are equal to each other; if they are equal and opposite (that is, if the sum of the two elements be＝0), this relation not extending to the diagonal elements themselves, which remain arbitrary, then the determinant is skew; but if the relation does extend to the diagonal terms (that is, if these are each＝0), then the determinant is skew symmetrical; thus the determinants are respectively symmetrical, skew and skew symmetrical.

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