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148 "There he is!"—the voice of the little cousin to whom he had said good-bye, two years before, in her parents' presence, reassured only by the non-committal phrase: "Well, well, go to college first and make a man of yourself; then we'll see."

Already we saw ourselves surrounded by children eager to finger our sabres, by girls who signed to us as we passed, by old men who clapped us on the shoulder, by mothers crying, "How splendidly he looks!" So that it was with the greatest difficulty that we shook off this importunate folk, saying to ourselves: "Presently, presently, all in good time; but just now, really, you must let us be!"

Then, each following the bent of his disposition, his habits, and his plans, we confided to one another the regiment, province, and city to which we hoped to be assigned. Some of us longed for the noise and merriment of the Milanese carnivals, and dreamed of theatres, balls and convivial suppers. One sighed for a sweet Tuscan village, perched on a hilltop, where, in command of his thirty men, he might spend the peaceful spring days in collecting songs and proverbs among the country-folk. Another longed to carry on his studies in the unbroken solitude of a lonely Alpine fortress, hemmed in by ravines and precipices. One of us craved a life of adventure in the Calabrian forests; another, the activities of some great seaboard city; a third, an


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Rh island of the Tyrrhenian Sea. We divided up Italy among ourselves a hundred times a day, as though we had been staking off plots in a garden; and each of us detailed to the others the beauties of his chosen home, and all agreed that every one of the places selected would be beautiful and delightful to live in.

And then—war! It was sure to come sooner or later. Hardly was the word mentioned when our books were hurled into a corner and we were all talking at once, our faces flushed, our voices loud and excited. War, to us, was a superhuman vision in which the spirit lost itself as in some strange intoxication; a far-off, rose-colored horizon, etched with the black profiles of gigantic mountains; legion after legion, with flying banners and the sound of music, endlessly ascending the mountain-side; and high up, on the topmost ridges, surrounded by the enemy, our own figures far in advance of the others, dashing forward with brandished swords; while down the farther slope a torrent of foot, horse, and artillery plunged wildly through darkness to an unknown abyss.

A medal for gallantry? Which one of us would not have won it? Lose the battle? But could Italians be defeated? Death—but who feared to die? And did anybody ever die at nineteen? Who could tell what strange and marvellous adventures awaited us, what sights we should see! Perhaps some foreign

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150 ; a war in the East; was not the Eastern question still stirring? We wandered in imagination over seas and mountains, we saw the marshalling of fleets and armies, we glowed with impatience, we cried out within ourselves, "Only give us time to pass our examinations, and we'll be there too!"

And then the examinations took place, and on a beautiful July morning the doors of the ducal palace were thrown open and we were told to go forth and seek our destiny. And with a great cry we dashed out, and scattered ourselves like a flight of birds over the length and breadth of Italy.

now?

Six years have gone by, only six years, and what a long and strange and varied romance might be woven out of the lives of those two hundred college comrades! I have seen many of them since we graduated, and have had news of many others, and I have a way of passing them in review one after another, and questioning them mentally; and what I see and hear fills me with a wonder not unmixed with sadness. And here they all are.

The first that I see are a group of brown, broad-shouldered, bearded men, whom I do not recall just at first; but when they smile at me I


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Rh recognize the slender fair boys who used to look so girlish.

"Is it really you?" I exclaim, and they answer, "Yes," with a deep sonorous note so different from the boyish voices I had expected to hear, that I start back involuntarily.

And these others? Their features are not changed, to be sure, their figures are as robust and well set-up as ever, but the smile has vanished, there is no brightness in the eye.

"What has happened to you?" I ask; and they answer, "Nothing."

Ah, how much better that some misfortune should have befallen them than that the years alone, and only six short years, should have had the power so sadly to transform them!

Here are others. Good God! One, two, three, five of them; let me look again; yes—gray-headed! What—at twenty-seven! Tell me—what happened? They shrug their shoulders and pass on.

Then I see a long file of my own friends, some of them the wildest of the class, one with a baby in his arms, one with a child by the hand, another leading two. What? So-and-so married? So-and-so a père de famille? Who would have thought it?

Here come others; some, with bowed heads and reddened eyes, sign to me sadly in passing. There is crape upon their sleeves.


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152 Others, with heads high and flashing eyes, point exultantly to their breasts. Our college dream, the military medal—ah, lucky fellows!

And here are some, moving slowly, and so pale, so emaciated, that I hardly know them. Ah me! The surgeon's knife has probed those splendid statuesque limbs, once bared with such boyish pride on the banks of the Panaro; the surgeon's knife, seeking for German bullets, while the blood streamed and the amputated limbs dropped from the poor maimed trunks. Alas, poor friends! But at least they have remained with us, rewarded for their sacrifice by the love and gratitude of all.

But what's become of so-and-so?

He died on the march through Lombardy.

And so-and-so?

Killed by a mitrailleuse at Monte Croce.

And my friend so-and-so?

He died of a rifle-bullet, in the hospital at Verona.

And the fellow who sat next to me in class?

He died of cholera in Sicily.

Enough—enough!

So they all pass by, fading into the distance, while my fancy hastens back over the road they have travelled, seeking traces of their passage—how many and what diverse traces!

Here, books and papers scattered on the floor, half-finished projects of battles, an overturned


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Rh table, a smoking candle-end, tokens of a studious vigil. There, broken chairs, fragments of glasses, the remains of a carouse. Farther on, an expanse of waste ground, two bloody swords, deep footprints, the impress of a fallen body. Here, a table covered with a torn green cloth and strewn with cards and dice; yonder, in the grass, a scented love-letter and a knot of faded violets. Over there a graveyard cross, with the inscription: To my Mother. And farther on more cards, cast-off uniforms, women's portraits, tailors' bills, bills of exchange, swords, flowers, blood. What a vast tapestry one can weave with those few broken and tangled threads! What loves, what griefs, what struggles, follies, and disasters one divines and comprehends! Many a high and generous impulse too; but how much more of squandered opportunity and effort!

And even if nothing had been squandered, if, in those six years, not a day, not an hour, had been stolen from our work, if we had not opened our hearts to any affections but those that exalt the mind and give serenity to life, a great and dear illusion must still have been lost to us; an illusion that in vanishing has taken with it much of our strength and hope; the illusion of that distant rose-colored horizon, edged with the black profiles of gigantic mountains, legion after legion hurling itself upon the enemy with flying banners and the sound of martial music!


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154 A lost war.

And if we had not lost that illusion, would not some other have vanished in its place?

of myself and say: "How far it is from nineteen to twenty-five!"

Wherever I went, then, I was the youngest, since boys under nineteen don't mix on equal terms with men; and I knew that whoever I met envied me three things: my youth, my hopes, and my light-heartedness. And now, wherever I go, I meet young fellows who look at me and speak to me with the deference shown to an elder brother; and, as I talk to them, I am conscious of making an effort to appear as cheery as they, and even find myself wondering what stuff they are made of.

The other day, looking at a friend's child, a little girl of six, I said to him, half laughing, "Who knows?"

"Isn't there rather too much disparity of age?" he answered.

I was silent, half-startled; then, counting up the years on my fingers, I murmured sadly, "Yes."

At nineteen I could say of any little maid I met, that one day she might become my wife; the rising generation belonged to me; but now


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Rh there is a part of humanity for which I am already too old!

And the future—once an undefined bright background, on which fancy sketched all that was fairest and most desirable, without one warning from the voice of reason; now, clearly outlined and distinctly colored, it takes such precise shape that I can almost guess what it is to be, can see my path traced out for me, and the goal to which it leads. And so, marvels and glories, farewell!

And mankind? Well—I never was mistrustful, nor inclined to see the bad rather than the good in human nature; indeed, I have a friend who is so exasperated by my persistent optimism that, when I enlarge upon my affection for my kind, he invariably answers, "Wait till your turn comes!"

And yet, how much is gone already of the naïf abandonment of those boyish friendships, of that candid and ready admiration that, like a well-adjusted spring, leapt forth at a touch, even when I heard a stranger praised! Two or three disillusionments have sufficed to weaken that spring. Already I begin to question my own enthusiasm, and a rising doubt silences the warm, frank words of affection that once leapt involuntarily to my lips. I read with dry eyes many a book that I used to cry over; when I read poetry my voice trembles less often than it


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156 did; my laugh is no longer the sonorous irresistible peal that once echoed through every corner of the house. When I look in the glass—is it fancy or reality?—I perceive in my face something that was not there six years ago, an indescribable look about the eyes, the brow, the mouth, that is imperceptible to others, but that I see and am troubled by. And I remember Leopardi's words, At twenty-five the flower of youth begins to fade. What? Am I beginning to fade? Am I on the downward slope? Have I travelled so far already? Why, thousands younger than I have graduated since my day from the college of Modena; I feel them pressing upon me, treading me down, urging me forward. The thought terrifies me. Stop a moment—let me draw breath; why must one devour life at this rate? I mean to take my stand here, motionless, firm as a rock; back with you! But the ground is sloping and slippery, my feet slide, there is nothing to catch hold of. Comrades, friends of my youth, come, let us hold fast to each other; let us clasp each other tight; don't let them overthrow us; let us stand fast! Ah, curse it, I feel the earth slipping away under me!


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Rh

, well—those are the mournful imaginings of rainy days. When the sun reappears, the soul grows clear like the sky, and there succeeds to my brief discouragement a state of mind in which it appears to me so foolish and so cowardly to fret because I see a change in my face, to mourn the careless light-heartedness of my youth, to rebel against the laws of nature in a burst of angry regret, that I am overcome with shame. I rouse myself, I scramble to my feet, I seize hold of my faith, my hopes, my intentions, I set to work again with a resolution full of joyful pride. At such moments I feel strong enough to face the approach of my thirtieth year, to await with serenity disillusionments, white hairs, sorrows, infirmities, and old age, my mind's eye fixed upon a far-off point of light that seems to grow larger as I advance. I march on with renewed courage; and to the noisy and drunken crew calling out to me to join them, I answer, No!—and to the knights of the doleful countenance, who shake their heads and say, "What if it were not true?"—I answer, without turning my eyes from that distant light, No!—and to the grave, proud men who point to their books and writings, and say with a smile of pity and derision, "It is all a dream!"—I answer, with my eyes still upon


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158 that far-off light, and the great cry of a man who sees a ghost in his path, No! Ah, at such moments, what matters it that I must grow old and die? I toil, I wait, I believe!

of my classmates have undergone the same change. Their faces have grown older, or sadder, as Leopardi would have us say; but with the faces the souls have grown graver also. I have spoken of certain changes in my friends that saddened me; but there are others which make me glad. Now and then it has happened to me to come across some of the most careless, happy-go-lucky of my classmates, and to be filled with wonder when I hear them speak of their country, of their work, of the duties to be performed, of the future to be prepared for. Owing, perhaps, to the many and great events of these last years, their characters have been suddenly and completely transformed. Some ruling motive—ambition, family cares, or the mere instinctive love of study—has gathered together and focused their vague thoughts and scattered powers; has brought about the habit of reflection, and turned their thoughts towards the great problem of life; has given to all a purpose, and a path to travel, and left them no time to mourn


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Rh the vanished past. We have all entered upon our second youth, with some disillusionments, with a little experience, and with the conviction that happiness—what little of it is given to us on earth is not obtained by struggling, storming, and clamoring to heaven and earth we must have it!—but is slowly distilled from the inmost depths of the soul by the long persistence of quiet toil. Humble hopes have succeeded to our splendid visions; steady resolves, to our grand designs; and the dazzling vision of war, the goddess promising glory and delirium, has been replaced by the image of Italy, our mother, who promises only—and it is enough—the lofty consolation of having loved and served her.

souls have emerged fortified from the sorrow of the lost war.

One day, surely, Italy will re-echo from end to end with the great cry, "Come!"—and we shall spring to our feet, pale and proud, with the answering shout, "We are ready!"

Then, in the streets of our cities, thronged with people, with soldiers, horses, and wagons, amidst the clashing of arms and the blare of trumpets, we classmates shall meet again. I shall see them once more, many of them, perhaps, only for that short hour, some only for a moment.


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160 At night, in the torchlit glare of a railway-station, we shall meet again, and greet each other in silence, hand in hand and eye to eye. No shouting, no songs, no joyous clamor, no vision of triumphal marches, no veiling of death's image in the light hopefulness of reunion; we shall say but one word to each other—good-bye—and that good-bye will be a promise, a vow; that good-bye will mean, "This time, there will be no descending from the mountains; you and I, lad, will be left lying on the summit."

And often, traversing a long expanse of time, I evoke the vision of distant battle-fields on which the lot of Italy is decided. My fancy hastens from valley to valley, from hill to hill; and at all the most difficult passages, at all the posts of danger, I see one of my old classmates, a gray-haired colonel or general, at the head of his regiment or of his brigade; and I love to picture him at the moment when, attacked by a heavy force of the enemy, he directs the defence.

The two sides have joined battle, and from a neighboring height, he observes the fighting below. Poor friend! At that moment, perhaps, life and honor hang in the balance; thirty years of study, of hopes, of sacrifices, are about to be crowned with glory or scattered like a handful of dust down that green slope at his feet—it all hangs on a thread. Pale and motionless he stands there watching, the sabre trembling in his


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Rh convulsive grasp. I am near him, my eye is upon his face, I feel and see and tremble with him, I live his life.

Courage, friend! Your spirit has passed into your men, the fight is theirs, never fear! That uncertain movement over there towards the right wing is but the momentary confusion caused by some inequality of the ground; they are not falling back, man. Listen, the shouts are louder, the firing grows heavier, the last battalion has been thrown into action, all your men are fighting. Ah! how his gaze hurries from one end of the line to the other, how pale he has grown; life seems suspended. What are those distant voices? What flame rushes to his face? What is this smile, this upward glance? Victory!—but, by God, man, rein in your horse, look at me—here I am, your old classmate who holds out his arms to you and now off, down to the battlefield among your soldiers—and God be with you!

He has put his charger to the gallop and disappeared.

And who knows how many of my friends may find themselves some day, at some hour of their lives, face to face with such an ordeal? Who knows how many an act of patriotism will make their names illustrious, how dear to the people some of these names may become? What if some day I were to see the youth who sat next


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162 to me in the class-room or at table, or slept beside me in the dormitory, riding through the streets on a white horse, in a general's uniform, covered with flowers and surrounded by rejoicing crowds? And who knows—may I not knock at the door of some other, and throw my arms about the pale, sad figure, grown ten years older in a few months; telling him that the popular verdict is unjust, that there are many who know that he is not to blame for the disaster, that sooner or later the excitement will subside, and the victims of the first rash judgment be restored to honor; that his name is still dear and respected, that he must not despond, that he must take heart and keep on hoping?

Ah, when I think of the fierce trials that life has in store for many of my classmates, of all that they may do to benefit their country, of all that their glory will cost them; when I, who have left the army, think of all this, I feel that, not to be outdone by my old school-fellows in paying the debt of gratitude that I owe my country, I ought to toil without ceasing, to spend my nights in study, to treasure my youth and strength as a means of sustaining my intellectual effort; that, in order to preach the beauty of goodness, I ought to lead a blameless life; that I ought to keep alive that glowing affection, a spark of which I may sometimes communicate to others; to study children, the people, and the


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Rh poor, and to write for their benefit; to let no ignoble word fall from my pen, to sacrifice all my inclinations to the common welfare, never to lose heart, never to strive for approval, to hope for nothing and long for nothing but the day on which I may at last say to myself: I have done what I could, my life has not been useless, I am satisfied.

this is the thought that comes to me in closing: I should like to have before me a lad of seventeen, well-bred and kindly, but ignorant of the human heart, as we all are at that age; and putting a friendly hand on his shoulder, I should like to say to him:

"Do you want to make sure of a peaceful and untroubled future? Treat your friends as considerately as you would a woman, for, believe me, every harsh word or ill-mannered act (however excusable, however long-forgotten) will return some day to pain and trouble you. Recalling my friends after all these years, I remember a quarrel that I had with one of them, a sharp word exchanged with another, the resolve, maintained for many months, not to speak to a third. Puerilities, if you like, and yet how glad I should be not to have to reproach myself with them! And, though I feel sure that they have


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164 made no more impression upon others than upon myself, how much I wish for an opportunity of convincing myself of the fact, of dissipating any slight shadow that may have lingered in the minds of my friends!

"When one's youth is almost past, and one thinks of the years that have flown so quickly and of those that will fly faster yet, of the little good one has done and the little there is still time to accomplish, the pride that set one against one's friends seems so petty, ridiculous and contemptible a sentiment, that one longs for the power of returning to the past, of renewing the old discussions in a friendly tone, of extending a conciliatory hand in place of every angry shrug, of seeking out the friends one has offended, looking them in the face and saying, 'Shall bygones be bygones, old man?'"

friends! If only because it was in your company that I first wandered over my country, how could my thoughts cease to seek you out, my heart to desire you?

When, from the ship's deck, I saw the gulf of Naples whiten in the distance, and clasping my hands, laughing and thinking of my mother, I cried out, It is a dream!—when, from the summit of the Noviziate pass my gaze for the first


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Rh time embraced Messina, the straits, the Apperinines and the cape of Spartivento, and I said to myself, half-sadly, Here Italy ends;—when, from the top of Monte Croce, beyond the vast plain swarming with German regiments, I first beheld the towers of Verona, and stretching out my arms, as though fearful of their vanishing, cried out to them, Wait!—when, from the dike of Fusina, I saw Venice, far-off, azure, fantastic, and cried with wet eyes, Heavenly!—when Rome, surrounded by the smoke of our batteries, first burst upon me from the height of Monterondo, and I shouted, She is ours!—always, everywhere, one of you was beside me, to seize my arm and cry out: How beautiful is Italy!—always one of you to mingle your tears, your laughter and your poetry with mine!

There is not a spot of Italy, not a joyful occurrence, nor profound emotion, which is not associated in my mind with the clank of a sword saying, 'I am here!'—and the hand-clasp of one of you, making me pause and wonder what has become of such an one, what he is doing and thinking, and whether he too remembers the good days we spent together.

It may fall to my lot to meet, in the future, many faithful, dear and generous friends, whose smiling images I already picture to myself; but beyond their throng I shall always see your plumes waving and the numbers glittering on your caps;


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166 I shall always hurry towards you, crying out: Let us talk of our college days, of our travels, of war, of soldiers, and of Italy!

old classmates will many of us doubtless live to see the twentieth century. Strange thought! I know, of course, that the transition from nineteen hundred to nineteen hundred and one will seem as natural as that from ninety-nine to a hundred, or from this year to next. And yet it seems to me that to see the first dawn of the new century will be like reaching the summit of some high mountain, and looking out over new countries and new horizons. I feel as though, that morning, something unexpected and marvellous would be revealed to us; as though there would be a sense almost of terror in finding one's self face to face with it; a sense of having been hurled, by some unseen power, from brink to brink of a measureless abyss.

Idle fancies! I know well enough what we shall be like when that time comes. I see a sitting-room with a fireplace in the corner, or rather many sitting-rooms with many fireplaces, and many old men seated, chin in hand, in armchairs near the hearth. Near by stands a table with a lamp on it, surrounded by a circle of children, or of nephews and nieces, who nudge


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Rh each other and point to their father or uncle, whispering, "Hush—he's asleep;"—and laughing at the grotesque expression that sleep has given to our wrinkled faces.

And then perhaps we shall wake, and the children will surround us, begging, as usual, for stories of "a long time ago," and asking with eager curiosity, "Uncle, did you ever see General Garibaldi?"—"Father, were you ever close to King Victor Emmanuel?"—"Grandpapa, did you ever hear Count Cavour speak?"

"Why, yes, child, many and many a time!"

"Oh, do tell us, what were they like? Did they look like their portraits? How did they talk?"

And we shall tell them everything, and gradually, as we talk, our voices will regain their old vigor, our cheeks will glow, and we shall watch with delight the brightening of those eager eyes, the proud uplifting of those innocent brows, and the impatient movement of the little hands, signing to us, at each pause, to go on with the story.

And what will have befallen the world by that time? Will a Victor Emmanuel III. rule over Italy? Will the bersaglieri be at Trent? Will one of our old friends, attached to the Ministry of the Interior, have been made Governor of Tunis? Will France have passed through another series of empires, republics, communes,


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168 and monarchies? Will the threatened invasion of northern barbarians have taken place? Will England also have received her coup-de-grâce? Shall we have experimented with a Commune? Will our great poet have been born? The Church have been reformed? Rome rebuilt? Will there be any armies in those days? And we—what standing shall we have in our village or town? What shall we have done? How shall we have lived?

Ah, whatever has happened, whatever fate awaits us, if we have worked, and loved, and believed—then, when we sit at sunset in the big arm-chair on the terrace, and think of our families, of our friends, of the mountains, of the carnivals, of the Tyrrhenian islands that we dreamed of in our college days, we shall be sad, indeed, at the thought of parting before long from such dear souls and from so beautiful a country; but our faces will brighten with a smile serene and quiet as the dawn of a new youth, and tempering the bitterness of farewell with the tacit pledge of reunion.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Schaff, Philip

SCHAFF, Philip, American clergyman and scholar: b. Coire, Switzerland, 1 Jan. 1819; d. New York, 20 Oct. 1893. He studied at Tübingen, Halle and Berlin, and was a lecturer in the latter university in 1842-44. He then came to this country where he was professor in the theological seminary of the German Reformed Church at Mercersburg (Pa.) 1844-63.

In 1864-69 he was lecturer in several theological institutions, and in 1870 became professor of sacred literature in Union Theological Seminary, New York. This post he held until his transference in 1887 to the chair of church history in the same institution. He was one of the founders of the Evangelical Alliance and went as delegate to its general conferences at Basel in 1879, and at Copenhagen in 1884. He was president of the American Bible-revision committee, organized by him in 1871 at the request of the British committee. He was a prolific writer and editor, his works including ‘History of the Apostolic Church’ (1853); ‘History of the Christian Church’ (1867; new and enlarged edition, 7 vols., 1889-92); ‘Creeds of Christendom’ (1877); ‘Schaff-Herzog Encyclopedia of Religious Knowledge’ (as editor); ‘Dictionary of the Bible’ (1880); ‘Church and State in the United States’ (1888); ‘Literature and Poetry’ (1890).


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Schaffhausen

SCHAFFHAUSEN, shäf'how-zĕn, Switzerland: (1) Capital of the canton of its own name, situated on an eminence overlooking the Rhine, 24 miles north of Zürich. It is quaintly and irregularly built. The buildings most worthy of notice are the feudal castle of Munot, of Roman construction, standing on a commanding height; the parish or Saint John's Church; and the cathedral (1052), a massive basilica containing a bell whose inscription suggested Schiller's ‘Song of the Bell,’ and Longfellow's ‘Golden Legend’; the town-house (1412); the Imthurneum, containing theatre, concert rooms, etc., the museum containing manuscript collections of Johann von Müller, who was born here, the town library, etc. There are primary and high schools. The environs are beautiful; three miles distant are the celebrated falls of the Rhine, almost 300 feet broad, falling more than 70 feet in three cascades formed by two pillars of rock. The Fäsenstaub is a fashionable promenade. The principal industrial works are the wagon and carriage factories, cotton and woolen manufactories, iron works, distilleries and breweries. Pop. about 15,957. (2) The canton of Schaffhausen covers an area of 114 square miles, and occupies the most northern angle of the Swiss territory. It belongs to the Swabian Jura, and the population uses almost exclusively the German tongue. The canton entered the Swiss Confederation in 1501, and by the constitution of 1876 became exceedingly democratic. Education is compulsory. The taxes are very low. Financially it is the most favored among the Swiss cantons. All the cereals are raised, besides hemp and flax. There is abundance of fruit, especially grapes. The principal manufactures are aluminum, wagons, wool, ropes and watches. Pop. about 47,270.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Schäffle, Albert Eberhard Friedrich

SCHÄFFLE, shā'flĕ, Albert Eberhard Friedrich, German political economist and sociologist: b. Nurtingen, Würtemberg, 24 Feb. 1831; d. Stuttgart, 24 Dec. 1903. He was educated for the ministry at Tübingen but adopted a journalistic career. In 1861 he was called to the University of Tübingen as professor of political economy, and in 1868 to Vienna. His principal contributions to the literature of political science are his ‘National Economy’ (1861-73); ‘Capital and Socialism’ (1870); ‘The Fundamental Principles of Taxation’ (1880);

and ‘Quintessence of Socialism’ (1884, 8th ed., 1885). In 1895 he began to write upon sociological questions and to develop the biological theory of society. His ‘Bau und Leben des socialen Körpers’ is a more detailed attempt to explain society as a living organism than that essayed by any previous writer. This book, completed in 1896, placed him in the ranks of modern sociologists.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Schaffner, Jakob

SCHAFFNER, Jakob, German novelist: b. Basle, Switzerland, 15 Nov. 1875. He carried on his university studies in his native city, and there he wrote most of his works until he changed the scene of his studies to Charlottenburg, near Berlin, in 1912. His best novels are ‘Irrfahrten’ (Berlin 1905; title later changed to ‘Irrfahrten des Jonathan Bregger’ 1912), and ‘Die Erlhöferin’ (Berlin 1908, 15,000 sold in two years). His early poverty is reflected in most of his works, ‘Irrfahrten’ (“Wanderings”), for instance, has convincing pictures from the life of working people in their daily toil, while ‘Konrad Pilater’ is a story of a rather whimsical journeyman shoemaker (embodying scenes of Schaffner's boyhood as a shoemaker). Later novels are ‘Konrad Pilater’ (Berlin 1910); ‘Der Bote Gottes’ (1911). and ‘Die goldene Fratze’ (Berlin 1912). A translation of ‘The Iron Idol’ appears in ‘German Classics’ (Vol. XIX, New York 1914).


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Schalcken, Godfried

SCHALCKEN, shäl'kĕn, Godfried, Dutch artist: b. Dordrecht, 1643; d. The Hague, 16 Nov. 1706. He was the pupil of Samuel van Hoogstraten and Gerard Douw. He visited England where he painted portraits, especially one of William III. His best work is in genre, and here he approached though still remaining inferior to his master Douw. He was fond of representing scenes by candle light, though he was scarcely ever quite true in the color representation of such light. When he attempted portraits in full length, as the fashion of the time of Sir Godfrey Kneller demanded, his efforts were not successful, with the possible exception of the portrait of William III, now in the Amsterdam Museum, but he soon became sensible of his error, and again painted on a small scale. Some of his best works are at the museums of Vienna, Dresden, Munich, Berlin, Amsterdam, The Hague, and at the Louvre.


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This Tulipa is very like vnto the yellow Bolonia Tulipa, both in roote, leafe, and flower, as alo in the colour thereof, being yellow: the onely difference is, that it is in all things leer and lower, and is not o apt to beare, nor o plentifull to encreae by the roote.

Both thee kindes of Tulipas doe o neere reemble the lat kinde, that I might almot ay they were the ame, but that ome difference which I aw in them, maketh mee et them apart; and coniteth in thee things, the talkes of neither of both thee rie o high, as of the firt yellow Bolonia Tulipa: the leaues of both orts are writhed in and out at the edges, or made like a waue of the ea, lying neerer the ground, and the flower being yellow within, is brownih or reddih on the backe, in the middle of the three outer leaues the edges appearing yellow. Both thee kindes doe differ one from the other in nothing, but in that one is bigger, and the other maller then the other which I aw with Iohn Tradecante, my very good friend often remembred.

This dwarfe Tulipa is alo of the ame kindred with the three lat decribed; for there is no other difference in this from them, then that the flower hath ome red veins running in the leaues thereof.

There are two other orts of dwarfe Tulipas with white flowers, whereof Lobel hath made mention in the Appendix to his Adueraria; the one whereof is the ame that Cluius etteth forth, vnder the title of Pumilio alter a: but becaue I haue not een either of them both, I peake no further of them.

But that white flower that Iohn Tradecante hewed me, and as hee aith, was deliuered him for a white Pumilio, had a talke longer then they et out theirs to haue, and the flower alo larger, but yet had narrower leaues then other orts of white Tulipas haue.

Vnto thee kindes, I may well adde this kinde of Tulipa alo, which was ent out of Italy, whoe leaues are mall, long, and narrow, and of a darke greene colour, omewhat like vnto the leaues of an Hyacinth: the flower is mall alo, coniting of ixe leaues, as all other Tulipas doe, three whereof are wholly of a red colour, and the other three wholly of a yellow.

This rare Tulipa, wherewith we haue beene but lately acquainted, doth mot fitly deerue to be decribed in this place, becaue it doth o neerely participate with the Bolonia and Italian Tulipas, in roote, leafe, and flower: the roote hereof is mall, couered with a thicke hard blackih hell or skinne, with a yellowih woollinee both at the toppe, and vnder the hell. It rieth out of the ground at the firt, with one very long and mall round leafe, which when it is three or foure inches high, doth open it elfe, and hew forth another mall leafe (as long almot as the former) breaking out of the one ide thereat, and after it a third, and ometimes a fourth, and a fiftfifth [sic]; but each horter then other, which afterwards be of the breadth of the dwarfe yellow Tulipa, or omewhat broader, but much longer then any other, and abiding more hollow, and of the colour of the early Tulipas on the inide: the talke rieth vp a foot and a halfe Rh


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Rh {|
 * 9 Princeps, i.e. purpurea aturatior vel dilutior, oris albis magnis vel paruis, fundo luteo, vel albo orbe, qua multum variatur, & colore, & oris, ita vt purpurea elegans oris magnis albis, dicta est, Princeps excellens, & || 9 A Prince or Bracklar, that is, a deepe or pale purple, with white edges, greater or maller, and a yellow bottome, or circled with white, which varieth much, both in the purple & edges, o that a faire deep purple, with great white edges, is called, The bet or chiefe Prince, and
 * 10 Princeps Columbina, purpurea dilutior. || 10 A paler purple with white edges, called a Doue coloured Prince.
 * 11 Purpurea Chermeina, rubicandioris coloris, albidis vel albis oris. || 11 A Crimon Prince or Bracklar.
 * 12 Purpurea, vel oboleta albidis oris Princeps Brancion. || 12 A Brancion Prince, or purple Brancion.
 * 13 Purpurea diluta, oris dilutioris purpurei coloris. || 13 A purple with more pale purple edges.
 * 14 Purpurea in exterioribus, carnei vero ad medium intus, oris albis, fundo luteo. || 14 Purple without, and bluh halfe way within, with white edges, and a yellow bottome.
 * 15 Purpurea albo plumata extra, oris albis, purpuracens intus, fundo luteo, vel orbe albo. || 15 Purple feathered with white on the out ide, with white edges, and pale purple within, the ground being a little yellow, or circled with white.
 * 16 Alia, minus elegans plumata, minoribuque oris albidis || 16 Another very neere vnto it, but not o fairely feathered, being more obcure, and the edges not o great or whitih.
 * }
 * 13 Purpurea diluta, oris dilutioris purpurei coloris. || 13 A purple with more pale purple edges.
 * 14 Purpurea in exterioribus, carnei vero ad medium intus, oris albis, fundo luteo. || 14 Purple without, and bluh halfe way within, with white edges, and a yellow bottome.
 * 15 Purpurea albo plumata extra, oris albis, purpuracens intus, fundo luteo, vel orbe albo. || 15 Purple feathered with white on the out ide, with white edges, and pale purple within, the ground being a little yellow, or circled with white.
 * 16 Alia, minus elegans plumata, minoribuque oris albidis || 16 Another very neere vnto it, but not o fairely feathered, being more obcure, and the edges not o great or whitih.
 * }
 * 16 Alia, minus elegans plumata, minoribuque oris albidis || 16 Another very neere vnto it, but not o fairely feathered, being more obcure, and the edges not o great or whitih.
 * }
 * }
 * }


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Schamyl

SCHAMYL, shä'mĭl, Tartar imam and warrior, leader among the tribes of the Caucasus: b. Aul Himri, northern Daghestan, 1797; d. Medina, March 1871. From 1824 to 1831 he took energetic part in Kasi Mollah's “holy war” against the infidel Russians, being severely wounded at the storming of Himri. A Sufi, he labored for the recrudescence of his faith in Daghestan, and was markedly successful. From 1837 he was temporal and spiritual head of the mountain tribes. His guerrilla method of warfare long enabled the Circassians to continue the struggle against Russia. During the Crimean War he was supplied by the allies with arms and money. After incredible escapes he was at last taken (6 Sept. 1859), and kept under surveillance, though treated with consideration.


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Rh


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Rh There is another ort or kinde of early Tulipa, differing from the former, whoe pale greene leaues being as broad and large as they, and ometimes crumpled or waued at the edges, in ome haue the edges onely of the aid leaues for a good breadth, of a whitih or whitih yellow colour, and in others, the leaues are lited or parted with whitih yellow and greene: the talke rieth not vp o high as the former, and beareth a flower at the toppe like vnto the former, in ome of a reddih yellow colour, with a ruet coloured ground or bottome, and in others, of other euerall colours: the eede and roote is o like vnto others of this kinde, that they cannot be ditinguihed. There is (as I doe heare) of this kinde, both Præcoces, and Serotinæ, early flowring, and late flowring, whereof although wee haue not o exact knowledge, as of the ret, yet I thought good to peake o much, as I could hitherto vndertand of them, and giue others leaue (if I doe not) hereafter to amplifie it.

There are likewie other kindes of early Tulipas to bee poken of, and firt of the red Bolonia Tulipa; the roote whereof is plainly dicerned, to be differing from all others: for that it is longer, and not hauing o plaine an eminence at the bottome thereof, as the former and later Tulipas, but more epecially becaue the toppe is plentifully tored with a yellowih ilke-like woollinee: the outide likewie or skinne is of a brighter or paler red, not o eaie to be pilled away, and runneth vnder ground both downeright and idewie (epecially in the countrey ground and ayre, where it will encreae aboundantly, but not either in our London ayre, or forc't grounds) omewhat like vnto the yellow Bolonia Tulipa next following. It hooteth out of the ground with broad and long leaues, like the former; but neither o broad, nor of o white or mealy a greene colour as the former, but more darke then the late flowring Tulipa, o that this may bee eaily dicerned by his leafe from any other Tulipa aboue the ground, by one that is skilfull. It beareth likewie three or foure leaues vpon the talke, like the former, and a flower alo at the toppe of the ame fahion, but that the leaues hereof are alwayes long, and omewhat narrow, hauing a large blacke bottome, made like vnto a cheuerne, the point whereof rieth vp vnto the middle of the leafe, higher then any other Tulipa; the flower is of a pale red colour, nothing o liuely as in the early or late red Tulipas, yet weeter for the mot part then any of them, and neeret vnto the yellow Bolonia Tulipa, which is much about the ame ent.

There are two other orts hereof, and becaue they were found about Bergomo, do carry that name, the one bigger or leer then another, yet neither o great as the former, hauing very little other difference to bee oberued in them, then that they are maller in all parts of them.

The roote of this Tulipa may likewie bee knowne from the former red (or any other Tulipa) in that it eldome commeth to bee o bigge, and is not o woolly at the toppe, and the skinne or outide is omewhat paler, harder, and harper pointed: but the bottome is like the former red, and not o eminent as the early or late Tulipas. This beareth much longer and narrower leaues then any (except the Perian & dwarfe yellow Tulipas) and of a whitih greene colour: it beareth ometimes but one flower on a talke, and ometimes two or three wholly yellow, but maller, & more open then the other kinds, and (as I aid) melleth weete, the head for eede is maller then in others, and hath not that crowne at the head thereof, yet the eed is like, but maller. Rh


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1 Tulipa Bombycina flore rubro. The red Bolonia Tulipa. 2 Tulipa Bolonienis flore luteo. The yellow Bolonia Tulipa. 3 Tulipa pumilio rubra iue lutea. The red or yellow dwarfe Tulipa. 4 Folium Tulipa de Caffa per totum triatum. The leafe of the Tulipa of Caffa triped throughout the whole leafe. 5 Folium Tulipa de Caffa per oras triatum. The leafe of the Tulipa of Caffa triped at the edges onely. 6 Tulipa Perfica. The Perian Tulipa. 7 Tulipa Cretica. The Tulipa of Candie. 8 Tulipa Armeniaca. The Tulipa of Armenia.


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 object, but is imbedded in sand or mud by the proximal portion of the stem known as the peduncle. In the typical genus, Pennatula (fig. 8), the colony looks like a feather having a stem divisible into an upper moiety or rachis, bearing lateral central leaflets (pinnae), and a lower peduncle, which is sterile and imbedded in sand or mud. The stem represents a greatly enlarged and elongated mother zooid. It is divided longitudinally by a partition separating a so-called “ventral” or prorachidial canal from a so-called “dorsal” or metarachidial canal. A rod-like supporting axis of peculiar texture is developed in the longitudinal partition, and a longitudinal canal is hollowed out on either side of the axis in the substance of the longitudinal partition, so that there are four stem-canals in all. The prorachidial and metarachidial aspects of the rachis are sterile, but the sides or pararachides bear numerous daughter zooids of two kinds—(1) fully-formed autozooids, (2) small stunted siphonozooids. The pinnae are formed by the elongated autozooids, whose proximal portions are fused together to form a leaf-like expansion, from the upper edge of which the distal extremities of the zooids project. The siphonozooids are very numerous and lie between the bases at the pinnae on the pararachides; they extend also on the prorachidial and metarachidial surfaces. The calcareous skeleton of the Pennatulacea consists of scattered spicules, but in one species, Protocaulon molle, spicules are absent. Although of great interest the Pennatulacea do not form an enduring skeleton or “coral,” and need not be considered in detail in this place.

The order is represented by a single living species, Heliopora coerulea, which differs from all recent Alcyonaria in the fact that its skeleton is not composed of spicules, but is formed as a secretion from a layer of cells called calicoblasts, which originate from the ectoderm. The corallum of Heliopora is of a blue colour, and has the form of broad, upright, lobed, or digitate masses flattened from side to side. The surfaces are pitted all over with perforations of two kinds, viz. larger star-shaped cavities, called calices, in which the zooids are lodged, and very numerous smaller round or polygonal apertures, which in life contain as many short unbranched tubes, known as the coenenchymal tubes (fig. 9, A). The walls of the calices and coenenchymal tubes are formed of flat plates of calcite, which are so disposed that the walls of one tube enter into the composition of the walls of adjacent tubes, and the walls of the calices are formed by the walls of adjacent coenenchymal tubes. Thus the architecture of the Helioporid colony differs entirely from such forms as Tubipora or Favosites, in which each corallite has its own distinct and proper wall. The cavities both of the calices and coenenchymal tubes of Heliopora are closed below by horizontal partitions or tabulae, hence the genus was formerly included in the group Tabulata, and was supposed to belong to the madreporarian corals, both because of its lamellar skeleton, which resembles that of a Madrepore, and because each calicle has from twelve to fifteen radial partitions or septa projecting into its cavity. The structure of the zooid of Heliopora, however, is that of a typical Alcyonarian, and the septa have only a resemblance to, but no real homology with, the similarly named structures in madreporarian corals. Heliopora coerulea is found between tide-marks on the shore platforms of coral islands. The order was more abundantly represented in Palaeozoic times by the Heliolitidae from the Upper and Lower Silurian and the Devonian, and by the Thecidae from the Wenlock limestone. In Heliolites porosus the colonies had the form of spheroidal masses; the calices were furnished with twelve pseudosepta, and the coenenchymal tubes were more or less regularly hexagonal.

Zoantharia.—In this sub-class the arrangement of the mesenteries is subject to a great deal of variation, but all the types hitherto observed may be referred to a common plan, illustrated by the living genus Edwardsia (fig. 10, A, B). This is a small solitary Zoantharian which lives embedded in sand. Its body is divisible into three portions, an upper capitulum bearing the mouth and tentacles, a median scapus covered by a friable cuticle, and a terminal physa which is rounded. Both capitulum and physa can be retracted within the scapus. There are from sixteen to thirty-two simple tentacles, but only eight mesenteries, all of which are complete. The stomodaeum is compressed laterally, and is furnished with two longitudinal grooves, a sulcus and a sulculus. The arrangement of the muscle-banners on the mesenteries is characteristic. On six of the mesenteries the muscle-banners have the same position as in the Alcyonaria, namely, on the sulcar faces; but in the two remaining mesenteries, namely, those which are attached on either side of the sulcus, the muscle-banners are on the opposite or sulcular faces. It is not known whether all the eight mesenteries of Edwardsia are developed simultaneously or not, but in the youngest form which has been studied all the eight mesenteries were present, but only two of them, namely the sulco-laterals, bore mesenterial filaments, and so it is presumed that they are the first pair to be developed. In the common sea-anemone, Actinia equina (which has already been quoted as a type of Anthozoan structure), the mesenteries are numerous and are arranged in cycles. The mesenteries of the first cycle are complete (i.e. are attached to the stomodaeum), are twelve in number, and arranged in couples, distinguishable by the position of the muscle-banners. In the four couples of mesenteries which are attached to the sides of the elongated stomodaeum the muscle-banners of each couple are turned towards one another, but in the sulcar and sulcular couples, known as the directive mesenteries, the muscle-banners are on the outer faces of the mesenteries, and so are turned away from one another (see fig. 10, C). The space enclosed between two mesenteries of the same couple is called an entocoele; the space enclosed between two mesenteries of adjacent couples is called an exocoele. The second cycle of mesenteries consists of six couples, each formed in an exocoele of the primary cycle, and in each couple the muscle-banners are vis-à-vis. The third cycle comprises twelve couples, each formed in an exocoele between the primary and secondary couples and so on, it being a general rule (subject, however, to exceptions) that new mesenterial couples are always formed in the exocoeles, and not in the entocoeles.

While the mesenterial couples belonging to the second and each successive cycle are formed simultaneously, those of the first cycle

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text: Extract from the late charge of John, Lord Bishop of Fredericton


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