CHAPTER VIII

PERSONAL ACCOUNTS

Within the group of personal accounts come the more-or-less extended records of the sayings and doings of men and women in their most acute individuality. It is intimate, detailed living that is expressed in a diary, in memoirs, or a biography. These have a peculiar charm. We expect endearing things in a diary, interesting ones in an autobiography, and, if not surprisingly informing, then surely upright and praiseworthy ones, often patriotic, in a biography.

I. Journal and Diary

[Definition]

As words, journal and diary mean the same thing. They both denote a daily record. Journal comes immediately from the French _jour_ meaning day, and remotely from the same Latin word from which we get diurnal. Diary comes directly from the Latin _dies_. If there be any difference in the use of the titles, it lies in the object the maker of the daily record has in mind. A journal is written for a reader. A diary is kept for the writer's own amusement or profit. Both mix little and great affairs promiscuously.

[The range of journals]

A journal, of course, is likely to treat of a fewer number of trivial things than is a diary, and oftener the less personal, though Swift's wonderful "Journal to Stella," written in the little language and meant for "no eye but hers and the faithful Dingley's" is as personal as can be. James Madison's stately record of the American Constitutional Convention stands at the antipodes, we might say; and Hesdin's "Journal of a Spy in Paris during the Reign of Terror," far off to the right perhaps; and the Swiss poet, Henri Fréderic Amiel's private philosophical and moral reflections, his "Journal Intime," far to the left. In the middle might come the travelers' journals--like Fielding's "Voyage to Lisbon" and Montaigne's "Voyage in Italy," or even John C. Fremont's soldier explorations--as typical of the daily record that is personal, yet not intensely so, and is written to be read.

A quaint and at once extremely romantic travel-journal of this sort is the _Vida del Gran Tamurlan_, perhaps the oldest piece of travel writing in Spanish literature. It is the daily record of the voyages and residences of the ambassadors of Henry the Third on a diplomatic mission to Tamburlane the Great--that same old Tartar potentate and conqueror whom Marlowe made immortal by putting into his mouth those high-astounding terms and that flowing blank verse, which so exactly suited his character as well as Marlowe's own. The adventures of this embassy were minutely written down by Ruy Gonsalez de Clavijo from May, 1403, when it started, to March, 1406, when it returned. In the report he describes the city of Constantinople which the ambassadors passed through when it was at the height of its tottering greatness. An incident recorded is very quaint. These fifteenth century public servants, extremely human and not at all unlike our modern ones, were desirous when off on special business not only to serve their government well but also to do as much sight-seeing on their own account as possible. Hence they haunted the churches and other places of relics. But one day they failed to see all they wished to in the church of San Juan de la Piedra, and for the following reason, bless you! "The Emperor went to hunt, and left the keys with the Empress his wife, and when she gave them she forgot to give those where the said relics were, etc., etc." Delicious episode! Exactly the essence of this type of narrative. It makes one suspect that despite all the pompous history that has been got together about them the kings and queens of old were really human beings. But Clavijo was writing a journal as well as a diary, for he tells us of bigger things. He and his two friends go on to Samarcand and find the great Conqueror and experience his lavish hospitality in a series of magnificent festivals, but, strange to say, witness also his death; at least he dies when they are at his court, and Clavijo tells of the troubles the embassy had therefore in getting ready to return. Argote de Molina, in 1582, a hundred and seventy-six years later, wrote a _discourso_ upon Clavijo and got out the first public edition of this journal, which, for the sake of sales probably, he called "The Life of the Great Tamerlane," a thing it was not, but only partly. Marlowe wrote his "Tamburlane" in 1586 or 1587. He might well have seen Clavijo's journal.

[Great diaries]

Diary is for the most part more intimate, more private than journal, though a diary need not necessarily be private. In fact a writer of such a record sometimes hands it about among his friends--that is, part of it. Other parts he invariably keeps to himself, either never to be read by another or to be read only after the writer has ceased to live or has ceased to care about the effect of his words. The astoundingly frank and intimate diary of the famous Samuel Pepys, kept up by him through the first nine years of the Restoration, has only just now reached its complete publication. Details at first suppressed for one reason or another have, as they have been made public from time to time, gradually changed the world's conception of the character of this bustling servant of the crown. And not strange to say; for a diary of all forms of writing is the most revealing. John Evelyn, the friend and patron of Pepys, wrote himself down no less surely a non-genius than Pepys wrote himself a genius. They both, however, give us, in addition to a knowledge of their personal affairs, invaluable pictures of the men and doings of their day. Fanny Burney's "Diary," egotistical and minute, but one of the great books of literature, is a gallery of portraits of the late eighteenth century celebrities--King George and Queen Charlotte, Reynolds, Burke, Dr. Johnson, Mrs. Thrale, Garrick, and many others--all her friends. Gideon Welles's "Diary," which appeared in the _Atlantic Monthly_ during 1909-10, though, like that of Pepys, an account of public matters, was, like that of Pepys, a private account not meant to be seen at the time. All these records have their value for late readers in their honesty and minuteness. It is on such revelations that we depend for our correct conception of by-gone affairs.

A diary or a journal, then, is first of all a narrative of real events. Fiction in this form, like Defoe's "Journal of the Plague" or the diary parts of Charles Reade's "Cloister and the Hearth," is so for the sake of the verisimilitude.

[Writing the type]

If you wish to write a journal, you might imagine yourself sending it across the ocean to some relative or acquaintance who cares to know about the doings of you yourself, your family, your friends, your community. You may reflect your own sentiments and those of others; you may give anecdotes, eye-witness accounts, reports, hear-says, incidents, opinions, explanations, and bare facts. You may touch upon your pleasures, your joys, and even your troubles; but your vexations and regrets you would surely reserve for your diary.

If you write a diary, you should be frank and absolutely natural. Any playing to the gallery is a denial of the whole tone of diary. You may be ever so selfish and egotistical, or ever so trivial and vain, if you are only honest. If we feel that you are recording exactly what you think, revealing exactly what is, we shall read you with delight, so seldom does one man get at the real thought of another. You may even be pious--a most severe trial on a reader's interest--and we will follow you so long as you are sincere.

=Extracts from Diary of Samuel Pepys=

November, 1661.

3d. (Lord's day.) At night my wife and I had a good supper by ourselves of a pullet hashed, which pleased me much to see my condition come to allow ourselves a dish like that.

4th. With my wife to the opera, where we saw "The Bondman," which of old we both did so doate on, and do still, though to both our thinking not so well acted here, having too great expectations, as formerly at Salisbury Court. But for Betterton, he is called by us both the best actor in the world.

5th. To the Dolphin, where Armiger and I and Captaine Cocke sat late and drank much, seeing the boys in the streets flying their crackers. This day being kept all day very strictly in the city.

7th. I met with letters at home from my Lord at Lisbon, which speak of his being well, and he tells me he had seen at the court there, the day before he wrote this letter, the Juego de Toro (bullfight). Peg Kite now hath declared she will have the beggarly rogue the weaver, and so we are resolved neither to meddle nor make with her.

8th. This morning up early, and to my Lord Chancellor's, with a letter to him from my Lord, and did speak with him, and he did ask me whether I was son to Mr. Talbot Pepys or no (with whom he was once acquainted in the Court of Requests), and spoke to me with great respect. To the Sunne in New Fish Street, where Sir J. Minnes, Sir William Batten and we all were to dine, and by discourse found Sir J. Minnes a fine gentleman and a very good scholler.

9th. With my Lady all the afternoon. My Lady did mightily urge me to lay out money upon my wife, which I perceived was a little more earnest than ordinary, and so I seemed to be pleased with it, and do resolve to bestow a lace on her.

10th. (Lord's day.) At St. Gregory's, where I heard our Queen Katherine the first time by name publicly prayed for. And heard Dr. Buck upon "Woe unto thee, Corazin," &c., where he started a difficulty, which he left to another time to answer, about why God should give means of grace to those people which he knew would not receive them, and deny to others, which he himself confesses, if they had had them, would have received them and they would have been effectual, too. I would I could hear him explain this when he do come to it.

11th. Captain Ferrers carried me the first time that ever I saw any gaming-house, to one, entering into Lincolne's Inn Fields, at the end of Bell Yard, where strange the folly of men to lay and lose much money, and very glad I was to see the manner of a gamester's life, which I see is very miserable and poor and unmanly. And thence he took me to a dancing school in Fleet Streete, where we saw a company of pretty girls dance, but I do not in myself like to have young girls exposed to so much vanity. So to the Wardrobe, where I found my Lady had agreed upon a lace for my wife at £6, which I seemed much glad of that it was no more, tho in my mind I think it too much, and I pray God to keep me so to order myself and my wife's expenses that no inconvenience in purse or honour follow my prodigality.

"Diary and Correspondence of Samuel Pepys," 4 volumes. (David McKay. 1889. Philadelphia.)

=A Diary of Four Days=

Feb. 5, Saturday.

I awoke at 6 o'clock. It has become my habit not to get up earlier than half past 6 on vacation days. After breakfast I went to the physics laboratory to make up my back work.

The first experiment that I tried to perform was about Atwood's Machine. I was not half thru when the string broke. Not being able to find another, I went to the office to see whether I had a letter or not. I was very glad to receive one, for it was from home. I was very much disappointed, however, to hear that my mother was sick. My father asked me to go and see Dr. Bautista, so after dinner I went to Santa Cruz. The office was closed when I reached it. At last the doctor came. I had a long talk with him about the sickness of my mother. He gave me the formula of the medicine which my mother should take and told me the dose. After giving him five pesos I went away and bought the medicine. I stayed in the Escolta till it was dark, looking for some one who was going to our town. Not being able to find anybody, I have come back to my boarding-house with the determination to go home myself and take mother's medicine. I must study my lesson in physics, however, before I go to bed.

Feb. 6, Sunday.

At about 6 o'clock this morning I was in the railroad station. At 6 sharp the train left for San Isidro. I was very lonely in the car, for the passengers were few. There were six Chinamen and a few Filipinos. While the train was going on I kept myself busy reading my textbook in chemistry. I reached the station of San Isidro at 10 o'clock. It was about 11 when I reached home. I was very glad to find my mother better then.

I ate my dinner with all the members of our family. After staying at home for about two hours I started for San Isidro with my brother. I was delayed at the ferry, for a company of American soldiers was using the _banca_. I reached the station at about 2 o'clock, and as the train would not leave for an hour, I went to the cock-pit nearby. It so happened that they were having a _surtada_. This is the first time I have entered a cock-pit since 1904.

At 3 o'clock the train came. I reached Manila at 8 o'clock. It is now 9:30. I am going to bed earlier than usual, for I am very tired.

Feb. 7, Monday.

I went to school as usual this morning, though I did not recite my lessons very well. This evening I attended the Harty Club. We were few in number, so Father Finnegan, our director, took us with him to the observatory. All of us had a chance to look at the moon. Thru the telescope the moon looked like the yolk of an egg with black spots. The astronomer said that the black spots are craters of volcanoes. The moon when seen thru the telescope is not so beautiful as when you look at it with the naked eye.

The astronomer, who was a Spanish priest, explained the way the moon gets its light. He could speak English very well, but his pronunciation was bad. He pronounced "sun," "soon," and "top," "tawp." There were many other words which he did not pronounce very well, but he used these two so often that they were impressed on my mind. Another word he used very often was "extremities."

When you asked this fat man a question, he would laugh at you if what you asked was not sensible. Lava asked him what planets are inhabited. He laughed without ceasing for about two minutes, and then said, "Why, my boy, none except ours. If any planet is inhabited, the people must be very different from us."

It was 8 o'clock when we went home. Tomorrow is a laboratory day, so I am going to bed, for I have no lesson to prepare except in English.

Feb. 8, Tuesday.

I was awakened from a sound sleep by a dreadful dream. When I opened my eyes it was daylight. My dream was about Halley's comet. We talked so much about this thing last night that it came into my dream. I thought it was the 19th of May. My mother roused me, for they could see something beautiful. When I looked out I saw that it was Halley's comet. I tried to explain to them what it was, but I was interrupted in my explanation because I perceived that the comet was coming nearer to us. We were obliged to leave the house, for the comet was coming directly toward us. When we were out of the house the comet struck it. It was set on fire. We tried our best to quench the flames, but in vain. While the house was burning I awoke. I was very glad that I awoke, for my lesson in English was not yet prepared.

I recited my lessons as usual. This afternoon Mr. Bulatao and I visited the observatory again. Our guide showed all the pieces of apparatus to us. From the top of the building I had a very fine general view of Manila. After our visit I came home, and now I am going to study my lessons.

--Facundo Esquivel.

="Something Doing"=

_A JOURNAL: MOCK HEROIC_

Thursday, March 17, 1910.--My friend Protasio and I went to one of the fairs in the Tondo church-yard to buy an _awit_ for the instructor in English. On our way home we met a group of gentlemen, eight of them, among whom I recognized one of my schoolmates, Pedro Pineda. My companion looked Pedro squarely in the face, but this one came up to us, with arms akimbo, and presently addressed my companion in this manner: "What do you want? Why do you look at me?" "Is there any cause for which you speak to me thus?" answered my companion. "Why? What do you want? Let us have a boxing match!"

I did my best to make my acquaintances desist from their plan, but my efforts were in vain. Protasio took off his diamond ring and handed it to me. I put it on the upper part of my right thumb, suspecting nothing from the companions of Pedro.

In the dark this unworthy fellow thrust his hands into his big pocket, and by the dim light of the evening star I noticed him put on iron knuckles. Mad with rage, I shouted, "Take off your--!" but hardly had I begun when just above my left ear fell a terrible blow. I felt no pain, but the stroke deafened me. Still I lost no time mustering my courage, and no sooner had I summoned my latent forces than I stood with my back against the church-yard fence. Confronted by four young men, one of whom was the sturdy machinist who delivered me the first blow, I raised my right arm to ward off another dreadful box in the face, when, to my surprise, I heard the crash of an iron rod. The cane which I had with me had done its duty; when I was about to receive a blow more serious than the first, up rose my hand and with an impulse it hit hard the right shoulder of my sturdy opponent. Overjoyed at this incident I caused my bent cane to swing back and forth until my four opponents, realizing that I had an iron cane, ran away as fast as their legs could carry them.

Protasio received several wounds from the iron knuckles--one on the right arm, two on the head and one just above the left ear. Breathless and bloody, I heard him utter the cry, "What! Four people to one?" The people at the fair overheard the tumult; they rushed to the scene and saw us two, one bloody, the other holding a bent cane, safe and sound. But our good opponents had run away, carrying with them my friend's new _baliwag_ hat.

"Fie! Cowards!" roared my companion, as we turned around the narrow street beside the church. "Why did those folks fight with us four to one?"

"Well, although they have made a serious mistake, Tasio," I remarked, "you cannot blame them; you will know the cause when you study the psychology of a mob."

He found no word with which to answer me; his right arm he could hardly raise, and the blood streamed in great quantities from the back of his head. I conducted him to his house and told him not to go to school for two days. For my part, I felt nothing particularly painful except two things--a swelling on my forehead and the bruised place on my face where I received that blow without notice.

Friday, March 18.--This morning I went to school, and, although I was tired from last night's pugilistic contest, I worked at the office of the English department. But in the midst of my meditations on a perplexing mistake which a second-year student had made in his short-story theme, upon my shoulders fell two hands. I looked up, rather amazed at the sudden attack, but I saw Mr. Fansler's familiar face. "Ready, Victor!" said he. "Ready for the banquet, do you mean?" "No, to meet Mr. Beattie."

I remembered I had to go with several people on a launch to meet Mr. Beattie, who had returned from a visit to the States. I put on my _buntal_ hat, with a minute-man's start, and ran down the flight of steps of the Normal School building.

Gathered around the portico were the superintendent of the Normal School, the representatives of the faculty and the representatives of the various classes. Mr. Fansler and I joined the cheerful group, three-fifths of which consisted of blooming femininity. As we walked along the acacia grove we felt no heat, but on the open road, where fell the blistering sun's rays, the women lagged. "They feel the heat, to be sure!" I said to myself. "These women at the Normal, I suppose, are not used to heat. Tender and fresh, they have little or no exercise."

But necessity was to compel them to run a short race that day. The buzz of the street car wire along Calle Real made them walk faster, and finally they really began to run; as lightly as doves, however. The car took us down to Plaza de Magallanes, back of the Treasury building, but we did not find our launch there.

As I walked along the edge of the Pasig River bank I noticed a small, booth-like hut, in which I saw an old woman seated on a stool. She held in her right hand a bunch of perforated banana leaves, with which she drove away the flies that tried to alight on the rice and fried fish. Presently a man came, ate his ten-centavo meal of rice and a half fish, and departed after the manner of a Frenchman. But soon I saw my companions going on board the launch and I followed them.

The boat was not very big; it had just enough room to accommodate the young women and to allow the fellows to sit contiguously on the sides. All at once the launch began sailing down the smooth river and within ten minutes we had passed around Engineer Island.

Out in the bay the billows rose. The foam began to appear in greater quantities as we sailed farther and farther into the sea. The boat swung to and fro as she courtesied to the waves. But upon looking round, I discovered that some of the young ladies were seasick. I was trying to reason out the cause of this malady when all of a sudden a spray of salt water threw itself directly at my face and my tongue felt the liquid.

"What a nasty taste salt water has!" I exclaimed, as I tried to suppress with an effort the sudden change in my stomach.

"How do you like it, Yamzon?" asked fat Memije, the spherical student of the Academy. Without waiting for an answer, "That's good! The water will make you fat. Should you like to know how I got fat?" continued he, whom I always compare to a sponge because of his capacity for imbibing water in great quantities. "Yes," I muttered, ungraciously. "Well, I drink four glasses of water before meals and after meals." "But not salt water," I rejoined. "No, no; fresh water is what you need."

Just then we spied the _Tean_, which was bringing back Mr. Beattie. As we approached we saw a man who was so much like him that the ample instructor of the correspondence department exclaimed in her not too melodious and high-pitched voice, "There's our dear old superintendent!"

"He's no longer _your_ dear old superintendent," thought I.

Fifteen minutes passed, and Mr. Beattie showed no signs of ever having come back. But when the ship-master appeared on the upper deck he told us Mr. Beattie would soon be ready to show his face to us. And he was. We cheered him and hailed him; hats were taken off; handkerchiefs waved in the air; and the former superintendent of the Normal School responded to us, while a twelve-inch smile beamed on his countenance.

Saturday, March 19, 1910.--My short trip yesterday reminded me of our voyage to Lucena last Thanksgiving. The first thing I did immediately after breaking-my-fast was to go to my desk and take out from the lowest case the account of this trip which I wrote while we were sailing. I have read the thing through and I will gladly repeat it for you. It begins thus:

"On Thanksgiving afternoon the Normal debating team, on board of the steamer _Lal-Loc_, set out for Lucena."--There! I can't write it for you now. My brother is calling me. But I'll just say we won the debate and had a glorious time.

--Victoriano Yamzon.

II. Autobiography and Memoirs

[Distinction between autobiography and memoirs]

Although the words "autobiography" and "memoirs" are often used interchangeably, the meanings differ somewhat as journal and diary; that is, an autobiography is always written to be read by a public, large or small; memoirs are sometimes secret, like those of Mirabeau when on his mission to Prussia. The two forms are both, however, personal accounts by the writer of his own doings and sayings as well as of the doings and sayings of others connected with him in the same events.

Gibbon has used the word memoirs as a title for what we generally call his autobiography; but critics consider the term "memoirs" strictly as signifying a record of events put down within a limited time in the author's life--or a record of important events that he can "remember," selected out of a long life. Memoirs in the first sense are usually written by persons of large affairs, like Prince von Metternich in the French-Austrian crisis, or Mme. de Staël-Holstein during her ten years of exile, or the Italian poet Silvio Pellico while serving his decade of imprisonment for taking part in the Carbonari movements. Many of the writers other than English seem to try to exclude the personal element from memoirs; though Catherine II of Russia in her account of her life as Grand Duchess is straightforward and intimate enough. Frederick the Great, too, in his memoirs of his military and political campaigns has succeeded in delineating quite exactly his own character as conceived of by others; while Charles V in his "Autobiographical Leaves" (which are memoirs) has revealed to the world an entirely new side of himself.

[Cellini, Franklin and others]

Autobiography is more extended than memoirs. This "self-life-writing" runs from the birthday of the author to the time of the composition of the narrative. Details are sometimes many, sometimes few, according to the taste and leisure of the recorder, but the account is always complete and unified. One of the greatest autobiographies written is that of Benvenuto Cellini, a Florentine artist of the sixteenth century. Men lived intense and violent lives in those days, fervidly devoted to ideals and grossly material at the same time. Cellini epitomizes them all. His narrative is an Italian classic. A most entertaining English autobiography is Colley Cibber's "Apology for My Life." Actor and dramatist, he too had much to tell. But the American philosopher and statesman, Benjamin Franklin, has carried off the prize for widespread popularity and readableness. The story goes, whether true or not, that his "Autobiography" has been translated into more languages than any other book except the Bible. The narrative is full of shrewd common-sense and practical example. Our fathers used to say that no one is a true American who has not read it. What is of value to us now in the consideration of it is its simplicity both in diction and tone. Franklin was truly a very great man, and nowhere greater than in his unpretentious honesty.

Like a diary, an autobiography should be most genuine and original in content. Sometimes the impulse to record one's life goes even so far as to take the form of confessions, like those of the great Latin father, St. Augustine. Our own English ecclesiastic, Cardinal Newman, defended himself and his faith in his "Apologia." But this that ought to be the truest of the true forms very easily becomes forced and hectic, like Rousseau's. Though a man must be honest, there is no need for him to tell everyone of his inmost thoughts, or mention all his meannesses. De Quincey's "Confessions of an English Opium Eater" long ago justified itself by its high tone, and by the fact that it became the basis of his "Autobiography."

[Some points to be observed in writing]

It is easy to start an autobiography. Most writers begin with their birth and parentage. To proceed after the first few pages is not so easy perhaps, because of the possibilities. What to choose is the question; for everybody has had more experiences than he could possibly record. Apt selection is what makes a good life history--selection under a governing sense of unity and progression. Moreover, a writer of any chronical story should carefully arrange the transitions. Good including phrases both backward and forward-looking should be used, as well as precise small conjunctions. Such sets as Cellini has, "At this moment the whole world was, etc.," "I am now making a great leap forward when I tell," "Continuing as I did my artillery practice for a whole month," "In the meantime I had," "I must not forget to give some indication of how large the figure was, a thing which I can best do by telling you a very laughable occurrence," "The more I longed for rest the more did troubles spring up," "Before this I should have told of my friendship with, etc." The diction of memoirs is somewhat determined by circumstances and subject; but if you write an autobiography, you should see to it that your words and constructions are unmistakably simple. Be as modest as is consistent with your great deeds, and as cheerful as the fates will allow. If you make yourself out a good fellow, do so by the general impression of your narrative, not by assertion. Set before the reader enough of your actions and he will tabulate your character for you. Your business is to relate; his, to judge. You may, however, disclose some of your motives. The only difficulty here is, that people may not believe you, or you may not have understood yourself at the time. Whatever else you do, be sure to let us see a human being like ourselves, not some impossible creature made out of paper and ink. If you care for an outline, it would not be amiss to follow that prepared for biography.

=The Life of David Hume, Esq., Written by Himself=

It is difficult for a man to speak long of himself without vanity; therefore, I shall be short. It may be thought an instance of vanity that I pretend at all to write my life; but this narrative shall contain little more than the history of my writings; as indeed almost all my life has been spent in literary pursuits and occupations. The first success of most of my writings was not such as to be an object of vanity.

I was born the twenty-sixth of April, 1711, old style, at Edinburgh. I was of a good family, both by father and mother: my father's family is a branch of the Earl of Home's, or Hume's; and my ancestors had been proprietors of the estate which my brother possesses, for several generations. My mother was daughter of Sir David Falconer, president of the college of justice; the title of Lord Halkerton came by succession to her brother.

My family, however, was not rich, and being myself a younger brother, my patrimony, according to the mode of my country, was, of course, very slender. My father, who passed for a man of parts, died when I was an infant, leaving me, with an elder brother and a sister, under the care of our mother, a woman of singular merit, who, though young and handsome, devoted herself entirely to the rearing and educating of her children. I passed through the ordinary course of education with success, and was seized very early with a passion for literature, which has been the ruling passion of my life and the great source of my enjoyments. My studious disposition, my sobriety and my industry gave my family a notion that the law was the proper profession for me; but I found an insurmountable aversion to everything but the pursuits of philosophy and general learning, and while they fancied I was poring upon Voet and Vinnius, Cicero and Virgil were the authors I was secretly devouring.

My very slender fortune, however, being unsuitable to this plan of life, and my health being a little broken by my ardent application, I was tempted, or rather forced, to make a very feeble trial for entering into a more active scene of life. In 1734 I went to Bristol with some recommendations to several eminent merchants, but in a few months found that scene totally unsuitable to me. I went over to France with a view of prosecuting my studies in a country retreat, and I there laid that plan of life which I have steadily and successfully pursued. I resolved to make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency of fortune, to maintain unimpaired my independency, and to regard every object as contemptible except the improvement of my talents in literature.

During my retreat in France, first at Rheims, but chiefly at La Fletche, in Anjou, I composed my Treatise of Human Nature. After passing three years very agreeably in that country, I came over to London in 1737. In the end of 1738 I published my treatise, and immediately went down to my mother and my brother, who lived at his country house and was employing himself very judiciously and successfully in the improvement of his fortune.

Never literary attempt was more unfortunate than my Treatise of Human Nature. It fell dead-born from the press, without reaching such distinction as even to excite a murmur among the zealots. But being naturally of a cheerful and sanguine temper, I very soon recovered the blow and prosecuted with great ardor my studies in the country. In 1742 I printed at Edinburgh the first part of my Essays. The work was favorably received and soon made me entirely forget my former disappointment. I continued with my mother and brother in the country, and in that time recovered the knowledge of the Greek language, which I had too much neglected in my early life.

In 1745 I received a letter from the Marquis of Annandale, inviting me to come and live with him in England; I found also that the friends and family of that young nobleman were desirous of putting him under my care and direction, for the state of his mind and health required it. I lived with him a twelve-month. My appointments during that time made a considerable accession to my small fortune. I then received an invitation from General St. Clair to attend him as a secretary to his expedition, which was at first meant against Canada, but ended in an incursion on the coast of France. Next year, to wit, 1747, I received an invitation from the general to attend him in the same station in his military embassy to the courts of Vienna and Turin. I then wore the uniform of an officer and was introduced at these courts as aide-de-camp to the general, along with Sir Harry Erkine and Captain Grant, now General Grant. These two years were almost the only interruptions which my studies have received during the course of my life: I passed them agreeably and in good company; and my appointments, with my frugality, had made me reach a fortune which I called independent, the most of my friends were inclined to smile when I said so: in short, I was now master of near a thousand pounds.

I had always entertained a notion that my want of success in publishing the Treatise of Human Nature had proceeded more from the manner than the matter, and that I had been guilty of a very usual indiscretion in going to the press too early. I, therefore, cast the first part of the work anew in the Inquiry concerning Human Understanding while I was at Turin. But this piece was at first little more successful than the Treatise of Human Nature. On my return from Italy I had the mortification to find all England in a ferment on account of Dr. Middleton's Free Inquiry, while my performance was entirely overlooked and neglected. A new edition, which had been published at London, of my Essays, moral and political, met not with a much better reception.

Such is the force of natural temper that these disappointments made little or no impression on me. I went down, in 1749, and lived two years with my brother at his country house, for my mother was now dead. I there composed the second part of my Essay, which I called Political Discourses, and also my Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals, which is another part of my Treatise that I cast anew. Meanwhile my bookseller, A. Millar, informed me that my former publications (all but the unfortunate Treatise) were beginning to be the subject of conversation; that the sale of them was gradually increasing and that new editions were demanded. Answers by reverends and right reverends came out two or three in a year, and I found by Dr. Warburton's railing that the books were beginning to be esteemed in good company. However, I had fixed a resolution, which I inflexibly maintained, never to reply to anybody, and not being very irascible in my temper, I have easily kept myself dear of all literary squabbles. These symptoms of a rising reputation gave me encouragement, as I was ever more disposed to see the favorable than unfavorable side of things, a turn of mind which it is more happy to possess than to be born to an estate of ten thousand a year.

In 1751 I removed from the country to the town, the true scene for a man of letters. In 1752 were published at Edinburgh, where I then lived, my Political Discourses, the only work of mine that was successful on its first publication. It was well received at home and abroad. In the same year was published at London my Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals, which, in my own opinion (who ought not to judge on that subject), is, of all my writings, historical, philosophical or literary, incomparably the best. It came unnoticed and unobserved into the world.

In 1752 the Faculty of Advocates chose me their librarian, an office from which I received little or no emolument, but which gave me the command of a large library. I then formed the plan of writing the History of England, but, being frightened with the notion of continuing a narrative through a period of seventeen hundred years, I commenced with the accession of the house of Stuart, an epoch when, I thought, the misrepresentations of faction began chiefly to take place. I was, I own, sanguine in my expectations of the success of this work. I thought that I was the only historian that had at once neglected present power, interest and authority and the cry of popular prejudices, and as the subject was suited to every capacity, I expected proportional applauses. But miserable was my disappointment; I was asailed by one cry of reproach, disapprobation, and even detestation; English, Scotch and Irish, Whig and Tory, churchman and sectary, free thinker and religionist, patriot and courtier, united in their rage against the man who had presumed to shed a generous tear for the fate of Charles I and the Earl of Strafford; and after the first ebullitions of their fury were over, what was still more mortifying, the book seemed to sink into oblivion. Mr. Millar told me that in a twelve-month he had sold only forty-five copies of it. I scarcely, indeed, heard of one man in the three kingdoms, considerable for rank or letters, that could endure the book. I must only except the primate of England, Dr. Herring, and the primate of Ireland, Dr. Stone, which seemed two odd exceptions. These dignified prelates separately sent me messages not to be discouraged.

I was, however, I confess, discouraged; and had not the war been at that time breaking out between France and England, I had certainly retired to some provincial town of the former kingdom, have changed my name and never more have returned to my native country. But as this scheme was not now practicable, and the subsequent volume was considerably advanced, I resolved to pick up courage and to persevere.

In this interval I published at London my Natural History, of Religion, along with some other small pieces. Its public entry was rather obscure, except only that Dr. Hurd wrote a pamphlet against it, with all the illiberal petulance, arrogance and scurrility which distinguished the Warburtonian school; This pamphlet gave me some consolation for the otherwise indifferent reception of my performance.

In 1756, two years after the fall of the first volume, was published the second volume of my history, containing the period from the death of Charles I till the revolution. This performance happened to give less displeasure to the Whigs and was better received. It not only rose, itself, but helped to buoy up its unfortunate brother.

But though I had been taught by experience that the Whig party were in possession of bestowing all places, both in the state and in literature, I was so little inclined to yield to their senseless clamor that in above a hundred alterations, which study, reading or reflection engaged me to make in the reigns of the two first Stuarts, I have made all of them invariably on the Tory side. It is ridiculous to consider the English constitution before that period as a regular plan of liberty.

In 1759, I published my history of the house of Tudor. The clamor against this performance was almost equal to that against the history of the two first Stuarts. The reign of Elizabeth was particularly obnoxious. But I was now callous against the impressions of public folly and continued very peaceably and contentedly, in my retreat at Edinburgh, to finish in two volumes the more early part of the English history, which I gave to the public in 1761 with tolerable, and but tolerable, success.

But, notwithstanding this variety of winds and seasons, to which my writings had been exposed, they had still been making such advances that the copy money given me by the book-sellers much exceeded anything formerly known in England; I was become not only independent but opulent. I retired to my native country of Scotland, determined never more to set my foot out of it; and retaining the satisfaction of never having preferred a request to one great man or ever making advances of friendship to any of them. As I was now turned of fifty, I thought of passing all the rest of my life in this philosophical manner, when I received, in 1763, an invitation' from the earl of Hertford, with whom I was not in the least acquainted, to attend him on his embassy to Paris, with a near prospect of being appointed secretary to the embassy, and in the meanwhile of performing the functions of that office. This offer, however inviting, I at first declined; both because I was reluctant to begin connections with the great, and because I was afraid that the civilities and gay company of Paris would prove disagreeable to a person of my age and humor; but on his lordship's repeating the invitation I accepted of it. I have every reason, both of pleasure and interest, to think myself happy in my connections with that nobleman, as well as afterwards with his brother, General Conway.

Those who have not seen the strange effects of modes will never imagine the reception I met with at Paris, from men and women of all ranks and stations. The more I recoiled from their excessive civilities, the more I was loaded with them. There is, however, a real satisfaction in living at Paris, from the great number of sensible, knowing and polite company with which that city abounds above all places in the universe. I thought once of settling there for life.

I was appointed secretary to the embassy; and in summer, 1765, Lord Hertford left me, being appointed lord lieutenant of Ireland. I was _chargé d'affaires_ till the arrival of the Duke of Richmond, towards, the end of the year. In the beginning of 1766 I left Paris, and next summer went to Edinburgh, with the same view as formerly of burying myself in a philosophical retreat. I returned to that place, not rich but with much more money, and a much larger income by means of Lord Hertford's friendship, than I left it; and I was desirous of trying what superfluity could produce; as I had formerly made an experiment of a competency. But in 1767 I received from Mr. Conway an invitation to be an undersecretary, and this invitation both the character of the person and my connections with Lord Hertford prevented me from declining. I returned to Edinburgh in 1768, very opulent (for I possessed a revenue of one thousand pounds a year), healthy and, though somewhat stricken in years, with the prospect of enjoying long my ease and of seeing the increase of my reputation.

In spring, 1775, I was struck with a disorder of the bowels, which at first occasioned no alarm, but has since, as I apprehended it, become mortal and incurable. I now reckon upon a speedy dissolution. I have suffered very little pain from my disorder, and, what is more strange, have, notwithstanding the great decline of my person, never suffered a moment's abatement of my spirits; insomuch that were I to name a period of my life which I should most choose to pass over again, I might be tempted to point to this later period. I possess the same ardor as ever in study and the same gayety in company. I consider, besides, that a man of sixty-five, by dying cuts off only a few years of infirmities; and though I see many symptoms of my literary reputation's breaking out at last with additional luster, I know that I could have but few years to enjoy it. It is difficult to be more detached from life than I am at the present time.

To conclude historically with my own character: I am, or rather was (for that is the style I must now use in speaking of myself, which emboldens me the more to speak my sentiments); I was, I say, a man of mild disposition, of command of temper, of an open, social and cheerful humor, capable of attachment, but little susceptible of enmity, and of great moderation in all my passions. Even my love of literary fame, my ruling passion, never soured my temper, notwithstanding my frequent disappointments. My company was not unacceptable to the young and careless, as well as to the studious and literary; and as I took a particular pleasure in the company of modest women, I had no reason to be displeased with the reception I met with from them. In a word, though most men anywise eminent have found reason to complain of Calumny, I never was touched or even attacked by her baleful tooth; and though I wantonly exposed myself to the rage of both civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed in my behalf of their wonted fury. My friends never had occasion to vindicate any one circumstance of my character and conduct; not but that the zealots, we may well suppose, would have been glad to invent and propagate any story to my disadvantage, but they could never find any which they thought would wear the face of probability. I cannot say that there is no vanity in making this funeral oration of myself, but I hope it is not a misplaced one, and this is a matter of fact which is easily cleared and ascertained.

April 18, 1776.

=Autobiography=

I was born on the twentieth of December in the year 1887, in Gapan, province of Nueva Ecija.

My mother, Manuela Tinio, died when I was but two years of age, and I was left to the care of my beloved grandfather, Esteban Tinio, uncle Quintin Tinio and my aunts Paula and Felipa Tinio. I had two brothers and three sisters, but all of them died except one of my brothers, Valentin, who is now attending the Philippine Medical School. My uncle Valentin was one of the active leaders of the revolutionary movement in Nueva Ecija. He bore a deadly hatred against the Spaniards. On several occasions secret meetings were held in our house shortly before the uprising of the people. When the revolution broke out unexpectedly in 1896 he was forced to flee to the mountain, where he was captured afterwards, and was finally shot. My grandfather died in 1903 in his eighty-ninth year, and thus I was left to the care of my father, Francisco Guanio, and my two aunts, Paula and Felipa, who are still unmarried. Altho my aunts are over sixty years of age, yet they are still strong, active and diligent women. They have never wasted their time in idleness, and are always at work from morning till night. To them who are more than mothers to me I owe my present education.

I was born in the most extraordinary period of Philippine history. I lived to see the days when our fathers were struggling hard against Spain. During my boyhood I saw men imprisoned, exiled and executed for no offense whatever. I have heard the voice of the oppressed people crying for justice. I have seen men, rich and poor, wise and ignorant, fighting for the common cause of the Filipino people. I witnessed one of the fierce attacks of our patriots upon the Spanish regiment at Gapan. When I was twelve years old many towns were entirely depopulated; churches, and schoolhouses converted into hospitals; men and women impelled by fear to flee from their homes with their children. I once enjoyed seeing the humiliating race-distinction effaced. Early one morning I was awakened from my sleep by the loud booming of cannon and by the shouting of the once happy and satisfied people, inaugurating the short-lived Philippine republic. These past events changed my gentle nature entirely. It has been my ambition ever since to make the most of myself for my country's sake.

I attended the public school at Gapan in 1894. Here I learned the alphabet and catechism. At that time Spanish was taught in nearly all the schools of the Islands. The sudden outbreak of the revolution of 1896 brought about the closing of the schools for a short time. And altho they were soon reopened, yet there was not the same enthusiasm for learning among the great mass of students as had been previously shown. They attended schools simply because they were compelled to do so by the government (for education was compulsory under the Spanish administration in these islands). In 1898 I attended school very irregularly on account of the revolution. Then in the beginning of the year 1899 schools were closed on account of the troubles which the Filipinos had had with the Americans, and consequently I had to stay at home for two years. In October, 1901, I entered the Gapan Intermediate School, which was then under the supervision of an American teacher. On January 1, 1904, I left the school of Gapan and attended the S. Isidro High School. In June, 1905, I was transferred to the Philippine Normal School, where I have stayed since then.

My uncle Quintin's plan was to make me a lawyer, but his unexpected death prevented his desire. My father and my two aunts, Paula and Felipa, allowed me to pursue any course I liked. It is their wish to give me a good and thorough education.

My own plan is different from that of my uncle Quintin. I desire to complete the high school course first, then the college course, and finish with the engineering course.

--Domingo T. Guanio.

=What I Remember of the Coming of the Americans=

In the afternoon of November 15, 1900, while I was at a small private school conducted by an educated woman, the wife of the colonel in Ponciano's army, one of my classmates called my attention to the running of men and women up and down the street.

"What is the matter? Why are those people running?" asked our teacher of her husband, who was then entering the gate.

"They say there is a _casco_ of rice in Laguna de Bay. I do not know what kind of casco it is; it has a flag. Send all the children home," said the colonel.

"The class is dismissed," said our teacher to us.

She had scarcely spoken these words when we jumped to our feet and ran as fast as we could to our homes.

"Have you not seen your father? Where is he?" said my mother as soon as she caught sight of me. I looked back and saw my father coming.

"Here he comes," I said to my mother.

"Prepare yourself, Leopoldo. We will go to the mountain," said my mother.

"Why? There is a casco of rice coming," I answered.

"No, that is not a casco of rice. If that is a casco of rice, the people on the beach wouldn't run away to the mountain. Get yourself ready, quick," replied my mother.

It was a cloudy afternoon. The wind blew hard. Nothing could be heard but the moaning of the wind on the trees and houses, the running of men and women along the streets and the crying of babies. The streets were full of people, all running in the same direction. Some carried trunks on their heads, others had bundles of clothes on their backs. Some carried infants in their arms, others had them on their hips. The little boys and girls ran beside their parents. It was indeed a piteous sight!

While my father and mother were busy putting our things in a _carreton_ I was going up and down the stairs every ten minutes. I did not know what to do. When I was upstairs I wanted to go downstairs. When I was downstairs I wanted to go up. I wished to carry with me my shoes because I knew I needed them on the mountain. But I also wanted to carry my black coat. At last I thought of the bread that my mother had bought that morning. I took it all. Just then my father and mother had put our trunks, in the carreton. We all got into the carreton--my father, my mother, my little brother, my sister, and myself. My father was the driver. We left our home, our minds full of the gloomiest forebodings.

We had not gone very far from the town when we heard per-r-rrok-rok-pook-pook-pook-pok--bung.

"Jesus, Maria, y Josep!" exclaimed my mother.

We all looked at each other speechless. At a distance we heard a cry, "_Nacu! nanay co_."

"Perhaps a bullet struck that man," I said to myself.

In a few minutes we arrived at the Lecheria hill. It was already dark. There was a moon, but it was hidden behind the clouds. At the bottom of the hill was a large house made of nipa and bamboo. The house was very dark. When we came to it a voice inside said, "Who is that? Aniceto?"

"Yes," answered my father.

"Why are you late? Have you eaten your supper?" asked the voice.

"No, but we have to go now. The bullets will reach us here. We can eat our supper in the carreton," replied my father.

All the people in the house silently went down to the ground. They got into their carts and we began our journey. There were four vehicles in all. One was loaded with rice. Uncle Paulino and his family were in one. The other one was occupied by Grandmother Tereza and her four sons. We traveled over low hills and valleys beneath the outspreading branches of the wild trees and over thick _cogon_ grasses. The moon had gained full brightness, but the night was cold. After I had eaten my supper I fell asleep. My mother wrapped me in her blanket. When I awoke I found that we were in Pasong Calabaw. It was four o'clock in the morning. We had been traveling all night.

--Leopoldo Faustino.

III. Biography

[Beginning in England of literary biography]

With Johnson's "Lives of the Poets" biography in England took on a literary quality. Before that time such work had been perfunctory and had been done by hack writers; but with the appearance of the "Life of Savage" (1744), says Macaulay, a new era began. "The little work with all its faults was a masterpiece. No finer specimen of literary biography existed in any language living or dead. The discerning critic might confidently have predicted that the author was destined to be the founder of a new school of English eloquence." And he was. Thirty-three years later, after he had become famous, a company of booksellers called on Dr. Johnson to add to the "Life of Savage" a series of biographical prefaces for an edition of the poets from Cowley downwards. Although intending at first to write only a few short paragraphs, this great and good talker let himself run on until he handed, over to the publishers ten volumes--somewhat short volumes to be sure, but a fine piece of work, and most of it very precious. From that time on, no biographer who expected to be read, dared be uninteresting. Prejudiced in temperament he might be, mistaken sometimes, but henceforth he must prove himself lively, vigorous, faithful, penetrating, sagacious, warm yet discriminating in praise, reasonable in censure, fearless in judgments, and fresh and exact in expression. The model had been set. The thing had been done not for one poet, but for many. Biography was now a literary type, to be written with care by a qualified person. It is worthy of note that the original type was short.

[Great biographies in English]

Since Johnson's day English literature has gained through biography some of the best books in the world. Boswell's "Life of Johnson" and Lockhart's "Life of Scott" are to be so ranked. Lockhart did also a superfine example of the short form, a biographical sketch of Theodore Hook, a very strange "bohemian." Lockhart's "Life of Napoleon" and "Life of Burns" are also standard. Trevelyan's "Life of Macaulay," Forster's "Life of Goldsmith" and "Life of Dickens" rank here, as possibly likewise Southey's "Life of Nelson," Mrs. Gaskell's "Life of Charlotte Bronté," and Thomas Moore's brilliant "Life of Lord Byron." Macaulay's own short "Life of Johnson," though displaying Macaulay's faults of prejudice and exaggeration, is in itself a classic.

[Writer and subject]

Very naturally a biography is a double revelation--one of writer and subject. What you choose to praise or blame, how you praise or blame, what you notice, what you omit, how you emphasize, how you show your erudition, where you give your sympathy, the largeness or smallness of your view of life--all these and more are tale-tellers of your own personality. A luminous illustration of this fact is Goldy's "Life of Beau Nash." Oliver and the great beau had much in common, and when the biographer is commenting on "the mixed silliness and shrewdness" of his subject, "the taste and tawdriness, blossomed-colored coats and gambling debts, vanity, carelessness, and good-heart," he is writing a critique of his own life, past and to come. When he mentions Nash's "ill-controlled sensibility which was so strong that, unable to witness the misfortunes of the miserable, he was always borrowing money, to relieve them," we see the unlucky and reckless poet himself.

[Beginning]

Since it is the uncertain quantity of your own personality that will make your narrative dry or entertaining, we need hardly say more on the tone side of the work, unless it be to caution you about your diction, to have it simple and fresh. On the other hand, you might profitably notice at the end of this division the outline of general facts that the world expects in every biography. A certain number of questions ought to be answered, not in any set order, not with any set emphasis, but surely in sum finally. See if you can not be original in your beginning and ending. The amount of space that you will devote to one topic or the other will be determined by your purpose and your audience. If you are writing for children, as Hawthorne was in his "Biographical Sketches," you will emphasize those divisions of the life that a child would most naturally be interested in, or would be instructed by. [Emphasis] Be careful, however, not to make your poor hero or heroine the opportunity for a sermon. Besides being not quite fair, the device is trite and tiresome. Hawthorne we may forgive for preaching when we remember the taste of his day and the nearness of it to Puritanical ideals; but you live in an age that likes to take its own lessons from unvarnished facts and from truths put forth concretely, not deduced. Avoid fulsomeness and heroics. [Attitude] Set yourself to the task of revealing the personality just as it was, and it will teach its own lesson. Many people are more inspired by an erring soul that yet achieved, than they are by an icy paragon who knew no struggles. Be sure that in this history of another person you give us a human fellow.

Now, do not fly to the encyclopedia and cull facts about Napoleon or Cromwell. Take some one whom you know--a man or woman of attainment in your own neighborhood. Do the character-sketching with care. Be crisp and original in attack. The outline given below is a skeleton which you must hide with a pleasing exterior. But do not forget to put the heart and lungs in him. Exact and full information is the motor power of a living biography.

=Outline for a Life=

I. Birth: place and date--country, city, epoch. Nationality of parents and noteworthy facts connected with the family.

II. Boyhood and early education: Disposition and temperament displayed by the youth. His chief interests; hobbies. Anecdotes about the boy: both true and only typical. Primary and secondary schooling: at private or public institutions.

III. Later education and the choice of a career: College life. His family's plan for his profession or career. His own plan. Circumstances influencing the ultimate choice. Success resulting from the choice: Intellectual and personal. Financial and worldly. Final professional training. Travel.

IV. Family and domestic life: marriage, children. Influence of wife and children on his success. Anecdotes and particular instances to illustrate personality and character.

V. Friends and enemies: names, professions, and influence.

VI. Accomplishment and title to fame: His rank in his own nation and the world. His especial characteristics as displayed in style and subject-matter. His masterpieces: something of their content.

=Queen Christina=

(Born 1626. Died 1689.)

In the royal palace at Stockholm, the capital city of Sweden, there was born, in 1626, a little princess. The king, her father, gave her the name of Christina, in memory of a Swedish girl with whom he had been in love. His own name was Gustavus Adolphus, and he was also called the Lion of the North, because he had gained greater fame in war than any other prince or general then alive. With this valiant king for their commander, the Swedes had made themselves terrible to the Emperor of Germany and to the King of France, and were looked upon as the chief defense of the Protestant religion.

The little Christina was by no means a beautiful child. To confess the truth, she was remarkably plain. The queen, her mother, did not love her so much as she ought; partly, perhaps, on account of Christina's want of beauty, and also both the king and queen had wished for a son, who might have gained as great renown in battle as his father had.

The king, however, soon became exceedingly fond of the infant princess. When Christina was very young she was taken violently sick. Gustavus Adolphus, who was several hundred miles from Stockholm, traveled night and day and never rested until he held the poor child in his arms. On her recovery he made a solemn festival in order to show his joy to the people of Sweden and express his gratitude to Heaven. After this event he took his daughter with him in all the journeys which he made throughout his kingdom.

Christina soon proved herself a bold and sturdy little girl. When she was two years old the king and herself, in the course of a journey, came to the strong fortress of Colmar. On the battlements were soldiers clad in steel armor, which glittered in the sunshine. There were likewise great cannons, pointing their black mouths at Gustavus and little Christina and ready to belch out their smoke and thunder; for, whenever a king enters a fortress, it is customary to receive him with a royal salute of artillery.

But the captain of the fortress met Gustavus and his little daughter as they were about to enter the gateway.

"May it please your Majesty," said he, taking off his steel cap and bowing profoundly, "I fear that, if we receive you with a salute of cannon, the little princess will be frightened almost to death."

Gustavus looked earnestly at his daughter, and was indeed apprehensive that the thunder of so many cannon might perhaps throw her into convulsions. He had almost a mind to tell the captain to let them enter the fortress quietly, as common people might have done, without all this head-splitting racket. But, no; this would not do.

"Let them fire," said he, waving his hand. "Christina is a soldier's daughter and must learn to bear the noise of cannon."

So the captain uttered the word of command and immediately there was a terrible peal of thunder from the cannon and such a gush of smoke that it enveloped the whole fortress in its volumes. But amid all the din and confusion Christina was seen clapping her little hands and laughing in an ecstasy of delight. Probably nothing ever pleased her father so much as to see that his daughter promised to be fearless as himself. He determined to educate her exactly as if she had been a boy and to teach her all the knowledge needful to the ruler of a kingdom and the commander of an army.

But Gustavus should have remembered that Providence had created her to be a woman, and that it was not for him to make a man of her.

However, the king derived great happiness from his beloved Christina. It must have been a pleasant sight to see the powerful monarch of Sweden playing in some magnificent hall of the palace with his merry little girl. Then he forgot that the weight of a kingdom rested upon his shoulders. He forgot that the wise Chancellor Oxenstiern was waiting to consult with him how to render Sweden the greatest nation of Europe. He forgot that the Emperor of Germany and the King of France were plotting together how they might pull him down from his throne.

Yes, Gustavus forgot all the perils and cares and pompous irksomeness of a royal life, and was as happy while playing with his child as the humblest peasant in the realm of Sweden. How gayly did they dance along the marble floor of the palace, this valiant king, with his upright, martial figure, his war-worn visage and commanding aspect, and the small, round form of Christina, with her rosy face of childish merriment! Her little fingers were clasped in her father's hand, which had held the leading staff in many famous victories. His crown and scepter were her playthings. She could disarm Gustavus of his sword, which was so terrible to the princes of Europe.

But, alas! the king was not long permitted to enjoy Christina's society. When she was four years old Gustavus was summoned to take command of the allied armies of Germany, which were fighting against the emperor. His greatest affliction was the necessity of parting with his child; but people in such high stations have little opportunity for domestic happiness. He called an assembly of the senators of Sweden and confided Christina to their care, saying that each one of them must be a father to her if he himself should fall in battle.

At the moment of his departure Christina ran towards him and began to address him with a speech which somebody had taught her for the occasion. Gustavus was busied with thoughts about the affairs of the kingdom, so that he did not immediately attend to the childish voice of his little girl. Christina, who did not love to be unnoticed, immediately stopped short and pulled him by the coat.

"Father," said she, "why do not you listen to my speech?"

In a moment the king forgot everything except that he was parting with what he loved best in all the world. He caught the child in his arms, pressed her to his bosom and burst into tears. Yes; though he was a brave man, and though he wore a steel corselet on his breast, and though armies were waiting for him to lead them to battle, still his heart melted within him and he wept. Christina, too, was so afflicted that her attendants began to fear that she would actually die of grief. But probably she was soon comforted, for children seldom remember their parents quite so faithfully as their parents remember them.

For two years more Christina remained in the palace at Stockholm. The queen, her mother, had accompanied Gustavus to the wars. The child, therefore, was left to the guardianship of five of the wisest men in the kingdom. But these wise men knew better how to manage the weighty affairs of state than how to govern and educate a little girl so as to render her a good and happy woman.

When two years had passed away tidings were brought to Stockholm which filled everybody with triumph and sorrow at the same time. The Swedes had won a glorious victory at Lutzen. But, alas! the warlike King of Sweden, the Lion of the North, the father of our little Christina, had been slain at the foot of a great stone, which still marks the spot of that hero's death.

Soon after this sad event a general assembly of congress, consisting of deputations from the nobles, the clergy, the burghers, and the peasants of Sweden, was summoned to meet at Stockholm. It was for the purpose of declaring little Christina to be Queen of Sweden and giving her the crown and scepter of her deceased father. Silence being proclaimed, the Chancellor Oxenstiern arose.

"We desire to know," said he, "whether the people of Sweden will take the daughter of our dead King Gustavus Adolphus to be their queen."

When the chancellor had spoken an old man, with white hair and coarse apparel, stood up in the midst of the assembly. He was a peasant, Lars Larrson by name, and had spent most of his life in laboring on a farm.

"Who is this daughter of Gustavus?" asked the old man. "We do not know her. Let her be shown to us."

Then Christina was brought into the hall and placed before the old peasant. It was strange, no doubt, to see a child--a little girl of six years old--offered to the Swedes as their ruler instead of the brave king, her father, who had led them to victory so many times. Could her baby fingers wield a sword in war? Could her childish mind govern the nation wisely in peace?

But the Swedes do not appear to have asked themselves these questions. Old Lars Larrson took Christina up in his arms and gazed earnestly into her face. He had known the great Gustavus well, and his heart was touched when he saw the likeness which the little girl bore to that heroic monarch.

"Yes," cried he, with the tears gushing down his furrowed cheeks, "this is truly the daughter of our Gustavus! Here is her father's brow!--here is his piercing eye! She is his very picture! This child shall be our queen!"

Then all the proud nobles of Sweden and the reverend clergy, and the burghers, and the peasants knelt down at the child's feet and kissed her hand.

"Long live Christina, Queen of Sweden!" shouted they.

Even after she was a woman grown, Christina remembered the pleasure which she felt in seeing all these men at her feet and hearing them acknowledge her as their supreme ruler. Poor child! she was yet to learn that power does not insure happiness. As yet, however, she had not any real power. All the public business, it is true, was transacted in her name; but the kingdom was governed by a number of the most experienced statesmen, who were called a regency.

But it was considered necessary that the little queen should be present at the public ceremonies and should behave just as if she were in reality the ruler of the nation. When she was seven years of age, some ambassadors from the Czar of Muscovy came to the Swedish court. They wore long beards and were clad in a strange fashion, with furs and other outlandish ornaments; and as they were inhabitants of a half-civilized country, they did not behave like other people. The Chancellor Oxenstiern was afraid that the young queen would burst out laughing at the first sight of these queer ambassadors, or else that she would be frightened by their unusual aspect.

"Why should I be frightened?" said the little queen. "And do you suppose that I have no better manners than to laugh? Only tell me how I must behave and I will do it."

Accordingly, the Muscovite ambassadors were introduced, and Christina received them and answered their speeches with as much dignity and propriety as if she had been a grown woman.

All this time, though Christina was now a queen, you must not suppose that she was left to act as she pleased. She had a preceptor, named John Mathias, who was a very learned man and capable of instructing her in all the branches of science. But there was nobody to teach her the delicate graces and gentle virtues of a woman. She was surrounded almost entirely by men, and had learned to despise the society of her own sex. At the age of nine years she was separated from her mother, whom the Swedes did not consider a proper person to be intrusted with the charge of her. No little girl who sits by a New England fireside has cause to envy Christina in the royal palace at Stockholm.

Yet she made great progress in her studies. She learned to read the classical authors of Greece and Rome, and became a great admirer of the heroes and poets of old times. Then as for active exercises, she could ride on horseback as well as any man in her kingdom. She was fond of hunting and could shoot at a mark with wonderful skill. But dancing was the only feminine accomplishment with which she had any acquaintance.

She was so restless in her disposition that none of her attendants were sure of a moment's quiet either day or night. She grew up, I am sorry to say, a very unamiable person, ill-tempered, proud, stubborn, and, in short, unfit to make those around her happy or to be happy herself. Let every little girl who has been taught self-control and a due regard for the rights of others thank Heaven that she has had better instruction than this poor little Queen of Sweden.

At the age of eighteen Christina was declared free to govern the kingdom by herself without the aid of a regency. At this period of her life she was a young woman of striking aspect, a good figure and intelligent face, but very strangely dressed. She wore a short habit of gray cloth, with a man's vest over it; and a black scarf around her neck; but no jewels nor ornaments of any kind.

Yet, though Christina was so negligent of her appearance, there was something in her air and manner that proclaimed her as the ruler of a kingdom. Her eyes, it is said, had a very fierce and haughty look. Old General Wrangel, who had often caused the enemies of Sweden to tremble in battle, actually trembled himself when he encountered the eyes of the queen. But it would have been better for Christina if she could have made people love her, by means of soft and gentle looks, instead of affrighting them by such terrible glances.

And now I have told you almost all that is amusing or instructive in the childhood of Christina. Only a few more words need be said about her; for it is neither pleasant nor profitable to think of many things that she did after she grew to be a woman.

When she had worn the crown a few years, she began to consider it beneath her dignity to be called a queen, because the name implied that she belonged to the weaker sex. She therefore caused herself to be proclaimed King; thus declaring to the world that she despised her own sex and was desirous of being ranked among men. But in the twenty-eighth year of her age Christina grew tired of royalty and resolved to be neither a king nor a queen any longer. She took the crown from her head with her own hands and ceased to be the ruler of Sweden. The people did not greatly regret her abdication, for she had governed them ill, and had taken much of their property to supply her extravagance.

Having thus given up her hereditary crown, Christina left Sweden and traveled over many of the countries of Europe. Everywhere she was received with great ceremony, because she was the daughter of the renowned Gustavus, and had herself been a powerful queen. Perhaps you would like to know something about her personal appearance in the latter part of her life. She is described as wearing a man's vest, a short gray petticoat, embroidered with gold and silver, and a black wig, which was thrust awry upon her head. She wore no gloves, and so seldom washed her hands that nobody could tell what had been their original color. In this strange dress, and, I suppose, without washing her hands or face, she visited the magnificent court of Louis XIV.

She died in 1689. None loved her while she lived, nor regretted her death, nor planted a single flower upon her grave. Happy are the little girls of America who are brought up quietly and tenderly at the domestic hearth, and thus become gentle and delicate women! May none of them ever lose the loveliness of their sex by receiving such an education as that of Queen Christina.

--Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Biographical Stories. (Houghton Mifflin Company.)

=Joan Luna's Life=

The parents of Juan Luna, the greatest and most eminent Filipino painter, were Ilocanos and of humble birth. The young artist was born in Ilocos Norte in the year 1857 and died in Hong Kong in 1899. From childhood he was hot-tempered. His early education was at home. At the age of twelve he was a good caricaturist. His father then sent him to Manila to attend the "Ateneo Municipal." At the age of twenty-one he was sent to Madrid, where he studied art under several famous Spanish and Italian painters. He was given prizes at the expositions in Madrid and Paris. In Spain he met Miss Paz Pardo de Tavera, whom he married three years later. He became very popular. Some of his friends were Dr. Jose Rizal, Dr. Roxas, the famous Italian tenor, Payarre, and many of the French and Spanish nobility. He was especially loved by women, of whose hearts and inclinations he showed a knowledge very intimate. Juan Luna had an art which is seldom found in man, an instinct found only in real genius, a power to portray and interpret life, tenderness and the emotions of wrath and pity.

He was tall and well built, with a high forehead, a short flat nose and large black impressive eyes. In about the year 1890, while he was at Paris, a terrible thing occurred. His wife began to be untrue to him. It is said that one day Paz asked Juan to let her go to a certain shop to buy some thread. He allowed her to go, but soon followed her because he suspected her. He saw that Paz did not go to a shop but to a private house. He walked in and found his wife with another man. Then the crisis began. Luna was blind with anger. He took Paz home and asked her to explain to him her late behaviour. After many a tear, after many excuses and explanations, after many promises to be good, Paz was pardoned.

Two months later Luna asked his wife to go with him and their two children to live in a village near by. Paz at first said she would not go; but through the request of her mother and brothers, she assented to Luna's plan. On the day of their departure, when the carriages which were to take them to the neighboring village were in front of the door, Paz went to the bath-room with her mother. Juan knocked at the door and asked her to come down for it was getting late. Paz then shouted out of the window, saying that her husband was killing her. All at once Luna rushed to his room, took his pistol, opened the bath-room door with a sudden push, and fired at every one who came in his way. His mother-in-law, wife and elder son were killed, and his younger son was wounded.

In this deed we see the real character of Luna. He was generous and cold-blooded; but when his pride, name and honor were wounded, his blood boiled in his head, he trembled, and saw nothing before him--neither God nor man--but only the guilty.

The police then arrested him. He was tried the following day. The newspapers spread this piece of news to the world under their title: "_La Tragedia en Paris._" Fortunately he was acquitted. The judges decided that man's honor is his life, and that when it is once destroyed it can never be supplied.

Luna was the greatest artist and painter that the Philippines has ever produced. He is great in his own country and ranks among the world's good painters.

In 1899 he came back to the Philippines; but on his way home, while at Hong Kong, he died of apoplexy and a broken heart. His son was brought to Manila by a friend. Andres, his son, is now twenty years of age and is also a good painter, but not like his father.

The Philippines produced one of the world painters, showing the fact that a great worker and a great mind can not be hidden, even by tyranny and oppression.

--Dolores Asuncion.

=Elizabeth Glade=

Elizabeth Glade was born in Baltimore, Maryland, about the year 1816. Her mother was a poor widow, but gave her as much money as the family purse could afford, for education in those days was very expensive.

Having finished with school, Elizabeth began to occupy herself in making buttons and fringe, which at that time were made by hand. At the age of twenty-three she married John Arnold, a carpenter. They both moved to the city of Washington to live. In 1849, when gold was discovered in California, Mr. Arnold caught the fever of the excitement and joined the forty-niners. A few years afterwards his wife received news of his death.

Elizabeth was left with only two hundred dollars, and with five children who looked to her for food and care. So she began the trade she had learned in her girlhood and struggled along in spite of hard times. Her mother took care of the children while Elizabeth gave her entire attention to her trade.

Gradually her work increased. She bought land in the business part of Washington and started a store. Later she bought more property. As Washington grew, land and houses became more valuable, and Elizabeth became wealthy. She expended much money on her children's education. One son she sent to Yale college and afterwards to Europe to continue his studies. This son died before he had opportunity to make a name for himself. Her other two sons also died young; but her two daughters lived to survive her, and were a great comfort to her.

Elizabeth had a peculiar disposition; for, though she was exceedingly charitable, in small things she sometimes showed indifference to other people's feelings. In this petty selfishness, however, she was always frank and never attempted to hide her actions.

When a young girl, before she married, Elizabeth once went to town to buy two veils for herself and her sister. She had received from her sister the money for her veil. Before Elizabeth bought the veils she saw a poor woman, who asked her for money. Elizabeth opened her purse and gave the women the money for her sister's veil. She then bought a veil for herself and returned home. Her sister was surprised to see her with only one veil and asked her where the other was. "I thought that as you were younger you would not mind losing your veil, and that you would like to give the money to the poor woman," Elizabeth replied in her most innocent manner.

One time she had company to supper and, as was her custom, took all the cream off the milk for her own coffee before passing the pitcher to anyone else. The guest, when asked if she would have milk in her coffee, said: "No, I do not care for milk in my coffee when the cream has been taken off." Elizabeth burst out laughing and said, "Well, Jane, I did not think anybody saw me do that."

Elizabeth supported two of her brothers and their families when they became ill and poor.

--Nellie Barrington.

=Biography of a Traitor=

Vicente was born in Santa Cruz, Laguna, in the year 1868. His parents were poor, so that he did not have a high education. Very little is known about his childhood. He seemed to have attended the primary school of the town, where he learned a little Spanish. He was not properly brought up by his parents. He was allowed to indulge in bad society. Being thus left alone, exposed to vice, he grew to be an unscrupulous and unruly young man. He became an orphan at the age of eighteen. To earn his living and to satisfy his craving for any easy, idle and dependent life, he joined the _Guardia Civil_, a body of soldiers employed by the Spaniards to maintain peace in the islands. Unfortunately, instead of being the guardians of peace, these men became the malefactors of the country. As I have said, Vicente joined this most dreaded army of oppressors and in a few days he became one of the most cruel and abusive men in the corps. He put many guiltless persons in prison, just because of animosity or revenge. He sent many innocent persons to the block simply because he wished to gain the favor of the high officials. Such injustices were much admired and were even encouraged by the Spaniards--for they also practised such acts. Often such base conduct brought promotion to a soldier of that behavior. So Vicente was appointed a sergeant. Being thus gratuitously rewarded he grew more atrocious than before. He was, then, a terror, an awful monster to humble citizens, a murderer and a robber in every sense. His tyrannical and arbitrary character, however, often succumbed to the tinkling of coins--a fact that was universally true of government officials of that time, from the highest to the lowest. Once or twice through perfidious ways, Vicente acquired a few large tracts of land, but this unlawfully attained property was soon lost in gambling.

Spanish rule was ended by the revolution of 1898. This body of _Guardia Civiles_ was torn asunder. Many of them were killed in the fight, but many were taken prisoners and some were pardoned. Vicente, evidently, was to live longer to play another plot against his country.

At the beginning of the Filipino-American war, while all the people left the town, with a heartless friend Vicente surrendered. They allied themselves with the Americans to betray their countrymen in the battlefield. During the year following 1898, these two men were the sole guides of the Americans in their campaigns. They caused many to be thrown in prison. They laid heavy taxes upon the goods of the tradesmen for their own use.

Vicente's friend was elected president of the town the first time that the civil government was established here. He was unfortunate, however, in being stabbed to death soon afterwards. Vicente succeeded his friend in 1900, and later married the wife of his predecessor. By this time Vicente was very rich with the spoils of his own countrymen. In fact, he was, then, living a glorious life at the expense of his suffering country. He did not wield his power long. Naturally, the Americans had no confidence in him. When the war was over, his office was taken from him and was given to a good and honest citizen.

From that time Vicente lived a retired life with his family. Because of cock-fighting, gambling and card playing, his seemingly abounding wealth was soon exhausted. After all, he was a poor ordinary man, devoid of influence, respect and rank in society. Even his house was sold. He then rented his former house and set up as a notary public in 1904; by which he could hardly support his family. His repressed ambition for power was, however, kindled again and in January, 1909, he proclaimed himself candidate for the presidency in the coming election. But fortune, health and success deserted him. He grew consumptive and, after a few weeks, he was confined to his bed.

One night in June, 1909, Vicente suddenly rose from his bed and before his companions could ask him what he wished, he jumped out of the window, shouting that he was chased by some devils who were compelling him to go with them to hell. He did not live long after this event. He died a few hours later. In the morning, the incident of his tragical death reached the ears of almost everybody, and all these people said, "He is just paying for some of his injustices. God is punishing him. Who knows what punishment he will receive in the other world!"

--Walfrido de Leon.