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.