Introduction

From the days of Charles Lamb to those of Dr. Eliot of Harvard, the unique charm and worth of the Journal of John Woolman have been signalled by a thinker of distinction here and there, and the book, if not widely known, has quietly found its way to many hearts and been reprinted in sundry editions. The more formal works, however, in which this gentle and audacious eighteenth-century Quaker-preacher spoke out his whole careful mind have been for the most part neglected. These works are sometimes prosy, always indifferent to style in their unflinching quest for "pure wisdom," often concerned with the dead issue of negro slavery. Yet even in this last case they have much value as historic documents; no full knowledge of Woolman's spirit is possible without them; and not to know that spirit in its entirety is a distinct loss.

From the days of Charles Lamb to those of Dr. Eliot of Harvard, a few distinguished thinkers have noted the unique charm and worth of the Journal of John Woolman. Though not widely known, the book has quietly found its way into many hearts and appeared in several editions. However, Woolman’s more formal works have mostly been neglected. In them, this gentle and daring eighteenth-century Quaker preacher fully expressed his carefully considered thoughts. These works are sometimes dull and always unconcerned with style in their unflinching search for "pure wisdom." They often address the settled issue of negro slavery. Yet even when they do, they have much value as historical documents. No one can fully understand Woolman’s spirit without them, and not knowing his spirit in its entirety is a real loss.

The present edition, while making no claim to critical completeness, presents the main accessible body of Woolman's writings. Here is a well of purest water, "dug deep," to use the Quaker phrase. The mere limpidity of the water will be joy enough for some: others gazing into it may feel that they see down to the proverbial Truth—the very origin of things, the foundations of the moral universe.

This edition does not claim to be a complete critical edition, but it presents the main accessible body of Woolman's writings. Here is a well of the purest water, "dug deep," to use the Quaker phrase. For some, the water's clarity alone will be joy enough. Others gazing into it may feel they can see the proverbial Truth: the very origin of things and the foundations of the moral universe.

A studious moderation of utterance is the first quality to make itself felt in Woolman's works. To casual or jaded readers who crave the word-embroidery, the heightened note, of the romanticist in style, the result may seem colourless. Here is a lack of adjectives, an entire absence of emphasis, a systematic habit of under-statement that, in the climax of a paragraph or the crisis of an emotion, seems at times almost ludicrous. Yet to the reader of severer taste, this very absence of emphasis, so quaintly sober, so sensitive in its unfaltering reticence, becomes the choicest grace of Woolman's style. As is the style, so is the man. Woolman "studied to be quiet," and his steady self-discipline was rewarded by a scrupulous yet instinctive control over the finest shades of verity in speech and life. In the youthful trouble of deep religious feeling, when he "went to meetings," as he expressively tell us, "in an awful frame of mind," he spoke a few words one day, under "a strong exercise of spirit." "But not keeping close to the divine opening, I said more than was required of me, and being soon sensible of my error, I was afflicted in mind some weeks, without any light or comfort, even to such a degree that I could not take satisfaction in anything." The mistake was not often repeated; for as he writes in memorable words: "As I was thus humbled and disciplined under the Cross, my understanding became more strengthened to distinguish the pure spirit that inwardly moves upon the heart, and taught me to wait in silence, sometimes for many weeks together, till I felt that rise which prepares the creature to stand like a trumpet through which the Lord speaks to His flock." A fine passage towards the end of the Journal shows that the danger of speaking without this "pure spirit" was ever present to him. "Many love to hear eloquent orations, and if there is not a careful attention to the Gift, men who have once laboured in the pure Gospel ministry, growing weary of suffering and ashamed of appearing weak, may kindle a fire, compass themselves about with sparks, and walk in the light, not of Christ who is under suffering, but of that fire which they going from the Gift have kindled; and that in hearers which has gone from the meek suffering state into the worldly wisdom, may be warmed with this fire and speak highly of these labours. In this journey, a labour hath attended my mind that the ministers amongst us may be preserved in the meek, feeling life of truth." No man could so keenly analyse the snare of fluency and popularity, who had not spent a life on guard. The reserve of his writings is a natural consequence. One searches these pages in vain, often controversial though they be, for a single point in which the note is forced or emotion escapes control.

The first quality one notices in Woolman’s works is his careful restraint in speaking. Casual or weary readers may crave the ornate language and heightened tone of romantic writers. To them, Woolman’s writing may seem colorless. He uses few adjectives and no emphasis at all. His consistent understatement can sometimes seem almost ridiculous at the climax of a paragraph or a moment of intense emotion. Yet to a reader with stricter tastes, this very absence of emphasis becomes the finest grace of Woolman’s style. It is quaintly sober and sensitive in its unwavering restraint. The man was like his style. Woolman “made it his aim to be quiet.” His steady self-discipline gave him careful yet instinctive control over the finest shades of truth in speech and life. As a young man, he struggled with deep religious feeling. As he vividly tells us, he “went to meetings in a state of awe.” One day, feeling “a strong stirring of the spirit,” he spoke a few words. “But I did not stay close to what God had revealed to me, and I said more than I needed to. I soon realized my error, and for some weeks I was troubled in mind, without light or comfort. I could not take satisfaction in anything.” He did not often repeat the mistake. As he writes in memorable words: “As I was humbled and disciplined under the Cross, I grew better able to recognize the pure spirit that moves within the heart. It taught me to wait in silence, sometimes for many weeks at a time. I waited until I felt the stirring that prepares a person to stand like a trumpet through which the Lord speaks to his flock.” A fine passage toward the end of the Journal shows that he was always aware of the danger of speaking without this “pure spirit.” “Many people love to hear eloquent speeches. Men who have once labored in the pure Gospel ministry may fail to pay careful attention to the Gift. They may grow weary of suffering and ashamed of appearing weak. Then they may kindle a fire, surround themselves with sparks, and walk by the light of that fire. It is not the light of Christ, who is suffering, but of a fire they have kindled by turning away from the Gift. Those among their listeners who have left the meek, suffering state for worldly wisdom may be warmed by this fire. They may praise these efforts highly. During this journey, I have been deeply concerned that the ministers among us may be kept in the meek, feeling life of truth.” Only someone who had spent a lifetime on guard could analyze the trap of fluent speech and popularity so keenly. The restraint in his writings follows naturally. Though these pages often address controversial matters, one searches them in vain for a single forced note or uncontrolled emotion.

Yet the emotional intensity concealed beneath this equable habit of soul, is evident from the first line to the last. In the fine phrase of the Friends after his death, Woolman "underwent many deep baptisms;" how deep, the Journal reveals. He was a man of impassioned tenderness. Even as a child he saw "that as the mind is moved by an inward principle to love God as an invisible, incomprehensible Being, so by the same principle it is moved to love Him in all his manifestations in the visible world. That as by his breath the flame of life has kindled in all sensible creatures, to say that we love God as unseen and at the same time exercise cruelty toward the least creature moving by his life, or by life derived from Him, is a contradiction in itself." Woolman did not only say these things, he felt them. He is among the great lovers of the world. His tenderness for animals was always keen, from the days in which, as he has told us, he suffered childish remorse from having killed a robin, to his last voyage, when in the midst of personal suffering, he noted pityingly the dull and pining appearance of the "dunghill fowls" on board. "I believe," he writes, "where the love of God is verily perfected, a care will be felt that we do not lessen that sweetness of life in the animal creation which the great Creator intends for them under our government."

Yet the emotional intensity hidden beneath this calm disposition is evident from beginning to end. After his death, the Friends expressed it beautifully when they said that Woolman "underwent many deep baptisms." The Journal reveals just how deep they were. He was a man of passionate tenderness. Even as a child, he saw "that an inner principle moves the mind to love God as an invisible, incomprehensible being. That same principle moves the mind to love him in all his manifestations in the visible world. By his breath, the flame of life has been kindled in all creatures capable of feeling. So it is a contradiction to say we love the unseen God while treating cruelly even the smallest creature that moves by his life, or by life derived from him." Woolman did not just say these things. He felt them. He is among the world's great lovers. His tenderness for animals was always strong. As he tells us, he felt remorse as a child for killing a robin. On his last voyage, even while suffering himself, he pitied the dull and forlorn appearance of the "barnyard fowl" on board. "I believe," he writes, "that where the love of God is truly perfected, we will take care not to lessen the sweetness of life that the great Creator intends for the animals under our care."

He who so sympathised with the robin and the cock was filled with a yearning compassion for the sorrows of humanity. Of him as of Shelley it might well be said, "He was as a nerve o'er which do creep the else unfelt oppressions of the earth." We read of his appetite failing through the agitation of his mind over human pain and his relations to it. In his last illness he broke forth in words that might have been uttered by S. Catherine of Siena: "O Lord my God! The amazing horrors of darkness were gathered around me and covered me all over, and I saw no way to go forth. I felt the misery of my fellow-beings separated from the divine harmony, and it was heavier than I could bear; I was crushed down under it." All great lovers are great sufferers: Woolman was no exception to the rule.

The man who felt such sympathy for the robin and the cock was filled with deep compassion for human suffering. What was said of Shelley could also be said of Woolman: "He was like a nerve that feels the suffering of the world that others do not feel." We read that he lost his appetite because he was so troubled by human pain and his own connection to it. During his last illness, he cried out in words that S. Catherine of Siena might have spoken: "O Lord my God! The terrible darkness gathered around me and covered me completely, and I could see no way out. I felt the misery of my fellow beings, separated from divine harmony, and it was more than I could bear. It crushed me." All great lovers suffer greatly. Woolman was no exception to the rule.

If he knew deep sorrow he knew deep joy also, as all must do who like him "live under the Cross and simply follow the operations of Truth." More is unuttered than uttered in the Journal, yet through its silences we may read an inner experience akin to that of Bunyan or Pascal. Like these great protagonists of the Spirit, he knew a peace given "not as the world giveth." For peace can be where ease is not. Decorous son of an unillumined century, John Woolman is of the company of the Mystics. He is of those led by the Shepherd of Souls beside the still waters. He has suggested his own secret: "Some glances of real beauty may be seen in their faces who dwell in true meekness. There is a harmony in the sound of that voice to which Divine love gives utterance, and some appearance of right order in their temper and conduct whose passions are regulated. Yet all these do not fully show forth that inward life to those who have not felt it; but this white stone and new name are known rightly only to such as have them." "Pure" is the central word of the Journal, and the beauty of pure contemplative quietude is the final impression conveyed by this record so full of anguish over the sorrows of humanity and of unflinching witness against wickedness, borne at the expense of the crucifixion of the natural man.

If he knew deep sorrow, he also knew deep joy. So must all who, like him, "live under the Cross and simply follow the workings of Truth." More is left unsaid than is said in the Journal. Yet through its silences, we can see an inner experience like that of Bunyan or Pascal. Like these great champions of the Spirit, he knew a peace given "not as the world gives." For peace can exist without ease. John Woolman was a proper son of an unenlightened century, yet he belongs among the Mystics. He is among those led by the Shepherd of Souls beside still waters. He offered a glimpse of his own secret: "We may see glimpses of real beauty in the faces of those who live in true meekness. There is harmony in a voice that speaks through Divine love. There is also some sign of right order in the temper and conduct of those who govern their passions. Yet none of these fully reveals that inner life to those who have not felt it. Only those who have this white stone and new name truly know them." "Pure" is the central word of the Journal. It leaves a final impression of the beauty of pure, contemplative quiet. Yet this record is full of anguish over human suffering and unwavering witness against wickedness. Woolman bore that witness at the cost of crucifying his natural self.

A chief value of Woolman's works consists in his serene application of his mystical intuitions to the affairs of this world. He who "dwelt deep in an inward stillness" studied his age with a penetrating sagacity that allowed no evasions. The man so carefully on his guard against extravagance was a reformer who pushed his demands, as some would think, almost beyond the border of sanity. No temper was ever more opposed to fanaticism: yet many readers may question whether he escaped the doom of the fanatic. And the most pertinent reason for a re-issue of his works at this juncture is, that in our own day so many hearts are troubled like his own. A generation seeking guidance on the path of social duty will find here a precursor of Ruskin and Tolstoi, a man whose thought, despite the quaintness of his diction, has a quite extraordinary modernness, and whose searchings of conscience are none of them familiar.

One of the chief values of Woolman's works is his calm application of his mystical insights to worldly affairs. Though he "lived in deep inner stillness," he studied his age with keen insight and allowed no evasions. He guarded carefully against excess. Yet as a reformer, he pushed his demands almost beyond the bounds of sanity, some would say. No temperament was ever more opposed to fanaticism. Yet many readers may question whether he escaped the fanatic's fate. The most relevant reason to reissue his works now is that so many hearts today are troubled like his own. A generation seeking guidance on its social duties will find in Woolman a precursor of Ruskin and Tolstoi. Despite his old-fashioned language, his thought is extraordinarily modern. Yet none of his examinations of conscience are familiar.

The main contemporary issue that agitated Woolman was of course the slave-trade, and he was long regarded all but exclusively as a herald of the anti-slavery movement. But the Fabian Society did well to suggest, in reprinting one of his tracts, the broader scope of his thinking. It will be evident from this edition that his horror of chattel slavery was one incident only in that general attitude toward civilisation which drew from him the bitter cry: "Under a sense of deep revolt and an overflowing stream of unrighteousness, my life has often been a life of mourning." The central evil which he opposed was, in brief, the exploitation of labour: the ideal which he sought was a society in which no man should need to profit by the degradation of his fellow-men. For economic analysis of the modern type one naturally looks in vain; moral analysis of social relations has, however, rarely been carried farther. These little essays "On Labour," "On the Right Use of the Lord's Outward Gifts," "On Loving our Neighbour," these "Considerations on the True Harmony of Mankind," this "Word of Remembrance and Caution to the Rich," reveal through their quaint formalities of phrase a searching spirit not to be outdone to-day.

The main issue of his day that troubled Woolman was, of course, the slave trade. For a long time, he was regarded almost exclusively as a forerunner of the anti-slavery movement. But the Fabian Society was right to suggest that his thinking had a broader scope when it reprinted one of his tracts. This edition shows that his horror of slavery was only one part of his general attitude toward civilization. That attitude led him to cry bitterly: "Feeling deep revolt and seeing an overflowing stream of injustice, I have often lived a life of mourning." In short, the central evil he opposed was the exploitation of labor. His ideal was a society where no one needed to profit from the degradation of others. Naturally, we cannot expect to find modern economic analysis in his work. But few have carried the moral analysis of social relations further. His short essays "On Labour," "On the Right Use of the Lord's Outward Gifts," and "On Loving our Neighbour" reveal a searching spirit beneath their old-fashioned, formal language. So do his "Considerations on the True Harmony of Mankind" and his "Word of Remembrance and Caution to the Rich." That spirit is no less searching than any found today.

Woolman felt "a concern in the spring of pure love, that all who have plenty of outward substance may example others in the right use of things, may carefully look into the condition of poor people, and beware of exacting of them in regard to their wages." He was solicitous, as many have been since his day, over the perplexities of those who seek to combine a due care for their own families with consideration for the wage-earner, "in a fruitful land where the wages bear so small a proportion to the necessaries of life." "There are few if any," he says truly, "could behold their fellow-creatures lie long in distress and forbear to help them when they could do it without any inconvenience; but customs, requiring much labour to support them, do often lie heavy upon the poor, while they who live in these customs are so entangled in a multitude of unnecessary concerns that they think but little of the hardships the poor people go through." To lessen these "concerns," thus to emancipate the labourer from a part of the crushing burden of production, became his central thought. "In beholding that unnecessary toil which many go through in supporting outward greatness, and procuring delicacies; in beholding how the true calmness of life is changed into hurry, and that many, by eagerly pursuing outward treasure, are in danger of withering as to the inward state of the mind; in meditating on the works of this spirit, and the desolations it makes among the professors of Christianity, I may thankfully acknowledge that I often feel pure love beget longings in my mind for the exaltation of the peaceable Kingdom of Christ, and an engagement to labour according to the Gift bestowed upon me for promoting an humble, plain, temperate way of living."

Woolman felt "a concern born of pure love, that all who have plenty of material wealth may set an example for others in using things rightly. May they look carefully into the condition of poor people and beware of demanding too much from them for too little pay." Like many since his day, he worried about the difficulties faced by people who sought to care properly for their own families while also considering wage earners. They faced these difficulties "in a fruitful land where wages bear so little proportion to the cost of life's necessities." "There are few, if any," he says truly, "who could watch their fellow creatures suffer for a long time without helping them, if they could help without any inconvenience. But customs that require much labor to maintain often weigh heavily on the poor. Meanwhile, those who live by these customs are so caught up in countless unnecessary concerns that they give little thought to the hardships poor people endure." His central thought became how to lessen these "concerns" and thus free laborers from part of the crushing burden of production. "When I see the unnecessary toil many people endure to maintain outward splendor and obtain delicacies, I see how life's true calm gives way to hurry. I see, too, that many who eagerly pursue material wealth are in danger of withering inwardly. As I reflect on the effects of this spirit and the ruin it causes among those who profess Christianity, I can thankfully acknowledge that I often feel pure love stirring in me a longing for the rise of the peaceful Kingdom of Christ. It also moves me to work, according to the Gift bestowed on me, to promote a humble, plain, and temperate way of living."

The Simple Life is then Woolman's plea, and the necessity for social sacrifice the burden of his teaching. This plea he presents with no vagueness or Wagnerian sentimentality, but with an alarming precision of outline.

Woolman calls for a simple life, and the need for social sacrifice is central to his teaching. He makes this appeal with no vagueness or Wagnerian sentimentality, but with an alarming degree of precision.

No man ever described better the insensible growth of worldly convention into that custom which "lies upon us with a weight heavy as frost and deep almost as life." Noting the gradual lapse of the Friends from their earlier standards of unworldliness, he says: "These things, though done in calmness without any show of disorder, do yet deprave the mind in like manner and with as great certainty as prevailing cold congeals water." And again, "Though the change from day to night is by a motion so gradual as scarcely to be perceived, yet when night is come we behold it very different from the day; and thus as people become wise in their own eyes and prudent in their own sight, customs rise up from the spirit of this world and spread, by little and little, till a departure from the simplicity that is in Christ becomes as distinguishable as light from darkness to such who are crucified to the world." So the generations as they pass slip further and further from "pure wisdom," for "the customs of their parents, and their neighbours, working upon their minds, and they from thence conceiving ideas of things and modes of conduct, the entrance into their hearts becomes in a great measure shut up against the gentle movings of Uncreated Purity." Woolman is too wise to feel resentment against those so hardened; rather he says, "Compassion hath filled my heart toward my fellow-creatures involved in customs, grown up in the wisdom of this world, which is foolishness with God."

No one has better described how worldly practices gradually and almost imperceptibly become customs that “weigh on us as heavily as frost and reach almost as deep as life itself.” Woolman noticed how the Friends gradually drifted away from their earlier rejection of worldly ways. He says: “These things may be done calmly, without any sign of disorder, but they still corrupt the mind. They do so just as surely as prolonged cold freezes water.” And again, “The change from day to night is so gradual that we can hardly notice it. Yet when night comes, we see how different it is from day. In the same way, people become wise and prudent in their own eyes. Then customs arise from the spirit of this world and spread little by little. Eventually, the departure from the simplicity found in Christ becomes clear to those who are crucified to the world. To them, it is as clear as the difference between light and darkness.” So, as generations pass, they drift further and further from “pure wisdom.” For “the customs of their parents and neighbors influence their minds. From those customs, they form ideas about things and ways of behaving. As a result, their hearts become largely closed to the gentle stirrings of Uncreated Purity.” Woolman is too wise to resent those who have become so hardened. Instead, he says, “My heart has filled with compassion for my fellow creatures caught up in customs. These customs have grown out of the wisdom of this world, which is foolishness with God.”

To his own spirit, we may well apply the description in the little essay on "Merchandising," of the growing sensitiveness among the faithful friends of Christ, who "inwardly breathe that His Kingdom may come on earth" and "learn to be very attentive to the means He may appoint for promoting pure righteousness." His ideal is "that state in which Christ is the Light of our life," so that "our labours stand in the true harmony of society." "In this state," he writes, "a care is felt for a reformation in general, that our own posterity, with the rest of mankind in succeeding ages, may not be entangled by oppressive customs, transmitted to them through our hands." When we consider the deepening desire in our own day to lessen for the next generation that intolerable burden of social compunction which rests upon ourselves, may we perhaps dare to hope that this blessed "state," in which John Woolman himself constantly abode, is becoming common?

The short essay on "Merchandising" describes the growing sensitivity of Christ's faithful friends. Its description could well apply to John Woolman's own spirit. These friends "inwardly pray for his kingdom to come on earth" and "learn to pay close attention to the means he may choose to promote pure righteousness." His ideal is "a state in which Christ is the light of our lives," so that "our work is in true harmony with society." "In this state," he writes, "we feel a concern for reform in general. We want our own descendants and the rest of humanity in future generations to be free from oppressive customs passed down through us." In our own day, we feel a growing desire to lessen the intolerable burden of social guilt we bear, so that the next generation need not bear it. As we consider this, may we perhaps dare to hope that this blessed "state" is becoming common? John Woolman himself lived in it constantly.

The definite issues suggested in these pages are often surprisingly modern. Now the fine old Quaker is perturbed over the question of tainted money: "Have the gifts and possessions received by me from others been conveyed in a way free from all unrighteousness so far as I have seen?" Now he notes the evils of over-work: "I have observed that too much labour not only makes the understanding dull, but so intrudes upon the harmony of the body that, after ceasing from our toil, we have another to pass through before we can enjoy the sweetness of rest," and proceeds to plead with energy for mercy and moderation in the standard of toil exacted from the poor. "The condition of many who dwell in cities," had "affected him with brotherly sympathy." Again we find him touching on the problem of dangerous trades, or analysing with the puzzle of the pioneer the ancient fallacy that the production of luxuries relieves economic distress—a fallacy to which he gives in quaint phrase a sound refutal. In the fifth chapter of the "Word of Remembrance," the interested reader will find a remarkable and very beautiful prophecy of the central principle of the settlement movement. And so we might go on.

The specific issues raised in these pages often seem surprisingly modern. At one point, the admirable old Quaker worries about tainted money: "As far as I can see, were the gifts and possessions I received from others passed on without any wrongdoing?" At another, he notes the harm caused by overwork: "I have observed that too much labor not only dulls the mind, but also disrupts the body's balance. After we stop working, we must go through another struggle before we can enjoy the sweetness of rest." He goes on to plead passionately for mercy and moderation in the amount of work demanded of the poor. "The condition of many who live in cities" had "moved him with brotherly sympathy." We also find him addressing the problem of dangerous trades. And, with the uncertainty of a pioneer, he examines an old fallacy. It is the belief that producing luxuries relieves economic distress. In quaint language, he offers a sound refutation. In the fifth chapter of the "Word of Remembrance," interested readers will find a remarkable and very beautiful prophecy of the central principle of the settlement movement. And we could go on.

In the twelfth century Woolman's solution would probably have been found in withdrawal from the evil world to the purity of desert or convent. Not so in the eighteenth. He remained among his brethren, bearing on his heart the burden of the common guilt: he was one of the first people to perceive that the moral sense must control not only our obvious but also our hidden relations with our fellows. And his experience may be said to mark the exact point where the individualism of the Puritan age broke down, unable to stand the strain of the growing sense of social solidarity. The intense but often naïvely self-centred conception of the religious life common to a Bunyan and an Edwardes had proved inadequate, and a new demand for an extension of Christianity to the remotest reaches of practical life, till human society be transformed in its depth and its breadth by a supernatural power, was consciously born.

In the twelfth century, Woolman probably would have sought a solution by leaving the evil world for a pure desert or convent. But in the eighteenth century, he did not. He stayed among his brethren, bearing the burden of their shared guilt on his heart. He was one of the first to see that morality must govern our hidden relationships with others, as well as our obvious ones. His experience may be said to mark the exact point where Puritan individualism broke down under the strain of a growing sense of social solidarity. The intense but often innocently self-centered view of religious life shared by Bunyan and Edwardes had proved inadequate. A new demand now consciously arose: Christianity must reach into every part of practical life, however remote. Human society must be transformed in all its depth and breadth by a supernatural power.

Yet if Woolman's problem be social, his solution is individualistic. It is found in a resolute endeavour to clear his own life of any dependence on evil. Among the many experiments on the same lines, none more thorough-going is recorded; he pushed consistency to a farther point than Tolstoi or Thoreau. It is the story of this experiment that he tells us in the Journal, with a rare sincerity. See him as a lad, starting out peaceably at his trade of tailor, easily reaching commercial success—for Woolman possessed practical ability,—but "perceiving merchandise to be attended with much cumber," and deciding accordingly not to develop his business. Watch from this time the interaction of two co-operating forces, a craving for personal purity, and a horror of profiting by human pain,—and note that while the first impulse never waned, the second became more and more constraining. The record of his various "concerns" is delightfully human and appealing. He hated to be morally fussy, and the necessity of violating good breeding at the call of conscience caused him acute distress, for he had an ingrained instinct of good manners. Yet though "the exercise was heavy," he bravely took his elders to task on occasion: refused to accept free hospitality from slave-holders, forcing money on them for his entertainment; and, what is still harder, laboured with his friends. "Thou who travels in the work of the ministry, and art made very welcome by thy friends, it is good for thee to dwell deep that thou mayest feel and understand the spirits of people.... I have seen that in the midst of kindness and smooth conduct, to speak close and home to them who entertain us on points that relate to their outward interest, is hard labour, and sometimes when I have felt Truth lead toward it I have found myself disqualified by a superficial friendship.... To see the failings of our friends and think hard of them without opening that which we ought to open, and still carry a face of friendship, this tends to undermine the foundation of true unity." A man, sensitive, humble, and well-bred as Woolman evidently was, who can write thus, is pretty sure to know "deep exercises that are mortifying to the creaturely will." Some of his concerns, as those relating to the payment of taxes and the entertainment of soldiers, were common to the Friends; others are apparently inventions of his own. As time went on they increased and multiplied, all practically springing from the common root, the desire to avoid the oppression of the poor. Greed and the wish for ease came to seem a root of all evil. Travelling among the Indians, he felt the intimate relation of their misfortunes to the hunger of the English race for luxury and land. The use of dyes harmful to the worker forced him to wear undyed garments, even though to his meek distress a passing fashion of white hats made him run the danger of being confounded with the children of this world. A concern came upon him to go on foot in his preaching journeys: at first apparently that he might, like his Master, appear in the form of a servant; later, that he might have no complicity in the miseries suffered by the little post-boys employed in the chaises. Nothing is clearer to the reader of the Journal than the rapid increase of this holy or foolish sensitiveness. Seeking not to trade with oppressors, he refuses to gratify his palate with sugars prepared by the slave labour: under inward pressure to visit the West Indies, he has anxious scruples about taking passage on a ship owned by the West India Company, but decides that he may do so if he pays a sum sufficiently larger than that demanded to compensate the labour involved on another basis than that of slavery. At last—and here the crisis of his experience draws near—he feels himself inwardly bound to go to England; and decides that it is his duty to travel in the steerage, because forsooth the adornments of the cabin have cost vain and degrading labour. The horrors of a steerage passage in those days are well known to us from other sources; and among our visions of the martyrs of Truth we may well preserve the picture of John Woolman, his patient Quaker face upturned at midnight through the hatch, panting for a breath of air. Through the studied quiet of the narrative, the shrinking of the flesh can plainly be felt. The whole story at this point palpitates with a solemn pain and an exceeding peace. As usual, the sufferings of others form the larger part of his pain: he is wracked with sympathy for the sailors, and moved to a grieved indignant study of their temptations and afflictions which is good reading still to-day. Arrived in England, his experience deepens. As usual, he writes without emphasis: but his distress and tenderness are in every line. In a passage that reads as if penned by Engels or Rowntree, he makes careful pitying note of the scale of wages and cost of living, and cries out sharply, "Oh, may the wealthy consider the poor! May those who have plenty lay these things to heart!" We perceive that he is realising with increasing perplexity the extraordinary intricacy with which "the spirit of oppression" is entwined with the most innocent and necessary pursuits. "Silence as to every motion proceeding from the love of money and an humble waiting upon God to know his will concerning us appear necessary: 'He alone is able' so to direct us in our outward employments that pure universal love may shine forth in our proceedings." In "bowedness of spirit" he proceeds northward, and it is evident that the body is growing weaker as he makes his silent laborious way on foot, bearing from town to town the message of his Lord. He is offered to drink when thirsty, in silver vessels, and declines, "telling his case with weeping." Disgusted, "being but weakly," with "the scent arising from that filth which more or less infects the air of all closely settled towns," he feels distress both in body and mind with that which is impure, and a longing "that people might come in to cleanness of spirit, cleanness of person, and cleanness about their houses and garments:" noting at the same time, with his accustomed sagacity, that "some who are great carry delicacy to a great height themselves, and yet real cleanliness is not generally promoted." So continues his travail of soul, recorded in these pathetic and illumined pages, and before long the fatal disorder, small-pox, seizes upon him. He dies among strangers after lying patiently through his illness in the spirit of prayer, still saying characteristically to the young apothecary Friend with whom he had "found a freedom to confer," "that if anything should be proposed as to medicine that did not come through defiled channels or oppressive hands, he should be willing to consider and take it so far as he found freedom." Almost his last words, when already he could hardly be understood, are charged with his steady social compunction.

Yet if Woolman's problem is social, his solution is individual. He makes a determined effort to free his own life from any dependence on evil. Of the many similar experiments on record, none was more thorough. He carried consistency further than Tolstoi or Thoreau. In the Journal, he tells the story of this experiment with rare sincerity. See him as a young man, starting out peacefully in his trade as a tailor. He easily achieves commercial success, for Woolman had practical ability. But he realizes that trade brings many burdens, and decides not to expand his business. From this point, watch two forces working together: a desire for personal purity and a horror of profiting from human pain. The first impulse never weakened, while the second became more and more compelling. The record of his various "concerns" is delightfully human and appealing. He hated being morally fussy. He had an instinct for good manners, so he suffered deeply when conscience required him to be impolite. Yet though "the struggle was hard," he sometimes bravely challenged his elders. He refused free hospitality from slave-holders, insisting on paying them for his lodging. And, harder still, he worked to persuade his friends. "You who travel in the work of the ministry and are warmly welcomed by your friends should look deeply within yourselves. That way, you can sense and understand people's spirits.... I have seen how hard it is to speak frankly to those who welcome us about matters affecting their material interests. It is especially hard when they are kind and agreeable. Sometimes, when I have felt Truth leading me to speak, I have found myself unable to do so because our friendship was superficial.... We may see our friends' failings and think badly of them, yet say nothing about what we ought to discuss. If we still present a friendly face, we risk undermining the foundation of true unity." A man who can write this, and who was evidently as sensitive, humble, and well-mannered as Woolman, is almost certain to know "deep struggles that humble the will of the flesh." Some of his concerns, such as paying taxes and hosting soldiers, were shared by the Friends. Others seem to have been his own. They grew more numerous over time, and practically all sprang from the same root: a desire to avoid oppressing the poor. Greed and the desire for comfort came to seem a root of all evil. Traveling among the Indians, he felt the close connection between their misfortunes and the English race's hunger for luxury and land. Because dyes were harmful to workers, he wore undyed clothes. Yet he was modestly distressed when white hats became fashionable. They put him in danger of being mistaken for one of the children of this world. He felt called to travel on foot on his preaching journeys. At first, apparently, he did so to appear as a servant, like his Master. Later, he wanted to avoid any share in the suffering of the young post-boys who worked with the chaises. Nothing is clearer to a reader of the Journal than the rapid growth of this holy or foolish sensitivity. He wanted no dealings with oppressors, so he refused the pleasure of sugar produced by slave labor. Feeling inwardly called to visit the West Indies, he was troubled about sailing on a ship owned by the West India Company. But he decided he could do so if he paid enough above the fare to compensate for the labor on a basis other than slavery. At last, as the crisis of his experience drew near, he felt inwardly bound to go to England. He decided it was his duty to travel in steerage, because, believe it or not, the cabin decorations had cost vain and degrading labor. Other sources have made the horrors of steerage travel in those days well known to us. Among our images of the martyrs of Truth, we might well keep one of John Woolman. At midnight, his patient Quaker face turns upward through the hatch as he gasps for air. Even through his deliberately quiet account, we can plainly feel his body's recoil. At this point, the whole story pulses with solemn pain and profound peace. As usual, other people's suffering makes up the greater part of his pain. He is tormented by sympathy for the sailors. With grief and indignation, he studies their temptations and hardships, in a passage still worth reading today. When he reaches England, his experience deepens. As usual, he writes without emphasis, but his distress and tenderness appear in every line. In a passage that reads as if Engels or Rowntree had written it, he carefully and compassionately notes wages and living costs. He cries out sharply, "Oh, may the wealthy think of the poor! May those who have plenty take these things to heart!" We can see his growing perplexity as he realizes how intricately "the spirit of oppression" is woven into the most innocent and necessary activities. "We must put aside every impulse arising from the love of money. We must humbly wait on God to learn his will for us. 'He alone is able' to guide us in our daily work, so that pure universal love may shine through our actions." With "a humbled spirit," he continues northward. It is clear that his body is growing weaker as he makes his quiet, difficult way on foot. He carries his Lord's message from town to town. When thirsty, he is offered a drink in silver vessels. He refuses, "explaining his situation through tears." Already "weak," he is disgusted by "the smell of the filth that to some degree pollutes the air of all crowded towns." He feels distress in body and mind at the impurity around him. He longs "for people to become clean in spirit and person, and to keep their houses and clothes clean." At the same time, he observes with his usual insight that "some great people are extremely particular about their own refinement, yet real cleanliness is not generally encouraged." So his spiritual struggle continues, recorded in these moving and enlightened pages. Before long, small-pox, the fatal disease, strikes him. He dies among strangers, having patiently endured his illness in a spirit of prayer. Characteristically, he still tells the young apothecary Friend with whom he had "felt free to talk" that he would consider taking medicine. He would do so if it had not come through defiled channels or oppressive hands, and only as far as he felt free to take it. Almost his last words, when he could already hardly be understood, are filled with his constant sense of responsibility toward others.

Dear John Woolman! Pure and high spirit, incapable of evasion, noteworthy no less for restraint and gentleness than for the resolute determination to translate the undimmed vision of the Perfect Right into terms of our daily existence! Whither would his "concerns" have carried him, had not the Angel of Small-Pox ended his wistful and unrelenting quest? He died in 1772, having lived his life before the industrial revolution, in days which we are wont to envy as simpler and less beset by social problems than our own. Certainly they were days in which the network of human relations was far less intricate than now. Yet the process in which he was engaged reached out to limits beyond our power to scan, and his experience is in one point of view an heroic reductio ad absurdum. No more instructive attempt was ever made to attain personal purity while neither withdrawing from the world nor transforming it. To-day the number is on the increase of persons who suffer under the sense of social guilt. All who know such suffering and are inclined to think the conversion of individuals adequate as an ultimate remedy, will do well to ponder these pages. For the conclusion is forced on us that Woolman was in an impasse: and while we love and reverence the heavenly sturdiness of soul possessed by this eighteenth-century saint, we must recognise with amusement touched by tenderness the hopelessness of his efforts to attain personal purity, the ridiculous extremes of isolation into which such a conscientious effort, if logically carried out, would lead us. The definite inference from Woolman's life and thought will be for most modern people the conviction of the hopelessness of the attempt to achieve, by individual means and private effort, a satisfying social righteousness in an unchanged world.

Dear John Woolman! His spirit was pure and noble, incapable of evasion. He was as remarkable for his restraint and gentleness as for his determination to put his clear vision of Perfect Right into daily practice! Where would his "concerns" have led him, if the Angel of Small-Pox had not ended his wistful and relentless search? He died in 1772, having lived before the industrial revolution. We tend to envy those days as simpler and less troubled by social problems than our own. Certainly, human relationships were far less complex then than they are now. Yet the process he was engaged in reached beyond the limits of what we can see. From one point of view, his experience was a heroic reductio ad absurdum, a demonstration of where an idea leads when taken to its extreme. No attempt has been more instructive than his to achieve personal purity without either withdrawing from the world or transforming it. Today, a growing number of people suffer from a sense of social guilt. All who know such suffering and think that changing individuals is enough to provide a lasting remedy should ponder these pages. For we are forced to conclude that Woolman was at an impasse, with no way forward. We love and revere the heavenly strength of soul of this eighteenth-century saint. Yet we must also recognize, with amusement touched by tenderness, the hopelessness of his efforts to achieve personal purity. We must recognize, too, the ridiculous extremes of isolation to which such a conscientious effort would lead us if carried through logically. For most modern people, Woolman's life and thought will lead to one clear conclusion. We cannot hope to achieve a satisfying social righteousness in an unchanged world through individual means and private effort.

After all, Woolman's trouble and sorrow and tumult of spirit, so suggestive, so helpful to modern souls, were transitory. At the heart of his "endless agitation" subsisted a "central peace." His was the grace to know that "deep humility is a strong bulwark," and to "look less at the effects of the labour than at the pure motion and reality of the concern." The gentleness with which he delivered his fiery message was more than a manner due to Quaker training, or even than a result of resolute self-discipline: it was the index of an inward stillness in which his soul dwelt undisturbed. Let us hope that the days may come when the "concern" about profiting by the painful or degrading labour of others will have an interest as exclusively historic as the "concern" about holding slaves has already attained. Tremulously it may be, yet soberly and joyously, many clear-minded and practical people are beginning to hope for such a day. When it comes, the immediate message of Woolman will be less cogent, but he will still continue to be read by those who care for the revelations of a beautiful soul. These pages offer more than light on the path of social duty; they offer fellowship with a spirit that "dwelt deep," and attained an abiding loveliness because responsive through all turmoil of spirit and all outward suffering, to the "gentle movings of Uncreated Purity." "That purity of life," wrote he, "which proceeds from faithfulness in following the Spirit of Truth, this habitation has often been opened before me as a place of retirement for the children of the light, where we may stand separated from that which disordereth and confuseth the affairs of society." Such a "place of retirement for the Children of the Light," this book affords.

In the end, Woolman’s trouble, sorrow, and turmoil of spirit were temporary, though they offer modern readers so much insight and help. At the heart of his "endless agitation" was a "central peace." He had the grace to know that "deep humility is a strong defense." He also knew to "look less at the results of the work than at the pure impulse and reality of the concern." He delivered his fiery message gently. This gentleness was more than a manner learned through Quaker training, or even the result of determined self-discipline. It was a sign of an inner stillness in which his soul lived undisturbed. Let us hope that the day will come when concern about profiting from others’ painful or degrading labor will be purely historical. Concern about holding slaves has already become a historical matter. Many clear-minded, practical people are beginning to hope for such a day, perhaps anxiously, but also seriously and joyfully. When it comes, Woolman’s immediate message will be less compelling. But those who care about what a beautiful soul can reveal will still read him. These pages do more than illuminate the path of social duty. They offer fellowship with a spirit that "lived deeply." Woolman’s spirit achieved an enduring beauty because, through all inner turmoil and outward suffering, it responded to the "gentle stirrings of Uncreated Purity." He wrote: "The purity of life that comes from faithfully following the Spirit of Truth has often appeared before me as a place of retreat for the children of the light. There we may stand apart from what disrupts and confuses the affairs of society." This book offers such a "place of retreat for the Children of the Light."

VIDA D. SCUDDER.

VIDA D. SCUDDER.