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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.