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.

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.

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