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.