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JOHN G. JOHNSON
 John G. Johnson
Lawyer and Art Collector

1841-1917

By

BARNIE F. WINKELMAN

UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA PRESS

Philadelphia

1942
 Copyright 1942
UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA PRESS

Manufactured in the United States of America

London
Humphrey Milford
Oxford University Press
 To
HAMPTON L. CARSON
Whose great talent
recognized a greater
 Acknowledgments
Grateful acknowledgment is made:
To the many members of the judiciary and bar whose kind interest
made this work possible.
To many whose recollections and reminiscences are here recorded,
but who have already passed on.
To Joseph Carson, Esq., who made available the resources of his own
library, including the invaluable Scrap-Books of former Chief Justice
James T. Mitchell, and who has kindly read the manuscript.
To Emanuel Friedman, Esq., personal representative of Mrs. Edward
Morrell and of the other members of the family, for his complete co-
operation.
To Walter Penn Shipley, Esq., and George Stuart Patterson, Esq., for
uniform helpfulness and important data; to Maurice Bower Saul, Esq.,
and Judge Thomas D. Finletter for—in addition to other help—the use
of rare photographs.
To Henri Marceau, Curator of the Johnson Art Collection, for assist-
ance in the preparation of special chapters.
To the officers of the Pennsylvania Company for their kindness and
courtesy.
To old friends, associates and employes of Johnson for a continuing
interest.
B.F.W.
Philadelphia
October 15th, 1941

[vi]
 Contents
Chapter Page
Acknowledgments vi
I The Johnsons of Chestnut Hill 1
II The Central High School 12
III The Rush Office 21
IV The Bar and the Crisis 33
V The War Comes to the Law Academy 42
VI The Wars of the Grandfathers 53
VII The Great Popularity 66
VIII Where There's a Will 77
IX The Panic of 1873 84
X Marriage 91
XI For Lawyers Only 101
XII The Bar Sheds Its Ruffles 111
XIII Libel and Forgery Make Headlines 119
XIV Disunion in the Union League 129
XV The Family Grows Up 137
XVI Tremendous Trifles and Some Damned Dead Horses 148
XVII Building an Art Collection 158
XVIII A Merger in Sugar 170
XIX Leader of the Bar 182
XX Mr. Johnson Goes into Conference 195
XXI The Northern Securities Case 207
XXII Bills of Divorcement 224
XXIII Dissolutions in Oil and Tobacco 234
XXIV The Private Gallery of Esquire Johnson 245
XXV The United States against the Steel Corporation 252
XXVI An Arch-Monopolist Grows Old 268
XXVII A Man to Remember 279
XXVIII A Legacy and an Art Heritage 285
XXIX The Legend and the Tradition 295
XXX A Question Unanswered 306
Bibliography 316
Index 321
[vii]
 Illustrations
JOHN G. JOHNSON Frontispiece
From, the painting by Leopold Seyffert in the Law School
of the University of Pennsylvania

Facing page
JOHN G. JOHNSON, Soldier in the Union Army 50
From a photograph, 1863, now in possession of Hon.
Thomas D. Finletter

JOHN G. JOHNSON, As a Boy 74

From a photograph now in possession of Maurice Bower
Saul, Esq.

JOHN G. JOHNSON, As a Young Man 74

From a photograph—about 1870—now in possession of
Maurice Bower Saul, Esq.

IDA POWEL JOHNSON 98

From a photograph—about 1880—in possession of Mrs.
Edward Morrell

[ix]
 I

The Johnsons of Chestnut Hill

N o w the city's proudest suburb

rests c o m f o r t a b l y on h e r wooded hills and in her neat valleys. On
shaded lawns and in quiet halls the men of finance and business r e l a x
f r o m their cares and burdens. B y telephone their offices in the Quaker
City are at their elbows. B y train their banks and shops are a brief
half-hour away. T h r o u g h F a i r m o u n t P a r k swift automobiles glide over
smooth roads, covering quickly the few miles to the heart o f P h i l a -
delphia. At night the darkness that used to be holds no terrors.
On the main stem of Germantown P i k e electric trolleys c l i m b effort-
lessly the l o n g slope f r o m Queen Lane and Mount Airy. T h e continu-
ity of homes and stores is unbroken. T h e arms of the city have reached
out to take to itself the remote settlement. Near the site of the J o h n -
son smithy, a trim gasoline station stands. Only here and there an
old house, set back f r o m the bustling street, recalls the slower tempo,
the simpler way of life of another era, that is so recent and yet so
irrevocably gone.
T h e figure of David J o h n s o n that emerges f r o m the obscurity that
has engulfed the straggling village of Chestnut Hill of the R o a r i n g
Forties is vague and shadowy. It rests upon few authentic f a c t s —
random items in the l o c a l j o u r n a l , a few lines in faded directories, the
rolls of the c h u r c h , the inscription of an eroded headstone—conflicting
gossip and less revealing tradition, the varying recollections of the old-
est inhabitants, the fertile imagination o f neighborly pride, even a
possible m a n t l e of silence. Hearsay evidence mostly, but none of it
irrelevant or i m m a t e r i a l .

It was a h e a l t h y year, 1 8 4 0 , in the development of young A m e r i c a .

H o p e was r e b o r n , faith flourished, courage and enterprise tried out
their muscles, recovered f r o m the c r a m p and sag of two depressions.
T h e panic of 1 8 3 9 h a d come hard upon the faint lift in 1 8 3 7 ' s lean
season, but that was over—forgotten in the first r i p p l e of the mighty
tide r o l l i n g W e s t .

[1]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

There was boundless wealth in the West for anyone with the courage
to reach for it; there was good hard money circulating in the East for
those clever enough to grasp it. Banks were functioning again, without
artificial priming. The distrust and disillusion which had followed
failure upon failure of "pet banks" were being blown away by the
healthy breath of panting industry, rushing to meet a faster-rushing
demand.
The shipyards clanged with a ceaseless hammer, supplying a mer-
chant marine which was unfurling its sails in every port of the globe.
A gargantuan infant, Big Industry, let out a natal wail. In the quiet
culture-corners of the old Eastern cities, those who neither rushed to
the West nor dived into the foundry idly developed the American doc-
trine that luxury is the birthright of every citizen. There would be gas-
light for every house, paving for every street, turnpikes and canals, or
better, a railroad for every destination, and astute promoters and
business men to furnish them.
It seemed a happy union when David Johnson, yeoman, took to wife
slim, serious Elizabeth Graver, carefully reared daughter of John
Graver, farmer, village butcher, and cattle dealer. The latter was not
of the gentleman farmer school: he tilled his own soil, killed his own
pigs, thought his own thoughts—and taught his children to do likewise.
His thrift equalled his industry, and his pride topped both. For each
of his eight daughters he had made ample provision. Elizabeth's will
could well match David's brawn.
Together they turned their backs on the past—the unemployment,
the closing banks, the lost savings, the puzzling, fluctuating paper, the
hunger and bewildering misery of the recent yesterday. They had food
and shelter, strength and love—and a new decade.
Down in Washington Mr. Van Buren was behaving scandalously, ac-
cording to the Whigs. But Chestnut Hill was a Democratic community,
so let the talk run. It was good to have something to discuss as you
went about your work.
In the South the people were having trouble with their slaves. Some
were escaping North—helped by misguided but stubborn Northerners.
A new political party had made its appearance, its only platform the
abolition of slavery—something else to argue about.
In the West there was talk of gold and fabulously fertile acres. That
was f a r away; here at home there were crops to be harvested.
The young couple settled down on the Graver farm where Graver's
Lane now crosses Germantown Avenue. The Gravers were substantial
citizens. For thirty years, since John Graver with Levi Rex had lent
his name to Readheffer's Perpetual Motion Machine in the Cress Tav-
ern, nothing had marred the solid worth of the clan. Graver men were
in the schools—as supervisors and as janitors; they were active in
[2]
 THE JOHNSONS OF CHESTNUT HILL

fraternal organizations and in church affairs. Graver misses and spin-

sters taught the young. The Graver f a r m paid its taxes.
The pull of the horse on his rein and the press of the hard earth
against the plough were no challenge to the strength of young David.
The daily chores of rubbing down the team, bringing in the cattle,
setting the traps for fox and weasel offered no stimulus to the eager
mind tugging at the nerve centers, urging him to be out and away, a
part of what was going on. David's forebears had come over with the
first and had become firmly rooted, not only in the soil, but in the
town hall and the church. Like the Gravers, the Johnsons had a hand
in things.
David chose his work to match his brawn and satisfy his lust for
social contact. J u s t around the corner from her father's farm he estab-
lished his wife in a little house of her own (now 8428 Germantown
Avenue). A few doors beyond, he set up his blacksmith shop. Across
the way was Gold's Hotel, with plenty of life; next door another hos-
telry, noisy with the boast and jokes of draymen and travelers. These
were not first-class stop-overs for the private carriages of great folk,
but shelters for teamsters and transient workers where lodging might
be had for a few pennies on a straw pallet dragged out on to the bar-
room floor, after the last toast had been downed of an evening.
The rough teamsters were not authorities on politics and economics,
but they knew a thing or two. The price of produce was going steadily
up. Boys f r o m the f a r m were getting good wages as longshoremen,
clerks, cartwrights, and cordwainers, or as factory workers in Phila-
delphia. The City was still a long way off—south and east, down, down
the Avenue, fourteen miles by stagecoach, which made two trips a day.
Things were booming all around. The election was near. Van Buren
would be out. Never had they heard the like—Royal Wilton carpets on
the floor, silk tassels and satin medallion in a blue elliptical salon.
"Whig t a l k , " David might say with a smile. And if his Whig adver-
saries put forth too sound an argument against this Bourbon display, an
extra clank on the anvil with David's massive hammer drowned out
further discussion and his own blistering expletives.
David was not always the perfect Democrat; at times he had ideas.
They might not have been radical, but they showed a mind not afraid
to strike out for itself. Sometimes Elizabeth was proud of these mental
pioneerings, but frequently her practical background spoke out against
flights of fancy.
"You'll be turning into a Millerite one of these d a y s , " she might say,
as she flicked her duster with the determined gesture David used with
his hammer.
The Millerites flourished in busy Chestnut Hill as elsewhere in the
East and in the Middle West. In the old community they had had some
[3]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

trouble establishing themselves, but a determined struggle finally had

won them recognition and permission to hold meetings in Union Chapel
—which was open to " a n y responsible sect needing a place of worship."
The Millerites had held out for use of the Baptist Church, but the youth-
ful pastor was not to be moved.
" I f the Lord had wanted anyone to know when he was coming, he
would have told Brother Y o u n g , " explained one pious lady, who spoke
for the congregation.
In the little village of a hundred-odd homes, three inns, and at least
two schools, the single Baptist Church served the population of well
over five hundred. Other denominations were represented, however,
holding their services in the Union Chapel. The Methodists had had to
fight for this privilege at first because their neighbors mistrusted this
" n e w " group.
Chestnut Hill had been settled back in the sixteen hundreds by sturdy
sons of the Palatinate under Pastorius—converts, many of them, to the
Quaker teachings of William Penn. Summerhausen they had called their
settlement of the German Township, in homage to the abundant chestnut
trees. Close upon them had come the English. The Church of England
had its communicants—the Presbyterians and Quakers too. T h e Ger-
manic strain had become only an ingredient in the mixture.
Down in Washington things were somewhat calmer at the outset of
the new decade. General William Henry Harrison was not apt to
squander the national resources in tassels and gilded carriages. A dark
horse who had ridden in on a slogan rather than a platform, at first he
had to do nothing more than recline on his buckeye bench, drink hard
cider, and scorn the elegance of Mr. Van Buren. But now he had a big
j o b on his hands to guide the nation through these rushing waters,
churning with dissension in the South, bursting its new boundaries in
the West, burning with new thoughts, new ways of living and earning a
living in the great industrial North.
The Millerites still drew their quota. The Coming of the Lord was
proclaimed on Germantown Pike. A house here and there was deserted
by devout followers of this new Messiah who preached the end of the
world. Just at the time Elizabeth and David had settled down, the
prophet's zeal was rapidly making converts.
All this was nonsense to the young Johnsons and the practical
Gravers. But the strange mixture of discontent and adventure that was
in the air hung heavy over the young blacksmith. It was something more
for David to discuss on his visits to the hostels and taverns, or with the
men who stopped at his forge to learn the latest news. David always got
the news. The stagecoach stopped by his forge for inspection, and f o r
each bit of gossip he gathered another in payment. Private carriages
paused to make sure that every hoof was sound before striking out for
[4]
 THE JOHNSONS OF CHESTNUT HILL

the less certain roads to the west. Gerraantown Pike ran on to faraway
Reading and Lancaster and Bethlehem, and all the more vague and
distant towns and cities, north and west out of Philadelphia. The whole
surge westward seemed to sweep through David's door.
As time went on David became less interested in what went on in
the homes of the Rexes, the Hinkles, the Stollmans, the Sellerses, the ele-
gant Williamses. Or even in more vital events like the mutiny on the
Creole, the slave ship steered into a Bermuda port by its cargo. Slave9
and slavery were the background of much of the gossip, and of the
silences too. For prudent men in politics and business now avoided the
topic.
As she swept the floor and watered the plants, Elizabeth could move
to the rhythm of David's hammer, easily heard down the quiet road.
As the hammer stopped for the turn of a shoe or the fitting of a horse,
the wife unconsciously paused in her work, and her thinking. She had
a lot to think about those first few months too, because things were hap-
pening in her life.
It was early in the spring of 1841—April 4—as President Harrison
passed away, that her son was born.
So David turned his back on Gold's Hotel with its talk of plantations
in the West, and on the next-door hostelry. He still had an ear for
neighborhood gossip, he still could not resist striding out to meet each
stage and carriage that clattered by, but he showed a new interest in
the noisy young visitors who never failed to stop on their way from
school, fascinated by the rhythm of the metal and the matching rhythm
in the muscles rippling in the red glow.
Perhaps his boy would look like that husky, young savage with half
an apple in his cheek, or maybe he'd be more refined, like the tall,
lanky one with the pile of books. John Johnson would grow up to be
something, because he would have opportunities that David never had
—the West, the big jobs.
Elizabeth had more practical dreams. He would have all the schooling
they could give him, which probably would not be as much as she
would like, but at least he would have a trade to go into, if he had the
strength of his father.
John early gave this promise. He grew steadily, and before he was a
year old he was a real chore for Elizabeth to carry about. Nevertheless,
every Sunday he was dressed in his best and taken to church with his
mother and father. David cast off his work shirt and leather apron for
these occasions, shaved carefully, plastered down the wild dark hair,
and groomed himself to fit his position as a landmark, and as mate of
a Graver.
There was no set style for church-going. A few came in the latest
mode—high-collared coat, short waistcoat, tight-fitting trousers strapped
[5]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

under neat shoes, black silk cravat tied in intricate fashion around a
starched, uncomfortably high, white shirt collar, and a beaver hat not
too modest of brim. The ladies bustled in tight-waisted silk, billowed by
many petticoats.
The simple farm women came in starched ginghams, their men in
shirt-sleeves, often shoeless. Even the young girls carried their shoes
until within sight of the church door.
After church there was a pleasant social interval, on the steps in
fair weather, or lingering in the pews for precious minutes of village
gossip. There were weightier topics too, which the pastor had perhaps
brought to light in a fiery sermon. The Mormons were to be considered.
Out on the broad plains of the Middle West things were going on
which thoroughly shocked the God-fearing villagers. The corner grocer
might chuckle a bit over this, but his wife brought him up sharp enough.
The Millerites, too, were a matter of concern to substantial citizens.
Their preachments, nurtured on the despair of the panic years, thrived
on the hysteria of boom-time. A great tent was set up in Germantown
where followers gathered to await the Day. Farms were sold, wives de-
serted, children abandoned by many who donned the white robe of
ascension. A diplomatic switch in the date, when nothing happened,
failed to dampen the ardor of the pious. Coming up the Pike from the
city one day, David read a sign on a closed shop door:

This shop is closed in honor of the King of Kings who will appear
about the twentieth of October. Get ready, friends, to crown him Lord of
all.
The nation was rolling on reckless but sturdy wheels. The trek of its
citizens quickened the pulse of the young nation; affairs across the
ocean touched its vitals. There were revolutions in Europe, and famine.
The Germans came in greater number; the Irish too. The gaunt men and
dark-haired, white-skinned women with the bleak look of hunger in
their eyes made their way into the foundries and factories. But the
native workers met them with active hate. The protest flowered omi-
nously into riots everywhere in the East. Gradually they died down,
only to flare up again with increased violence.
David found life at his forge more and more irksome. He was the
hero of the village children, the friend of the passing traveler. Always
it was hello and goodbye, as the wagon wheels rolled past. He was
always there. That is, his great body was there, bending over the glow-
ing metal. But his active, imaginative mind was off with the horse he
had just shod—headed for Lancaster. There it would be left, and the
man who so casually had waved him farewell would go on to Buffalo,
and from there across those great unknown plains and hills to the El
Dorado of the Sierra Nevadas. Gold. It seemed as if the whole country
[6]
 THE JOHNSONS OF CHESTNUT HILL

was moving west for the gold. Two of David's teamster friends had
started out the week before. Just yesterday he had heard of one of the
poorest workers f r o m Germantown, who had toiled long hours in a
grist mill on the Wissahickon—now he was back from the West and
had bought a four-story house in Philadelphia.
Sudden wealth was on all sides. Not so much from the gold as from
the new industries, cotton mills, lumber yards, and ships and shipping
in these parts. Blacksmithing, which had seemed so important a few
years ago, was just a menial task for one who lacked courage and brain
to grab the greater opportunities of these swift days.
Tomorrow he would speak to Elizabeth. No use staying here grubbing
out a bare living. John would have the grand new world for his own.
But tomorrow the young wife would have another baby to think
about. No time now to consider traveling over the perilous plains. That
was no place for the infant son of a Graver wife. Here in the East
were known pastures, a sure living, a sound roof.
William was not such a self-reliant youngster as John. With two chil-
dren Elizabeth was tied closer to her home, but she still listened to
David's bits of gossip. They had caught a runaway slave right down in
Germantown just a few days ago, carted him off to Virginia. In Ply-
mouth Meeting, just four miles up the Pike from Chestnut Hill, the
Quakers were holding abolitionist meetings. Not openly, David had
heard, but secretly, in each other's houses. There was talk of opening
the little meetinghouse for discussion, but public opinion was too
strong for that. Philadelphia—and the little villages and towns for a
wide radius about it—was still a Tory stronghold. No longer the first
city of the land, it still was the conservative, quiet, well-upholstered
guardian of colonial elegance and manners and reactionary opinion.
Northward, however, the little communities that followed the gentle
teachings of George Fox, openly and covertly, held their abolition meet-
ings and operated several stations on the underground railway.
Another election came; there were new occasions and endless pos-
sibilities for heated argument. But always the central themes remained
the same—slavery and the broader plains and wider horizons to which
the brain of the smith was geared. Day after day now, Elizabeth would
be stopped in her chores by the silence at the forge. The hammer must
wait while David ambled across the street or next door. Always there
was new excitement. Perhaps Elizabeth grew a bit impatient at these di-
gressions—and Elizabeth was no woman to disapprove in silence.
The children—there were three now—were coming along nicely, and
John was big enough to run errands for his mother and do little things
around the place for David. Now they might really get somewhere.
Why, the dullest carpenter could command four times city wages out
where towns were going up overnight!
[7]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

Elizabeth might wonder. She had heard tales too. She had listened to
David's stories of the goings-on in these pioneer towns. Few of the
travelers who stopped their horses at the Johnson posts suspected the
seething fires of ambition that smoldered beside the forge. Not that his
calling was a thing any man in the village would scorn. The combina-
tion of strength and skill, of brawny arms and deft stroke, was suffi-
ciently rare to command respect from old as well as young.
It was a bitter draught for David to work endlessly at his tasks, while
the prospect of distant horizons beckoned, and the sun rose and set in
an aura of adventurous excitement.
That was a day when disillusion in the brownstone fronts of the city
and the taverns of the village was dissolved in dissipation. There was
sodden despair on the streets of Philadelphia of a Saturday night. The
long hours of toil found their release, but there were other things that
weighed more heavily—disappointment, disapproval, and stony silences.
The Gravers were able and ambitious, and tolerant of all things but
failure. Many of them were pushing steadily ahead in these bustling days.
David, once sunk in the general gloom, was now utterly crushed by the
glorious burst of apparent prosperity—the bright silks and new satins,
the twinkling candelabras, blazes of wax candles, glittering equipages
and prancing horses, the thunder of brass bands and fireworks. The ap-
pearances of the Johnson family in the little church became infrequent
and then ceased.
David finally made a partial surrender to his routine. Elizabeth was
right. There was no place in the unknown for his growing family. Alfred,
the youngest, was bright and clever; William, a mischievous little fel-
low, full of ideas, afforded the Johnson home constant excitement. But
John early became the man of the house.
The wooded hills and open fields on all sides formed a splendid play-
ground for the growing boys. The ground was the highest for miles
around; in the valleys were age-old rocks and along the gorge of the
Wissahickon unending wonders of Nature's handiwork. The boys
roamed over the hills; they skated and sledded, swam and fished, and
hunted for birds' nests and small game. But John had little time for
knocking about with the village boys. Spring and summer he swam in
the creek, but mainly their games and pranks seemed futile. Even in
those early years he sensed that it was important not to waste time.
There was no time to waste. His mother needed all the help he could
give. As the years went on, the needs of the family increased more rap-
idly than the income. Elizabeth found it expedient to put her early
training to practical use. She brought out her sewing machine where
it was accessible day and night, laid in a stock of needles and thread,
and let it be known around that she now was maintaining a millinery
establishment, with notions and trimmings on the side.
[8]
 THE JOHNSONS OF CHESTNUT HILL

Chestnut Hill was a close community in those days. True, all did not
move in the same circle. Nevertheless everyone knew what everyone else
was doing. Many needed help in those troubled days. There was no
organized relief, but there was a good neighbor policy and no one was
permitted to starve or freeze. Henry J . Williams, comfortably settled
attorney, who had married Julia, daughter of the almost legendary Dr.
Benjamin Rush, asked his clergyman to let him know of any cases of
destitution. This, the usual procedure of the more fortunate, took many
forms. Accordingly the elegant ladies of Main Street as well as the
farmers' wives learned that Elizabeth Graver Johnson was taking in
sewing. They took for granted that her work would be superior; so,
slowly but steadily, her clientele grew. John soon had a steady job as
errand boy.
There were, perhaps, more appropriate chores he might have found
at the smithy, but his father's powerful form and easy motion seemed
to exclude all but the visitor on the threshold, seemed to scoff at any
need for help. Besides, John was more sympathetically bound to his
mother.
There is a pleasant story about the child Johnson.
One day two ladies came into the little store and noticed the dark
head bent over a picture book. They were attracted to him, and Mrs.
Thayer asked his mother her plans for his future.
"He's such a strong boy, I guess he'll follow his father in the black-
smith trade," she answered. " B u t John thinks he would like to go to
high school and be a lawyer."
The lady nodded toward him.
"Send him to me to read in my library. I like little boys."
The invitation met with ready acceptance. There was no public
library in Chestnut Hill then, and the one pay library was more often
closed than open. An ambitious young student did not pass up the
opportunity to browse among really good books. The few volumes in
the homes of his friends and family—except for the textbooks of his
aunts—were mostly romances and novels. There was little time or in-
clination for serious reading in the fabulous forties. Nor had the new
writings of Emerson and Lowell seeped into the village.
John's mother had found time in the midst of all her other duties to
teach him to read and write. At an early age he was sent to the Harmony
School, the first public school building in Chestnut Hill, at Highland
Avenue and Shawnee Street—where the fire station later stood. The
excitement over the erection of the school and the proper place of edu-
cation in the community, was reflected in the name.
The teachers were delighted with John's work. The Misses Graver
were proud to point him out a9 their nephew; his mother beamed over
[9]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

the congratulations of her friends. Everyone was interested in the

work of the new school and in the boys and girls.
The years went on. The hoofheats on the threshold cobbles were now
an old refrain. The stages to the city still clattered by each hour, but the
railroad was now operating between Germantown and the City, and there
was even talk of extending it up to the Hill. That would be a great sight
—the Baldwin steam engine, which ran in dry weather, but gave way
to horses when rain made the tracks slippery. And the iron horse was
penetrating farther and farther into the wondrous West, and the electric
telegraph was bringing news from the great cities. Europe was a seething
caldron, boiling over into the New World.
On special occasions the Johnsons were taken down to Philadelphia
to see the busy shops, the quaint, tree-lined avenues, the stately colonial
mansions, with their quiet gardens, sweet with magnolias and honey-
suckle and roses. A friendly peace and Quaker repose lay over its cob-
blestone pavements and gas-lighted buildings.
The pattern of each of the boys was becoming clearer. Alfred, slight
and brooding, filled his head with figures and calculation; William had
the practical touch, and cared nothing for book-learning, but conceived
new plans for money-making. He was quite impatient of his older
brother's careful studies and closer scruples.
John's report cards buttressed the family assurance. David smiled
with satisfaction over his brilliant son; mentioned him with studied
casualness to the folk in the great carriages that stopped by his door.
But he looked with trepidation to the day when John would share the
forge.
Elizabeth bit her lip and pushed harder on her needle. She beamed
at the praise, and behind her smile was something stronger than com-
placent pride.
Finally, the easy days of the Harmony School were coming to an end.
David brought home the local paper one night and pointed out a notice
to his wife:

There will be an examination of the schools in the upper ward of

the Chestnut Hill School. There is no doubt, the attendance will be
large, and the occasion an interesting one. All should attend to encour-
age by their presence these public examinations so as to stimulate by
their presence pupils and instructors.

"John will show up fine," David declared with easy assurance. The
reports of the Misses Graver had confirmed his own observation of his
son's maturity and sound common sense, his quiet confidence and ready
dispatch.
It was then, no doubt, that Elizabeth told her husband her plan. John
[10]
 THE JOHNSONS OF CHESTNUT HILL

was not only going to take this e x a m i n a t i o n ; he was later to take the
examinations at the Central High S c h o o l .
He was not going into the blacksmith shop with his father. He was
going to the High S c h o o l .
It was a bold thought f o r that day.

[11]
 II

The Central High School

I n T H A T day, with education less

universal, there was a keener interest in the school system, and a wide-
spread optimism that education would make men good. It was a naive
belief, that evil arose solely from ignorance, but there was hope and
comfort in it.
And to the community interest in education, to the leading position
of the Central High School in his own city, to his own work as an out-
standing student of character and promise, Johnson owed his chance
to enter the narrow gate of the law.
J o h n and his classmates set off for the examinations, spurred by the
final instructions of their teachers and the interest of the village. T h e
High School was the city's only public institution of higher learning and
served the best-equipped boys from all parts of the city. Merchants'
sons competed with factory workers' sons: the well-dressed scion of the
city lawyer toed the mark with the patched farm-boy.
Here were a few hundred serious boys working their hardest to absorb
the stiff curriculum planned by the best educational minds of the
country. Built in 1 8 3 8 with money granted from the surplus in the
United States Treasury, Central High School was the first institution of
its kind outside of New England. Its birth was not achieved without a
struggle.
T h e public school system had led a precarious life through its brief
twenty years, frowned upon by conservative citizens, supported by
meager doles, frequently to the point of extinction. At best, the Lan-
casterian system, as it was called, was designed to provide the merest
rudiments of learning to the underprivileged children of the state.
Middle-class families refused to send their children, even though private
school tuition was a heavy item.
In 1831 Stephen Girard's bequest had given public education its
first real impetus. More than establishing his famous college for or-
phaned white boys, he created a new feeling in the mind of the public.
In the legislature Thaddeus Stevens, not yet obsessed solely by a loath-
[12]
 THE CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL

ing of slavery and of the South, spoke on behalf of public education.

The maintenance of even the poor schools of his day seemed such a
burden to the populace that they were to be abandoned. It smacked of
communism—reading and writing for the masses, a most dangerous
experiment, and at the expense of the "haves" too!
Said Stevens:

The blessings of education shall be conferred on every son of Penn-

sylvania, shall be carried home to the poorest child of the poorest in-
habitant of the meanest hut of your mountains.

The schools were saved. At the same time efforts were being made to
improve the elementary schools; a movement was also started for a
high school—a wildly radical idea. By 1834, however, the educators had
pushed an act through the Legislature providing for a school tax, and
in 1836 this act was amended to provide for the education of all chil-
dren over four years of age. The same legislation provided for "one
central high school for the full education of such pupils of the public
schools of the First School District as may possess the requisite quali-
fications."
Nothing was spared in equipment for the high school. For a long
time it was an educational showpiece. In 1845, two English members
of the Society of Friends spent several months in this country studying
the school system. More than one-third of their report was devoted to
the Central High School. They noted four hundred boys selected from
all classes of society, studying under masters and professors of the
same attainments as those of many of our colleges.
Not even Harvard had such a fine observatory. Some of the instru-
ments were borrowed occasionally by the United States Naval Ob-
servatory. This emphasis on astronomy, and other branches of science,
was the inspiration of the school's first President, Alexander Dallas
Bache, great-grandson of Benjamin Franklin, and Professor of Natural
Philosophy and Chemistry at the University of Pennsylvania. History
and English were not slighted. There were lectures on Anatomy and
Physiology also.
Dr. Bache resigned in 1842 to be succeeded by John Seely Hart,
Professor of Languages at the College of New Jersey, which later be-
came Princeton University. He remained until 1858, and during his
reign the school became known as "The People's College," with the
right to confer degrees.
The Harmony group with which Johnson went forth to compete was
the most personable offering the village school ever made. The result of
the examination taken by boys from every bailiwick in and around the
city was watched with keen interest. With Consolidation in the air,
local rivalries were tense. The boys lived up to their teachers' hopes.
[13]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

T h e H a r m o n y Class o f ' 5 3 was the largest ever admitted f r o m any

consolidated school during the life of the examination system. Further-
more, their grades were up near the top. J o h n s o n entered sixth in a
class of one hundred and fourteen with a rating of 7 9 . 3 . He had just
passed his twelfth y e a r ; the average age was fourteen and a h a l f .
T h e l o c a l boys' t r i u m p h was a cause for public celebration in Chest-
nut H i l l . T h e newspaper devoted liberal space on its first p a g e ; fra-
ternal organizations invited teachers, principals, or any one educa-
t i o n a l l y m i n d e d to talk about the superior brains of the town boys.
T h e first report cards were not only of interest to mothers and fathers.
T h e whole c o m m u n i t y wanted to know how J o h n Johnson was holding
on, how Nelson H a a s was doing, and the progress of David Hinkle,
H e n r y Lentz R e x , T o m R e x , H e n r y A. S t o l l m a n , and the Sellers boy.
T h r o u g h o u t the entire f o u r years, the village followed the advance of
its b r i g h t sons. Consolidation with Philadelphia, which came the year
following the e x a m i n a t i o n , did not remove community barriers. T h e r e
still was just as much rivalry between Chestnut Hill and Germantown;
between Southwark and Northern Liberties.
T h e initial showing o f the boys from the H a r m o n y S c h o o l was for-
tunate. Coming f r o m a school fourteen miles from the city, the youngsters
might have been l o o k e d down upon. Many of the city boys, and even
those f r o m Germantown and rural districts, had gone to good private
schools f o r their p r i m a r y and g r a m m a r school training. T h e y might
have given the outsiders a feeling of hopeless inferiority. But these
p a r t i c u l a r outsiders h a d c o m e out on t o p ; they had passed a p r i m a r y
hurdle at the outset. Y o u n g J o h n s o n set the pace for the little group.
M a n y of the b o y s held the high grades they started with all through
the course. S o m e did better. J o h n s o n did better each year. He was out
in front in his second year, and never was headed after that.
T h e l o n g j a u n t f r o m Graver's L a n e to the center of the city was no
hardship to the y o u n g student. Often he walked to Germantown, and
sometimes all the way to school.
At the time he started, the Central High School still occupied its
o r i g i n a l site on J u n i p e r Street, below M a r k e t — o p p o s i t e Centre Square,
where later the towering City Hall was to be erected. However, in that
same year the high school building was sold to the Pennsylvania Rail-
road, which in turn sold it to young W a n a m a k e r as a site for his big
store.
F o r a y e a r J o h n h u r r i e d through the handsome Ionic portico to his
classes. T h e next S e p t e m b e r they were moved to the new school, a
seventy-five-thousand-dollar building provided by the sale of the old
structure, so that neither h o m e of Philadelphia's first high school cost
the city a penny.
In m a n y ways J o h n was a raw youngster when he started his school-
[14]
 THE CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL

ing in the c i t y — t h e n a great overgrown town that h a d passed the

quarter million mark, compactly lodged between the Delaware and the
S c h u y l k i l l , sprawling m o r e widely north and south. T h e tall boy with
his broad shoulders, big hands and feet, and j u s t about enough up-
holstering to cover the frame, mirrored the thriving industry about him.
As he trudged along the Pike early in the m o r n i n g , he looked like a
migratory worker, the huge lunch package dwarfing the f o r m i d a b l e
stack of books.
He swung along, looking straight ahead, with a slight frown between
his far-seeing eyes. T h i s was not a pose, n o r was it indifference to the
scene about h i m ; it was simply economy. He had less time to spare
now than ever; not enough time to c o m m i t to memory all the studies
the stiff courses required. S o he did additional work en route to school
and home.
His father's health was failing, and the burden upon his mother's
little business was greater than ever. J o h n ' s c a p a c i t y f o r work was as
much an inheritance of his mother's strong will and nervous energy as
his father's rugged build. T h e business of c a r i n g f o r her h o m e , h e r
husband, and three growing boys was m o r e than enough to have occu-
pied a woman of her d a y ; in addition, she m a n a g e d to run her little
shop on the side. J o h n ' s and brother W i l l i a m ' s and Alfred's clothes
were not " s t o r e b o u g h t . " T h e y were made in the evenings, after chores
were done, by Elizabeth's skilful needle. And because Elizabeth's needle
was skilful, J o h n did not stack up badly with the other boys at the
high school. Most clothing was home-made in those days, by mother
or by a seamstress who c a m e to the house. Only the really wealthy
boys never sported a patch toward the end of a suit's life.
When there were no suits to be fashioned or patched, Mrs. J o h n s o n
cut up the no-longer useful garments of h e r husband and three boys,
and through the long winter evenings she crocheted throw-rugs with a
big wooden needle. Sometimes when the garments had worn thin, she
followed the practice of the m o r e prosperous households and cut them
into strips, to be sewed together, wound into great b a l l s and c a r r i e d
off to the m i l l where they would be woven into carpet lengths.
T h e r e were few attractions that could l u r e J o h n f r o m his beaten
path to and f r o m the school. H e never was much of a hand at snow
fights, although the snowballs flew with swift precision across the icy
bushes in Centre Square, missing skittish horses picking their way over
the sleet of B r o a d and Chestnut Streets, o r whirling past the ear of a
mule plodding up Market Street f r o m the wharves.
Traffic had to make way f o r the boys when it was snowball season,
or during any impromptu game which made the b o y s forget the dignity
o f their years and position. A fire was a general summons which swept
even J o h n s o n a mile or so off his course. It was the day of volunteer
[15]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

fire companies, when at the signal the hook-and-ladder and hose car
sprang into action behind puffing, snorting, dashing horses, and in-
tolerance and party rivalry broke into violent conflict. A fire meant
a riot. T h e riots were so much e n j o y e d by the participants that if the
summoning fires lagged, one would crop out mysteriously at a con-
venient point between the two territories. South Philadelphia—the
Moyamensing Hose C o m p a n y — s t o o d for the R o m a n Catholic Church
and the Democratic P a r t y . T h e F a i r m o u n t E n g i n e Company and the
Shiffler Hose Company championed Protestantism and the Whigs.
T h e fires and fights, the clattering horses, the clamoring, shuffling
cattle and squealing pigs on their way to the stockyards, all went to
make up distracting noises which the school directors considered too
much for the boys. T h e move f r o m the Ionic P o r t i c o into the uptown
building at B r o a d and Green was a retreat. After that, J o h n had little
time to visit the heart of the city.
He did not absorb information so easily that he was careless of
studying or spending time on research. Nor was his mind of the pre-
cocious brand that develops rapidly to a certain point, then is apt to
relax. He had a strong, capable m i n d to match his physique. He was
quick to learn and tenacious to hold what he learned. His memory was
truly phenomenal. D u r i n g his f o u r years at the high school, he is re-
ported to have committed to memory the entire works of Shakespeare.
On the stage or train, or walking up the P i k e to deliver packages f o r
his mother, J o h n had his mind on his studies. T h e shaded old
porch that clung to the side o f the little J o h n s o n home had worn,
paintless floorboards where the boy paced as he went through his les-
sons in the late afternoon.
Although he was quiet and retiring, he had a fierce ambition to suc-
ceed. Most of the boys in his class had so much more, and J o h n ,
visiting their homes though seldom, saw enough to understand. In addi-
tion to minds keen enough to pass the stiff entrance requirements and
to keep up the pace, such lads as J . Shipley Newlin had f a m i l y , social
position, and wealth back of t h e m — t h e entrée to Philadelphia's un-
assailable ramparts. I n the City of B r o t h e r l y Love all these were doubly
important f o r any real achievement.
J o h n knew his own abilities, and gave way neither to envy n o r to
self-pity. He made up his mind to become a lawyer. At that time none
of his f a m i l y or friends knew enough to discourage him f r o m such an
undertaking; later his determination was too ingrained to be swerved
by the prospect of failure. His mother saw no reason why he should
not achieve his ambition. T h e Graver tradition of plain living and high
thinking refused to b e rebuffed f r o m its insistence that knowledge has
power to unlock all doors. A family had either to slip back or go for-
w a r d ; nothing stood still in a civilization as swift as young America's.

[16]
 THE CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL

Elizabeth's family was literate, even intellectual. They discussed serious

questions of the day; they read the Saturday Evening Post instead of
the trashy paper-backed novels common on the neighbors' kitchen
tables. Her boy was smart, he was strong and hard-working; he would
get what he wanted.
John's father was less confident. It seemed like a lot of time to be
spending over books when a bright boy could be earning his keep, or
might be up and away. Young men in these days were not bothering
about Latin and Shakespeare. They were learning a good trade, or even
hiring themselves out by the day at good wages. Why try to be a
lawyer? They never made any money; most of them had it to start
out with and took to the law just for front. Why not use his strength
and brains to better advantage? But he did not interfere with the boy,
and behind all his seeming lack of understanding he was proud of this
quiet youth who could turn a deaf ear on gold and adventure and go
steadfastly about his business.
John was off early and home late. In the winter the mornings were
cold and clear, and polished with ice; in the evenings the snow stretched
out before him like his own untried future. In the spring the long walk
down the Pike—with the horse chestnuts thick green and white with
blossoms—into the city, with its scents of mayblossom, lilac, and la-
burnum—was a great jaunt. Even the smell of the wharves from the
Delaware was a good healthy one, mixed with the tang of the open
fields. And if the summers were warm and humid, there was the mag-
nificent red and gold Fall to look forward to—apples on a stick, pump-
kin pie, bellsnickling on Hallowe'en, bonfires with the smell of dead
leaves to excite the nostrils.
The action of the scene was not so lovely. Pennsylvania was too close
to the South, too much a part of the North to be sanguine about the
slavery question. The long peaceful, almost rural city of Philadelphia
was torn within itself over the question. While the Quakers opened
stations on the underground railways, their worldly acquaintances were
shocked over the property loss when a Southern friend lost a runaway
slave.
John had but entered the school when the Know-Nothing group made
its strength felt. There was a grave recrudescence of anti-Catholic riot-
ing. The teaching of all foreign languages, even Latin, was stricken
from the roster, although Anglo-Saxon was taught at the High School
before it was included in Harvard's curriculum.
The young men watched the affairs of the nation eagerly. Some were
abolitionists; some were as pro-South as Virginians. There were mer-
chants' sons there, whose bread and butter depended on Philadelphia's
trade with the Southern states. Around the dinner table they heard a
[17]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

steady tirade against the brigandish custom of joining in the theft of

other persons' property.
There were many in the class who went about their work oblivious
of the turmoil about them. Johnson was neither indifferent nor partisan.
He was merely a young man with a stout conscience and keen sense
of justice. In his final year, when his nose was most deeply imbedded
in his books and his thoughts were turning to a job and a foothold
in the law, a decision of the highest court made news.
The campaign that had just been concluded had been a masterpiece
of political finesse. The question of runaway slaves and what was to
be done about them was a burning issue of the day. Was the owner of
a runaway slave to be permitted to go into free territory and return
him to slavery, or was the slave, once over the border, forever f r e e ? A
vastly increased number of abolitionists and a great mass of less rabid
citizens in the North had come to a settled conclusion, while south of
Mason and Dixon's Line feeling was equally insistent. All sides wanted
an answer from the rival candidates for the Presidency. Buchanan, a
Pennsylvanian, had a ready reply; he would abide by the decision of
the Supreme Court in the case of Dred Scott, the outcome of which
everyone was awaiting eagerly. He would enforce the law, whatever the
Supreme Court might decide it to be.
On this pledge he rode into office. Two days after his inauguration
the Court spoke. Then the whisper rose and soon the charge was every-
where, that the ruling had been held back because of the election,
but that the new President had known of it all the time.
The meaning of all this was lost upon most of the boys. But Johnson,
with his mind already fixed upon the law and aiming for the heights,
must have felt the intrigue like a direct blow.
No mass movements swept through the school. There were no divi-
sions along lines that were dividing the great world outside the aca-
demic halls. The backgrounds of the boys were too diverse for them to
be swayed easily by public issues; their talents too varied and too
pointed. The zeal of their teachers drove the students without stint, and
their zest for learning was sharpened by the urge to play a real part
in the world outside. In the class were Robert Coxe, later a prominent
lawyer, and William Trickett, for many years dean of the Dickinson
Law School. The graduates of the school, closely watched by the entire
city, were making their way in every field, and giving promise of great
artists, writers, industrialists, doctors, bankers, diplomats, and clergymen.
Johnson was in the Thirtieth Class, and could already look back upon
the achievements of the men who had preceded him.
It was the beginning of a long list of high-school graduates who
gained prominence in the affairs of the city, state, and nation. In the
First Class was George Harding, who had gone to New York, and was
[18]
 THE CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL

to achieve fame as a jurist and as the leading patent lawyer of the coun-
try. Edward Clark, who followed closely after him, was to become even
better known as the founder of an important banking house that rose
and fell, and rose again; more widely as the bank where Jay Cooke
first learned the hundred varieties of coin and paper that circulated, as
well as the important customers. In other early classes were Charles
Cramp, the first of four brothers who attended school there and later
went into shipbuilding; John Liggins, the first missionary to Japan;
Ignatius Donnelly, who went to Congress, served Jay Cooke, and dis-
covered that Bacon wrote Shakespeare; Frank R. Stockton, who wrote
"The Lady and the Tiger"; Henry George, who styled himself journalist
and economist, and ran for Mayor of New York.
In these classes were an adjutant general and a brigadier general
of the United States Army, the military governor of Santiago, and a
general in the Cuban Army. There were a Nebraska senator, who pre-
sided over the Senate, a justice of the Supreme Court of New York,
and a governor of New Jersey, who also sat on the highest court of that
state. There were a dozen presidents and two score vice-presidents of
railroads and banks in Pennsylvania, New York, and other states. The
list of financiers included Peter Widener, who went from the school
into butchering, and thence into politics and street railways and art;
Charles T. Yerkes, who was a traction magnate in Philadelphia, Chicago,
and London. Betwixt and between, his figures went awry. He served a
term in prison, and became best known as "The Financier" and "The
Genius" of Theodore Dreiser.
The list was long and imposing. It included doctors like W. W. Keen
and Jacob Solis-Cohen, manufacturers, educators, state officials, lawyers
of high and low degree; Isaac Leopold Rice, who fathered Electric Boat
and a forgotten gambit of the chessboard that bears his name. A news-
paper proprietor, William Singerly, who founded the Record, and
Frank K. Hippie, who headed a large trust company, two men whose
lives ended in tragedy.
But mere names of those who were to occupy key posts in every
field of activity could not convey the solidarity and prestige of the
High School tradition. Any timidity that the son of the village black-
smith might have felt in stepping out into the world was dissipated
by his leadership in such an institution. It was enough to make a boy
feel already on the threshold of success, to have his near perfection
attested by a mark that scraped p a r ; to deliver the Honorary Address
at the graduation exercises, where Elizabeth and David—who had been
feeling poorly of late—rubbed shoulders with the gentry and sub-
stantial citizens from every part of the metropolitan city. The good
wishes and plaudits of relatives and neighbors were a necessary stim-

[19]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

ulus, as John turned his serious young eyes to the problem of finding
a place for himself.
His world was a cold one. There were too many lawyers in Phila-
delphia. The neat shingles gained patina more easily than their owners
won clients. In the few big offices there were enough sons, sons-in-law,
nephews, and young cousins to fill the needs for scriveners and errand
boys—coveted positions if surrounded by the magic aura of the law
office. It was the Central High School, its position in the community,
the pride it instilled in old grads and influential Philadelphians which
came to John's rescue. All his strength and charm, wit and skill, might
have gone untested since he lacked the social touch, had it not been
that attorney Rush reached into this noted grab-bag of promising
youth and drew forth its star pupil, to confer on him the dignity of
office boy.
For, at the moment, the demands of the irascible and gouty bar-
rister Rush were too exacting to be met by one of the family. The order
went to the principal of the High School for the "best boy" in the
graduating class to fill the lowest rung in the ladder of the law in the
office of Benjamin Rush, Esquire.
The verdict of the faculty was unanimous. So it came about that, as
the nation writhed in the new grip of commercial panic and civil com-
motion, and worried men and fearful women saw portents in the sky,
another young hopeful stepped out into a slightly mad and highly
feverish world. John needed more than his school diploma and his
stout courage. At home, his mother was putting up a brave front under
disheartening circumstances. Only the new horse cars on the Pike,
drawing the City closer to the village, and making things a bit easier
for her boy, seemed a hopeful sign.

[20]
 Ill

The Rush Office

T A HERE is a tenuous link between

the career of young Johnson and the achievements of Benjamin Frank-
lin. In the home of Franklin in London, Benjamin Rush, postgraduate
medical student, met the notables of the English capital. From the re-
putedly close-fisted envoy, he received the substantial moneys as well
as the encouragement for his further medical studies in Paris.
In the law office of his grandson, another Benjamin Rush, young
Johnson, duly certified product of the public school system, found his
first job. It was not exactly the position the young bachelor of many
arts envisioned as he plugged for his diploma through the long, cold
nights. With the laurel still green on his brow and the praises of friends
and teachers still ringing in his ears, the job of general office boy was
something more than a let-down. His official title of "scrivener" meant
simply that he copied hundreds of legal papers, served summonses and
subpoenas, ran errands and jumped at a signal. The salary was equally
uninspiring and could be spent easily in getting from home to office
if he gave himself the luxury of taking the new horse cars on the Pike.
Johnson, however, had the Graver business sense as well as the in-
tellectual flair. He wrote a good, round, conveyancing hand, and soon
developed such an aptitude for engrossing deeds and copying legal
papers that he was doing most of this work in the office. In addition,
he was encouraged to undertake similar jobs for clients and friends of
his employer. To this specialty he added the collection of rents for
conveyancers and real estate men as well as for lawyers, and the service
of legal papers. A widening circle of business acquaintances was a
happy result of these chores. The odd sums that he received added up
to a tidy amount.
Times were bad. A great panic had come out of the West, leveling
banks and business houses in the city. Work was hard to get and paid
but little. The years that followed John's entry into the world of affairs
had been a rude awakening after the national dreams of mansions in
the wilderness.
[21]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

His father's health failed rapidly. Defeat and frustration had done
their work. In 1859 David Johnson died. Johnson was still in his teens,
William and Alfred just old enough to understand. Elizabeth drew her
little family closer to her as they turned their backs on the quiet burial
ground off the busy avenue.
There was no pause for self-pity. The hats in the neat parlor of her
home were fashioned with greater care and seriousness; the trimmings
and notions were laid out in orderly rows. John took on one more
job. On his return from a long day in and out of the office, he delivered
hats and dresses.
But the bookshelves in the Rush library still invited exploration. At
first these forays into the law had been brief exploits to clear up a
doubtful point—a Latin phrase, a special pleading, or a chance remark
that had cropped up in the course of an overheard conversation. Soon
he was plunging into the well-worn books of law as other boys flung
themselves into medicine or music, or oil, or sport, or adventure.
Luckily Elizabeth understood and urged him on. She rejected the
complacent view of bankers and business men that formative years were
not to be wasted in study beyond the three R's.
Benjamin Rush understood, too. He might be irritable at times, but
a deep strain of kindness underlay quirks of temper and impulsiveness.
He appreciated the caliber of his young assistant, and was grateful
for the excellence of the work which gave him time for his hobbies
outside the law.
Soon the Rush office boy was lost in his routine by day, and Black-
stone, Coke, and Littleton by night. Each morning he passed the em-
porium of young Wanamaker, who dispensed bargains at a firm price
and was rapidly establishing himself as a smart merchant. In Cleveland,
Rockefeller, just out of his teens, was forging ahead in the dry-goods
business; in Pittsburgh, Carnegie and Frick; in a remote outpost of
Minnesota, J i m Hill; and right here under his own eye, Cassatt and
Cooke and a hundred other keen boys knew all the answers, and were
not wasting their special talents on booklearning.
The tempo of the Rush office was a stately one. The Rush business
was by no means unimportant. Rush relatives were active in all phases
of the city's life. Clients made up in quality what they lacked in num-
bers. As his patron spent much time away from his office, the work
rested more heavily on Johnson. The efforts of his chief were afflicted
by a slow atrophy that precedes retirement. John's nimbleness proved
an effective antidote.
Between tasks there were always the unexplored law books. He had a
lighter side too, a youthful humor. The office was the frequent rendezvous
for the Rush clan, and the rooms often vibrated with the shouts of the
Rush children. Johnson took on the additional task of keeping them
[22]
 THE RUSH OFFICE

quiet and amused. On the top of a mahogany bookcase he kept a

bizarre collection of puppets. These he would bring down with all the
ceremony of a court crier opening an important session. His huge
hands were remarkably clever with the little figures, and his histrionics
equally adroit. Sometimes the play was Hamlet, with the young im-
presario, who knew his Shakespeare, suiting his voice to every role.
Often the drama was strictly legal. A trial of one of the local courts
was reenacted. The puppets exhibited the eccentricities of the judges
on the bench—of Hare or Sharswood, or they mimicked the lawyers,
the dignity of Biddle, the aloofness of Rawle, or the mouthings of Hub-
bell. In a criminal case the stutterings of a terrified prisoner were
thrown in for good measure. Astonished visitors tiptoed out of the
office in bewilderment.
A year after Johnson entered his office, Benjamin Rush gave up his
practice and left for England. His brother, J. Murray Rush, was glad
to take the young scrivener into his own office, which carried on the
affairs of the family. About this time John began to make frequent
visits to the office of Henry Williams, another Rush kinsman, for whom
he did odd jobs. The older lawyer, who was also nearing retirement,
had more than a casual interest in the bright son of a Chestnut Hill
neighbor. He had watched the boy grow up and was attracted by his
solid worth and ready resourcefulness.
John lingered in the office of Williams. Here he met William F.
Judson, who had been admitted to the bar only a year before, after
making his mark at the University. Already his force and ability were
recognized. On his too-slender shoulders rested much of Williams'
business. The latter was counsel for the Pennsylvania Company, which
had started with insurance and annuities, but had turned to a less
crowded field of special corporation work. It was the first organization
of its kind in the country, and also controlled many large estates. Its
counsel was special adviser for each estate under its care, and since its
business was increasing rapidly, there was a steady overflow into Jud-
son's hands. As the press became heavier, he found Johnson's aid in-
dispensable. Although the latter was still in his teens, he was entrusted
with really important tasks.
Serving papers and copying letters and briefs brought Johnson into
contact with lawyers and conveyancers; he met the judges. As in all
offices the complete docket of every case was kept up to date to conform
with the official pages in the Prothonotary's office.
The actual work could inspire only an unusual young man. The
common law itself, and the system of pleading then in vogue, had grown
up over five feudal centuries. Both had to bend to conform to the ways
of a new day and a new continent. The law itself yielded gracefully
to the new facts; the more rigid code of pleading resisted stoutly.
[23]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

The textbooks of Chitty and Stephen offered some guidance. Com-

mon-law pleading was a rigorous introduction to legal practice. The
preliminary battles that led up to actual trial held terrors for the most
capable veterans of the bar. Getting down to the real issue combined
searching analysis with the rigors of the third degree. The pleas, re-
joinders, rebutters, and sur-rebutters were hazards which only the most
wary might avoid. The terminology was medieval and the insistence
upon form terrifying.
The Rush office, according to custom, had its favorite collection of
written forms, which practice or the textbooks indicated would get past
the hurdles of special pleading. Johnson had to write out all papers,
writs, affidavits, rules, and briefs, in longhand, not once but three or
four times. He dug into old folios, mastered the multitude of rules,
charted the traps and pitfalls, and added these to his store of sub-
conscious knowledge.
Within a year after Johnson entered his office, J . Murray Rush died.
It was natural that his assistant should join Judson. Williams had re-
tired, and the young lawyer needed help more than ever. The work of
the office was heavy, and the scope of Johnson's duties expanded
rapidly. He had little time to brood over the sorry state of the nation's
affairs. The forays of John Brown and his sons into Virginia had indeed
created a wave of excitement in the city.
In his new post Johnson was absorbing even more of the intricacies
of the profession. The door between his desk in the outer room and his
chief's private office was always open—affording excellent opportunity
for him to study office conduct. He heard not only interviews between
clients and counsel, but between associate counsel, plotting the course of
litigation, or opposing counsel, sounding each other out on points of
the case.
Alluring as the prospect was, the possibility of becoming a lawyer
was not one which the average boy might seriously consider. The costs
of preparation and the obstacles in the path of fledgling lawyers were
great; the requirements for admission to the bar vague. The law schools
of the day were casual. Their courses were merely offered to supple-
ment the important office preparation.
The "Law School of the University of Cambridge, Mass.," advertised
in the newly founded Legal Intelligencer:

The instructors in the school are

Hon. Joel Parker, LL.D., Royal Professor
Hon. Theophilus Parsons, LL.D., Dane Professor
Hon. Emory Washburn, LL.D., University Professor

The course of instruction embraces the various branches of the com-

[24]
 THE RUSH OFFICE

mon law and of Equity, Admiralty, Commercial, International and Con-

stitutional Law and the Jurisprudence of the United States.

There were added inducements:

T h e law library consists of about 1 4 , 0 0 0 volumes, and as new works

appear they are added and every effort is made to render it complete.
Students may enter the School in any stage of their professional
studies or mercantile pursuits, and at the commencement of either term,
or in the middle or other part of a term. They are at liberty to select
what studies they will pursue according to their view of their own wants
and attainments.
Two terms of 2 0 weeks each year with a vacation of 6 weeks at the
end of each term.
During the winter vacation the Library is opened, warmed and
lighted for the use of members of the School.

The disinclination to throng into the law might be traced to the nar-
row gate which guarded the entrance to the profession. A young man
must first register in a recognized office. That was by no means easy.
There were only a handful that measured up, and registration fees were
uniformly high. He might recall that when George Washington placed
his favorite nephew, Bushrod Washington, as student in the office of
James Wilson, he enclosed a note for one hundred guineas in the letter
of introduction for the future Supreme Court Justice. T o be sure Wilson,
later a Supreme Court Justice himself, as well as member of the Con-
stitutional Convention, and first Professor of Law at the University
of Pennsylvania, represented the top of the profession. But the scale of
fees had substantially increased by the middle of the nineteenth century,
even among those of slighter reputation.
There was, in addition, a social barrier. T h e links by blood or mar-
riage between most of the leading members of the bar and the bench
were numerous and not always visible to the naked eye. Breaking into
the charmed circle was a task only a vast self-assurance touching on
recklessness would attempt. T h e only sure path then as ever was marry-
ing the boss's daughter, and not a few of those who reached the top
had followed it. Without special help the orphan son of an impecunious
blacksmith might hardly consider a lawyer's career. Only experience
could qualify the student for practice; usually that experience had to
be gained in an office equipped to furnish it.
In the Rush and Judson offices, Johnson had received both guidance
and substantial favors. He had entered their doors not as a law student,
but as an office boy. Something more was necessary to assure him a
proper start. B y pure chance, this too was to be found in the Judson
office.
The atmosphere of the average office was not inviting to the young
[25]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

man who had to contribute to the family budget. John Samuel, describ-
ing the office of John Cadwalader, which was located in his dwelling
house as was the custom of the time made clear the purely amateur
status of the young men studying law.
"There was not a taint of commercialism," he wrote. "In the conduct
of the business, in his relations with his clients and students, and with
his professional brethren, mere money was not protruded as the 'end
all and be all' of duty." But money was one of the prerequisites for
entry into these rooms where money was taboo. Said Samuel:
At the close of each student's career in his office, it was Mr. Cad-
walader's custom to take him in some case then pending and return to
him as his fee at least (if no more than) the honorarium paid for his
tuition.

Such an office impressed various young men quite differently. The

legal-minded students who read law in the Cadwalader office and at-
tained distinction—George W. Biddle, Cadwalader M. Wickersham, and
George Tucker Bispham, to name but a few—often emphasized that the
relation of the preceptor in that office was not a mere formal prescribing
of studies and examination. They repeated that the office was not a mere
"legal junk shop," implying no doubt that many other offices were little
more. They reminisced that an indescribable, an imponderable thing
called "tone was not by precept but by continual example pressed on
all students."
On the other hand, the overtones of such an office were distinctly
distasteful to other bright young men, like Charles Godfrey Leland, who
spent a tortured year among its books, and then fled into literature.
Nor would such an office have suited either the temperament or needs
of Johnson, had he been able to secure admittance.
The Judson office made no claims as a training station for legal
apprentices. It offered no special routine. There was no rigid relation-
ship of preceptor and student. There was not even the kindly but ex-
ceptional custom of Judge Cadwalader of giving the newly admitted
lawyer a start by associating him in an important case.
But the two rooms on the first floor at 708 Walnut Street, piled high
with the Rush dossiers and many of the Williams files, as well as with
Judson's own business, offered far greater opportunities. The way was
clearly marked out for Johnson. His job was to equip himself to handle
the work, and to obtain formal admission to the bar. Most of his training
would have to come from his daily chores in the office, and from his own
studies after hours.
The methods of law study then in vogue contrasted sharply with the
modern case system and the emphasis upon outside research and moot
court training. Little progress had been made in codifying the law, but
[26]
 THE RUSH OFFICE

broad principles were of greater importance than isolated rulings. The

books of recognized text writers laid the foundation of a legal educa-
tion, and a few leading decisions of the English courts formed a great
matrix from which American case law was derived.
Johnson knew that, with Judson's sponsorship, admission to the bar
would not be difficult. No terrors of the modern written examination
hung over him.
Nor would the usual problems of the young interne confront him
later. Usually success at the bar came only after the first gray hairs.
Law students without substantial private fortunes were an impecunious
lot, and young lawyers of every degree earned little or nothing for the
first decade of practice. This tradition of the struggling young lawyer
was inflexible. Horace Binney, Harvard honor student, who had been
admitted to the bar in 1800, wrote in his memoirs that if he had been
compelled to season his porridge with the salt earned by his first years
he would have found it quite tasteless. Binney came of a substantial,
if not well-to-do family, but it took a series of fortunate events plus a
seat in the state legislature to put him on the way to a practice.
The experience of David Paul Brown had been even more discourag-
ing. Starting out with every advantage, the first year had netted him
precisely nothing. What was worse, not a single visitor had come into
his office—even the beggars kept away from young lawyers.
His first visitor was a brother lawyer, who came to relate a similar
record, which had been prolonged over several years. Thereupon the
two men discussed the advisability of giving up the law and moving
west into one of the territories for a fresh start.
The system dictated that any worthwhile case which might stray into
the hands of the novice must be turned over to his preceptor. This had
been merely a polite custom when the salutary tradition of employing
a senior and junior counsel for each case had been in force. But for
over a decade the practice of having two counsel on each side had been
discontinued. As a result the situation of the young barrister became
desperate. Lamented Brown: " T h e r e is no important case in which a
young man has any chance of distinguishing himself; and in an unim-
portant cause no one can distinguish himself."
Pure chance threw Brown a most unpromising case, and a further
series of accidents, aided by a genius for trial work, brought victory
and a certain recognition.
Johnson's career was therefore exceptional from the outset. In the
Judson office he was concerned only with a current schedule of work
and with preparation for the real tasks of the active lawyer. Many
problems of the profession, outside of mere matters of evidence and
pleading, lay ahead. In the library he found many books devoted not
[27]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

only to legal decisions and principles but to the ethical problems that
arise in day-to-day consultations and in courtroom trials.
Among these The Forum, by David Paul Brown, long a leader of
the bar, challenged his attention. The book had appeared in 1856, and
almost the entire bar had subscribed to it. On the list were Johnson's
friends, Benjamin and J . Murray Rush and Henry J . Williams. The
merit of the book, and the impression it made could be gathered neither
from a description of the author, nor from the initial chapters. Accord-
ing to Robert D. Coxe:

Brown was a theatrical poseur with his dandified manners, his con-
spicuously displayed gold snuff box, the elaborate costume with which
he clothed his bejewelled person, and his stilted and deliberate utter-
ance.
But the lawyer could write humorously of his own dramas, which
were frequently produced in the city:
At any rate it is not so remarkable that, with vast professional en-
gagements, I should have written two bad plays, as that I should have
been able to write any at all. I am an advocate, not a dramatist.

Though Johnson also disliked the outward manner of the author,

he was no doubt impressed by the discussion of mooted questions of
legal conduct.
Brown took sharp issue with the viewpoint maintained by Lord
Brougham in his defense of Queen Caroline before the House of Lords.
The English barrister acted on the premise that a lawyer was justified
in deceiving the court if the interest of the client warranted it. Brown's
position was the acme of good sense and sound judgment. He sought
no special immunity for the lawyer from the general rules of conduct
and good morals.
His views on suits for fees, on contingent fees, and on the obligation
of the lawyer to defend a case which he deems hopeless were duly
noted. As to the first, he advised that it did not degrade the bar to main-
tain its legal rights. Of the second, he wrote:

There never was an eminent judge on the bench who previously had
been eminent at the bar in this country who has not received contingent
fees. In fact, fees are always more or less contingent; first, it is a con-
tingency sometimes when you get them at all—then the amount must
somewhat depend upon the extent of labor, and lastly upon its success.
A lawyer rarely charges, and never receives, as much for failure as for
success. The old practice of paying beforehand does not exist, and when
it did exist, it was not as advantageous to the client . . . and it was
much more humiliating to the counsel.
He quoted William Rawle on the last point. This leader of the bar
[28]
 THE RUSH OFFICE

h a d a d m o n i s h e d a y o u n g lawyer f o r r e f u s i n g to act f o r a client w h o m

he j u d g e d guilty, despite the m a n ' s p r o t e s t s of innocence: " Y o u are a
p r e s u m p t u o u s y o u n g man to decide at t h e outset what a court a n d j u r y
can only decide a f t e r h e a r i n g all the t e s t i m o n y . "
T h e two v o l u m e s of Brown c h a r t e d a w o r t h y course. H e stressed the
g u a r d e d n a t u r e of the calling. H e c a u t i o n e d against s u i n g other mem-
bers of the b a r , a n d devoted quite a bit of space to his own zeal and
care in p r e p a r i n g cases. I m p o r t a n t was his advice to m i n g l e as m u c h
kindness as possible with the p e r f o r m a n c e of d u t y : " A n d you never
will or never ought to m a k e an enemy or lose a f r i e n d . "
On the p r o b l e m of the lawyer faced with a case that he believes
d o o m e d to fail, Brown's answer left no d o u b t : " H e is to lead the for-
lorn h o p e , t h r o w himself into the i m m i n e n t d e a d l y breach, a n d , to
use a s t r o n g figure, c o n q u e r or d i e . "
In " C a p i t a l H i n t s f o r Capital Cases," he h a d w r i t t e n : " T h e j u d g e
and j u r y , it is true, m a y take the life of the p r i s o n e r , but you are not
to give it a w a y . "
T h e r e was, of course, the u s u a l a d v i c e — a d m o n i t i o n of respect f o r
the courts, fidelity to the client, courtesy to m e m b e r s of the b a r . But
Brown held a d m o n i t i o n s f o r the bench, too. A s an active lawyer, h e
insisted that the courts owed an e q u a l duty of courtesy a n d respect
f o r the b a r . C o m m e n t i n g that the press a n d the p u b l i c tended to g l o r i f y
the bench at the expense of the b a r , he d a r e d to p o i n t out that j u d g e s
are merely lawyers who have been p r e f e r r e d f o r p u r e l y f o r t u i t o u s
reasons, often political or p e r s o n a l , a n d that they a r e n o wiser a f t e r
their elevation than b e f o r e .
T h e r e was wisdom, n o t pique, in his c o m m e n t s . H e p r a i s e d J u d g e
H a r e a n d n o t e d : " W h e t h e r a j u d g e listens o r not, h e s h o u l d seem to
listen; he is the central figure of the p a i n t i n g . "
H e was n o heretic. On m a n y mooted q u e s t i o n s h e f o l l o w e d precedent,
a n d f o r general office p r o c e d u r e r e c o m m e n d e d Ingersoll, Binney, Ser-
geant, and Chauncey as models f o r y o u n g lawyers, n o t i n g incidentally
that M r . Lewis' office was an A u g e a n stable, a n d Mr. Rawle's n o t h i n g to
boast of.
Of ethics a n d etiquette he w r o t e : " E l o q u e n c e m a y enable us to o b t a i n
a practice, b u t Ethics a n d Etiquette a l o n e c a n r e n d e r it sure and per-
manent."
H e stressed good m a n n e r s as of e q u a l i m p o r t a n c e .
" W i t h o u t these," he wrote, " t h e g o l d e n r o u n d of p r o f e s s i o n a l f a m e
can never be a t t a i n e d ; indeed n o t h i n g c a n b e a c c o m p l i s h e d . "
In those days, B r o w n ' s " T w e n t y Golden R u l e s f o r the E x a m i n a t i o n
of Witnesses" h u n g on the walls of all the law offices w h e r e J o h n s o n
t r u d g e d with his p a p e r s a n d orders. Every lawyer, y o u n g a n d old, r e a d
and digested these precepts. One y o u n g m a n u n d o u b t e d l y took to h e a r t
[29]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

a n d g u i d e d himself b y another B r o w n a p h o r i s m : " I f I should b e c o m e

r i c h , " he wrote, " I should b e c o m e indolent a n d l o s e in f a m e what I
g a i n e d in m o n e y . "
B u t one r e m a r k f a i l e d to register with or deter this legal a p p r e n t i c e
t o whom work was a r e w a r d a n d an a n o d y n e f o r all ills. " A m e r e
l a w y e r , " B r o w n h a d written, " i s a j a c k a s s , c o n d e m n e d to unremitting
toil."
T h e teachings of G e o r g e S h a r s w o o d a l s o l e f t their m a r k on the
f o r m a t i v e m i n d . T h e J u d g e who won his w a y to l e a d e r s h i p by h i s early
representation of the s t o c k h o l d e r s of the B a n k of the United States,
h a d given his entire l i f e to the law. H e s a w in its p r o c e s s e s the perfec-
tion of r e a s o n i n g ; in its p r i n c i p l e s , a b u l w a r k of the liberties won in the
R e v o l u t i o n and defined by the Bill of R i g h t s . T h e l a y notion that j u s t i c e
is something a p a r t f r o m the l a w a n d the precedents, w a s incomprehensi-
b l e to him. H e w r o t e :

N o court or j u r y are invested with any a r b i t r a r y discretion to de-

termine a c a u s e a c c o r d i n g to their m e r e notions of justice. Such dis-
cretion vested in any body of men would constitute the most a p p a l l i n g
of despotisms. Law and justice according to law, that is the only secure
p r i n c i p l e upon which the controversies of men can be decided.

E m p h a s i z i n g the necessity for a dignified a n d r e s p e c t f u l attitude

toward the court, he outlined p r o p e r conduct. Excitability or irritability
m u s t be s u p p r e s s e d . When noting e x c e p t i o n s to the opinion of the court,
the manner must be polite, never c o n t e m p t u o u s or insulting. T h e r e m u s t
b e self-possession at all times a n d u n d e r any c i r c u m s t a n c e s .
H e warned against attempts to exert secret a n d i m p r o p e r influence
on the courts. He pointed out the a d v a n t a g e s of a f a i r , open, a n d honest
attitude toward other m e m b e r s of the p r o f e s s i o n , and scored the lawyer
who attempted to win his c a s e by i m p r o p e r m e t h o d s when f a i r methods
failed. Of such m a l p r a c t i c e h e s a i d :
Nothing is m o r e certain than that the practitioner will find in the
l o n g run, the g o o d opinion of h i s p r o f e s s i o n a l brethren of m o r e im-
p o r t a n c e than that of what is c o m m o n l y called the public. T h e founda-
tions of the reputation of every truly great lawyer will be discovered
to have been laid there. S o o n e r or later, the real public . . . will in-
d o r s e the estimate of a man entertained b y his a s s o c i a t e s at the B a r . . .
H e c a l l e d f o r " e n t i r e devotion to the client's interest, w a r m zeal in
the maintenance and defence of his rights, a n d exertion of the lawyer's
utmost learning and a b i l i t y . " E v e n when the client's c a u s e w a s deemed
u n j u s t and indefensible by the lawyer, he c o u n s e l e d :

T h e advocate is not m o r a l l y r e s p o n s i b l e f o r the act of the p a r t y in

m a i n t a i n i n g an unjust cause, n o r f o r the error of the court, if they shall
f a l l into error, in deciding it in h i s f a v o r . . . the l a w y e r who r e f u s e d
[30]
 THE RUSH OFFICE

his professional assistance because in his judgment the case is unjust

and indefensible usurps the functions of both judge and jury.
He emphasized, however, that the lawyer should not take all causes
indiscriminately, but rather that he should use his rightful discretion,
wisely and justly. He should always advise the client on the merits of
his cause, but, once in the fight, he should know but one person—his
client. He quoted Brougham, but like Brown disapproved of his Lord-
ship's extreme statement that "he should strive to save that client by all
means and expedients, and at all hazards to other persons, and among
them to himself."
He drew a nice line between the duty of counsel toward a defendant
and his duty toward a plaintiff:
Counsel have an undoubted right, and are in duty bound, to refuse
to be concerned for a plaintiff in the legal pursuit of a demand which
offends his sense of what is just and right.
Judge Sharswood brought his students together once a week in his
home to discuss moot questions of office and court practice. Johnson
went there often with young Tom Hart, George Biddle, E. Greenough
Piatt, and Sam Hollingsworth. Whenever it was possible, he stole away
from the office to attend actual trials or the arguments of motions and
rules. The courts had not yet become the twenty-ring circus that baffles
the onlooker. Much of the litigation in the old Common Pleas Courts
could still be followed. On motion days in the old District Court, the
entire bar would be on hand for the student to study and admire. The
young men crowded into the courtroom, watching every move with an
expert eye, for here was a review of the city's best, here was the whole
power of the law. On their way back to the various offices, the boys would
debate the tactics and speeches with more than an amateur view.
In the Rush and Judson offices, in the courtroom and at Judge
Sharswood's round table, Johnson's deep respect f o r the legal status
was confirmed. He saw the law as a vast, smoothly functioning machine
that coordinated the experience of the past and the best thought of
the present. Here was an instrument of precision to gauge the con-
tingencies of life. From Sharswood he learned that in a complex society,
abstract justice—the notion of any individual of what is right and
proper—was an illusion. He realized clearly the tyranny of mere per-
sonal rulings, and understood the insistence of the Founding Fathers
upon a government of laws and not of men.
The path that in spite of good fortune and favoring friends wa9
beset with obstacles for Johnson, was also illuminated by much wisdom
and worn by the footsteps of men who merited respect. In New York,
Chancellor Kent had molded the common law toward a more natural
and less technical form with his lucid writings. In New England, Story
[31]
 JOHN G. JOHNSON

had capped a brilliant judicial career with appointment to the United

States Supreme Court. At home, Horace Binney, although no longer
active, was widely considered the first citizen of the city. His name was
the essence of probity and honor, and the fame of his victory in the
Girard Will Case still surrounded him. He had written simply:

I never prosecuted a cause that I thought a dishonest one, and I have

washed my hands of more than one that I discovered to be such after I
had undertaken it, as well as declined many which I perceived to be
so when first presented to me.

[32]
 IV

The Bar and the Crisis

Johnson the late fifties were

pleasantly full of action. He passed from one eager day to the next,
doing the work he liked to do, helping his family, shouldering new
responsibilities. Philadelphia had lost its place as the largest city of
the Union, but it retained its title as the most pleasant. Normally, it
was as Thackeray had found it, grave, calm, quiet.
At times, however, the air was acrid with tension and dogged effort
was needed to concentrate on daily affairs. The streets of the Quaker
City roared with the shouts of Know-Nothings assembled in conven-
tion. Complacency and evasion were racked by the insistence of the
slavery question. Propaganda was playing the curtain-raiser to inevita-
ble conflict. The white war of nerves was on; the scarlet streams of
blood would flow later. Stories of atrocities—the real vying with the
invented—crowded the press, the magazines, and books. From the con-
tested territories came tales of minority persecutions as Southern and
Northern settlers struggled for a foothold.
Plebiscites—"popular sovereignty" in those days—were hurriedly
suggested, most often with an eye to party advantage.
The mercantile and propertied classes and an influential segment of
the bar the country over for a long time did not trouble itself over
the moral issues. That was left to old-fashioned women with silly notions
of truth and righteousness, like Harriet Stowe, or to simple-minded
men like John Brown, and a fringe of lawyers that stood apart. Such
zeal in the interest of the submerged was inexplicable to minds guided
by opportunism or clouded by precedents that established the property
of one man in the body of another.
Rufus Choate voiced the preponderant views of a conservative pro-
fession—pro-appeasement, and "anti-hysterical."
But a detached attitude toward the problem was not the only one
Johnson encountered. Now coming to the office each morning on the
first train out of Chestnut Hill, he heard the discussions of excited men
and women about him; felt the nervous tension of strongly urged, diverse
[33]
Another random document with
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megfogható módon belehelyezne a sarki lakos szemléletének
világába, aki még ma is a jégkorszakkal küzködik: föltámad a
végtelen, északi fénytől piros éjjel tökéletes halotti merevségével,
hóviharok tombolnak a grönlandi jégmezők óriási lapos felületein,
melyek borzalmas sivár képével szemben az afrikai sivatag élettel
teljesnek és lakhatónak tűnik fel s amelyen szűk viskóban züllik el
egy nem értelem nélkül való nép a piszokban és elme-bénító
babonában… Nem csoda, ha itt a mithosz inkább foglalkozik minden
dolgok végével, mint egykori eredetükkel.
Az igazi afrikai négertörzsek teremtési mondái, bár e népek
kulturális haladottsága máskülönben sok tekintetben jelentékeny,
csak kevéssel emelkedik fölébe a bushmanokénak vagy
ausztráliaiakénak. Az utóbbiak kicsi fekete gyikjait a kaméleon,
Afrikának ez a különös, dülledt szemü, a hozzá hasonló szinű
mimóza-lombban mintegy elvarázsoltan függő hüllője helyettesíti,
harapófogó zerű lábaival, változékony pergamentbőrével és hosszú,
merev spirális farkával, mindenesetre olyan teremtmény, amely
minden másnál jobban beleillik a durva fetis-kultusz és a varázsló
szemfényvesztés groteszk torzvilágába. A Nilus forrásvidékeinek
területén a mangara-négerek mesélnek egy őskorról, mikor az
emberek még örökké éltek. Egyszer azonban fennhéjázók lettek s
ekkor a «nagy varázsló» haragjában a földre vetette az éggömböt és
pozdorjává tört mindent. A pusztaságba aztán egy új emberpárt
helyezett, amelynek azonban farka volt. Az asszony egy fiút és két
leányt nemzett, akik egyesültek egymással s a testvérrel kötött
házasságból az egyik leány kaméleont szült, a másik pedig egy
óriást, a holdat. A kaméleon gonosz indulatú volt és kínozta az
óriást. Erre a nagy varázsló fölvitte magához az égbe a holdat s ott
van azóta ma is. Földi származásának emlékére azonban fogynia
kell, mintha meg akarna halni s a nap irigységből foltokat égetett
arczába. A kaméleon ivadékai eközben akadálytalanúl terjedtek el a
földön. Lassankint lekopott a farkuk és halvány szinüket
megbarnította a nap. Jellemző vonása ennek a mondának, épp úgy,
mint az ausztráliainak, a töprengés azon, hogy mért nincs az
embernek is farka, mint a többi állatnak. A természeti ember nem
indult ki misztikus spekuláczióból. Számára az állatnak épp úgy van
lelke, mint neki magának. Olyan szembeötlő megkülönböztető jel
azonban, mint a farok hiánya az embernél, gondolkodóba ejtette és
– az együgyü kapcsolás naiv eredményekép – mithoszra vezette. A
mai természetvizsgáló a farok-argumentumot sem fogja már nagyon
fontosnak tartani. Különben is az anatomus ki tudja mutatni a
farkcsont szemmel látható maradványait minden ember csontvázán
és embrio-korában, az anyja méhében mindegyikünk keresztülment
egy tekintélyes farokkal fölszerelt fejlődési fokon.
Összehasonlíthatatlanúl gazdagabbá és nagyobb kört
befoglalóvá lesznek a kozmogoniai álmodozások, ha a déli tenger
népeihez és az amerikai indiánus törzsekhez fordulunk. Egyetlen
természeti népe a világnak nem gondolta ki a többé-kevésbbé
szemléletes teremtési mondák olyan szövevényét, mint a
polinéziaiak, a mikronéziaiak és a melanéziaiak a nagy, rejtelmekben
gazdag korall-óczeánban. Ujzéland déli szigetének alpesi tájától
Hawai óriási krátereinek rotyogó pokolszájáig, a kerek Atollák
pálmakoszoruin át, melyek meredek sziklapartjainak építésén
parányi növényállatok milliói dolgoztak, egész a paradicsommadár
hazájáig, Uj-Genuáig egyetlen nagy mithoszhullám hömpölyög
százféle töréssel és elhajlással. És a meztelen, bizarrúl tetovirozott
kannibálok gondolatvilágában a képzeletteljes világ-magyarázatok
gazdagsága nyilvánul, amely mögött a figyelmes természet-
megfigyelésnek nem csekély mennyisége rejlik. A polinéziai
kozmologiának világosan megfogható része azzal kezdődik, hogy
Raugi, az ég és Papa, a föld szorosan egymáson fekszenek – a
parttalan tenger képe éjszaka, amikor minden összefolyik, a tenger
nem válik el az égtől – valóban, szigetlakó modozások ezek, melyek
úgy látszik a nemlétről, az homályos fogalmak egy még előbbről való
chaosról, amelyből a föld és ég kettős fogalma már mint valami
tökéletesebb válik ki. Misztikus álmodozások ezek, melyek úgy
látszik a nemlétről, őséjszakáról, az ősvágyról szóló buddhista
spekulácziókkal csengenek össze, de lehet, hogy kissé önkényesen
és elfogultan magyarázták modern kutatók, akik maguk is szeretik a
misztikusat. Az ujzélandi maoriknál annak a szorosan egymáson
fekvő párnak gyermekei azon tanakodnak, hogyan nyerhetnének
fényt és hogyan szabadíthatnák fel a föld felszinét az ég terhétől. A
legvadabbik fiú agyon akarja ütni mind a két szülőt. Egy másik (az
«erdő ura» a neve) azt tanácsolja, hogy ne tegyék azt, csak
válaszszák el őket egymástól. Raugi, mondja, legyen ránk nézve
idegen, de Papa (a föld) mint tápláló anya velünk kell hogy
maradjon. Csak a harmadik, a szél-isten ellenzi, hogy ez az
elválasztás végbemenjen. Miután azonban a többiek megegyeztek,
megkezdik a széjjelbontást. Az erdők istenének sikerül fölemelni az
eget azzal, hogy fejét a földanyához támasztja és lábait nekifeszíti
apjának. Végre valahára örökre el vannak választva a föld és az
égboltozat és ugyanekkor világosság lesz a földön. A testvérek közt
azonban el vannak hintve a viszály magvai. A szél-isten az apához
szít, leveri az erdők urának fáit és a szárazföldre korbácsolja a
tengert. A tengeri állatok a partra menekülnek, a tengeri isten
visszaköveteli őket s ebből harcz keletkezik a tenger és a szárazföld
között is. Az erdei isten csónakot és hálót ajándékoz az
embereknek, hogy a tengert legyőzzék. Az óczeán ura azonban
felborítja a sajkákat és elnyeli a partvidéket és a falut. Csak az ég és
föld maradt mindebben a háborúban és elválásuk daczára hű
egymáshoz. Papa, a föld sóhajai mint köd gomolyognak föl. Raugi,
az ég könnyei mint harmat hullanak alá. Egyszerü nagyságában, egy
szigetről-szegetre terjeszkedő tengerjáró népre való megfogható
vonatkozásaiban ez a maori-mithosz bizonyára semmivel sem áll a
mózesi mithosznak mögötte. A részletek megváltoznak a különböző
népeknél, a beleszőtt vonások azonban mindig jellemzők. Tahitiben
egy óriási arun-növény tolja fölfelé az eget, a mikronéziai Gilbert-
szigeteken azt az istent, amelyik az ég boltját emeli, egy gigantikus
tintahal támogatja, egy másik variánsban ismét az ég épp azért
szorítja a földet, mert egy ilyen tintahal átkarolta s ezt a halat aztán a
szabadító széttépi. Elmésen rajzolják a szárazföld felbukkanását az
égből egy halászat eredményekép: egy isteni halász előbb földi
gyümölcsöket horgász ki, végül óriási fogástól dagad fel a hálója –
egy szigetet emel ki a vizből. Akaratlanúl is egy valóságos
földbetelepítés képét véljük itt magunk előtt láthatni, ahogy ez a
szigetekben gazdag déli tengeren mindig végbement: a halászokat a
jó zsákmány reménye a nyilt tengerre csábítja, egyszerre új
sziklapartot, egy új lakható korallszigetet látnak maguk előtt és a
törzs kivándorol oda. Az ember eredetét illetőleg ingadoznak a
mondák: az első emberpárt hol egymással nemzik az istenek, hol
meg kövekből teremtik. A melanéziai szigeteken Guat isten játék
közben hajlékony vesszőkből élő lényt font össze, amely egyszerre
elmosolyodik és az isten erről ismeri meg, hogy asszonyt teremtett.
Ebben a körben mindig az asszony jön létre előbb, a mi mózesi
hagyományunkkal ellentétben. Özönvíz-mondákban természetesen
nincs hiány ezen a mozgalmas földön, ahol minduntalan léket kap a
csónak a szirten, minduntalan megreszket és sülyedni kezd az
egész vulkanikus sziget, vagy mint Ujzélandban fortyogó
gőzforrások bugygyannak ki zúgva a reszkető talajból. Ezen mondák
könnyen adódó fizikai indítékainál sajátszerübb erkölcsi tartalmuk,
amely emlékeztet a bibliai Sodoma történetére, valamint a hellének
özönvíz-mondájára. Az isteneket – igy szól a mikronéziai Palau-
szigetek mondája – barátságtalanúl fogadták az emberek egy
kirándulásuk alkalmával a földön. Csak egyetlenegy asszony adott
nekik üdítő italt. A derék asszony az istenek tanácsára bambuszból
tutajt épített és a teli hold éjszakáján ezen aludt. Ezen az éjszakán
felhőszakadás tört ki és minden elmerült. Csak az asszony járt
tutaján addig, amig a haja beleakadt egy magas hegyen nőtt fa
ágaiba. Itt kiszállott, de éhen halt, mielőtt a víz lefolyott volna. Mikor
az istenek visszatértek és holtan találták, égi nőik egyikét bujtatták a
testébe, rövid időre fölélesztették és öt gyermeket nemzettek vele.
Ettől az öt gyermektől származnak a Palau-sziget lakói. A déli
tengeri mithoszok szinte kimeríthetetlen gazdagságát lehetne még
elbeszélni. Néha ez az anyag úgy tünik fel, mint valami régi, csak
töredékekben fennmaradt kultur-anyag. Ezek a törzsek a kutatás elől
még titokba vannak burkolva. E titok megfejtése nem vezetne itt sem
valami kijelentett «ősbölcseség»-hez, az ismeretes maradványok
ennek nyomát sem árulják el. Egy történeti rejtelmet azonban ki
lehetne belőlük fejteni. Az alapvonások, melyek a polinéziai
kozmogoniából a mithoszok kutatója elé lépnek, valószinüleg
ugyanazok, amelyek a Husvét-sziget partjain levő sajátságos
kőkolosszusokról merednek rá az emberre. Több száz gigantikus
kőfej áll ott, akad köztük 15 méter magas is. A kevéssé művelt,
mezitelen mai szigetlakók nem csinálhatták őket s még kevésbbé
hozhatták nehezen hozzáférhető helyükre. A szobrok hátán
olvashatatlan hieroglifák láthatók. A világtörténet minden fonala
megszakad itt, semmi sem tudósít arról, hogy hány század mered
ránk ezekből a bamba kőszemekből a korall-tenger kék tükre fölött,
milyen nép tartott itt egykor állomást, hogy aztán nyomtalanúl
eltűnjön.
Az indiánus mithoszok tömegéből itt csak néhány vonást jelzünk.
Az «indiánus» szó meglehetős tág fogalmat foglal be. A
prehisztorikus kőkorszakra emlékeztető elszigetelt délamerikai
őserdei vademberektől, akik még ma is ősi egyszerüségükben
éldegélnek, Mexiko és Peru kedvező viszonyok közt élő felföldi
lakóiig terjed, akiknél a tizenhatodik századi európai hódítók olyan
kultur-virágzást romboltak szét durva öklükkel, amelyet nagyon jól
össze lehet hasonlítani azzal az ős-babiloni kulturával, melynek
mithoszából a mi mózesi teremtési történetünk bibliai formájában
kijegeczesedett. A különleges amerikai kultura, (Kina – Japán és
Nyugat-Ázsia – Földközi-tenger mellett a harmadik nagy példa a
független emberi kulturára) bezáródik kiszámíthatatlan külső okoknál
fogva és erőszakosan abban a nagyfontosságú pillanatban, amikor,
mindenekelőtt a peruiak inka-korszakában, a napkultusz, amelyhez
a kozmogoniai mithoszok alkalmazkodtak, összeolvadt az isten
kegyelméből valóság rendszerével és a napnak a világi államfő
személyében való reprezentálódásában. A mindenféle
megfigyelésekről, homályos tapasztalati hagyományokról és
fantasztikus mese-képekről való naiv mesélgetés ideje ezen a
ponton szükségszerüen elmúlt és az az erős jegeczesedési
folyamat, amely nálunk a mózesi legendát szilárdul megállapította és
hivatalossá tette több mint egy ezredéven át, Peruban és Mexikóban
kétségkivül hasonló módon kezdődött. Másfelől az ezen
kulturczentrumok hálózatába bele nem szőtt, tehát hullámzásukba
bele nem keveredett észak- és délamerikai szabad indiánus törzsek
még teljesen a naiv mithoszban éltek és élnek. Igy tehát csak
nehezen lehet néhány vonásban karakterisztikus általános képet
nyerni erről az indiánus mithoszról. Ez azonban nem is olyan nagyon
fontos. Az a felfogás, hogy a lakott föld szigetként emelkedik ki a
vízből, itt is, mint a polinéziaiaknál, alapja a mithosznak. Az
északamerikai muszkocsi törzsnél a világ kezdetekor két galamb
húzza ki a földet egy a vízből kinyuló fűszálnál fogva. A jukutoknál a
fűszálat egy őstengerből kinyúló pózna helyettesíti, amelyre egy
isteni eredetü varju és egy sólyom száll le; ezek egy kacsát
nemzenek, amely felhozza a mélységből az iszapot. Akaratlanul is
eszünkbe jut egy iszapos gát valószerü keletkezése egy folyam-
torkolat közepében, pl. a Mississippiben, ahol eleinte szintén sás-
szálak zöldelik be a mélységet, mig végül kész van az új sziget a
lerakódott iszapból és deltára osztja a folyamot. A Bella-Kula
indiánusok szerint, kik magasan fönn északon laknak, a napot egy
holló hozta le az embereknek. Egy isteni hatalmu törzsfőnök feltüzi
az égre és hosszú kötéllel ráerősíti a földet, hogy el ne merüljön az
oczeánban. Mikor aztán az emberek egy részét meg akarja
semmisíteni, megfeszíti a kötelet, mig a vizek a hegyek fölé
emelkednek. Az özönvíz-mithosz itt sajátszerüen a szárazföld
sülyedéséhez van kapcsolva a víz megáradása vagy az égből jövő
végtelen eső helyett, mint ahogy másutt látjuk. Más indiánus
mithosz-körökben a föld egy a világtengerben heverő teknősbéka
hátán tornyosodik fel; a szintén északamerikai mandan-törzsnél az
özönvíz-eredetét abból a furcsa folyamatból vezetik le, hogy egy
indiánus, mikor egy borz-odut akart kiásni, kilyukasztotta a
teknősbéka pánczélját. A teknősbéka általában nagy szerepet
játszik. Az északamerikai algonguinok özönvíz-mondájában a jó
szellem elébe lovagol az árban fuldokló s tengeri szörnyetegektől
üldözött embernek egy teknősbéka hátán és segítséget hoz neki.
Özönvíz özönvízre tornyosul az északamerikai mithoszok világában.
Az előrehaladottabb kulturnépeknél az özönvizek szinte
periodikusan szabályozva jelennek meg. Minden napfogyatkozás
fölkeltette a peruiban az aggodalmat, hogy egy ilyen új
világpusztulás veszedelme előtt áll. Ezeknél a gyarmatlakóknál a víz
által való pusztuláshoz hozzájárult, ott, a bömbölő és tomboló
vulkánok lábánál a romboló földrengések és tűzesők gondolata.
Tekintetük a föld mélységére irányult, egy üreges alvilágra, honnan
pusztulást vagy boldogulást lehetett várni. Igy a már említett
mandanok mondáihoz tartozik a különös legenda az emberek
egykori földalatti életéről. Csak egy szőlőtő gyökerei közül szűrődött
be némi fény. A legbátrabbak fölmásztak a gyökereken és
megtalálták a dúsan megáldott felszint. De csak a felük tudott a
nyomukba jutni, a szőlőtő leszakadt egy nagyon kövér nő súlya alatt
és a visszamaradottak elől örökre elzárta a világosságot. Mikor az
inkák uralma Caxamarkában a spanyolok öklei alatt hirtelen
összeomlott, az ismét mithoszalkotóvá vált népszellem csaknem
ugyanolyan képekkel álmodott aranykoruknak a föl ölébe való
sülyedéséről, mint a német Barbarossa-monda. Astarpilco kaczika
fia, beszéli Humboldt, egy tizenhét éves nyiltszívű fiatalember, aki
engem a hazája romjai között, egy régi palotába kisért, nagy
szegénysége közepett teletöltötte képzelő tehetségét a földalatti
gyönyörűségek és az aranykincsek képeivel, melyeket az
omladékhalmok födnek, melyek fölött haladtunk. Azt mesélte, hogy
egyik őse egyszer bekötötte felesége szemeit és levezette sok
labirintuson át, melyek a sziklákba voltak vágva, az inkák földalatti
kertjeibe. Az asszony a legtisztább aranyból művésziesen mintázott
lombos és gyümölcscsel rakott fákat látott, az ágaikon madarak ültek
és látta Atahualpa, a spanyoloktól megölt utolsó inka sokat keresett
arany hordszékét. A férj megparancsolta feleségének, hogy mind e
csodadolgokból ne merjen semmihez hozzányulni, mert a rég
megjósolt idő, az inkák birodalmának visszaállítása még nem
érkezett meg. Aki a kincsekhez előbb hozzányul, még az éjjel
meghal… A beteges bizalom, melylyel a fiatal Astarpilco beszélte,
hogy alattam, körülbelül jobbra attól a ponttól, ahol állottam, egy
nagyvirágu datolyafa árnyékolja be, aranydrótból és aranypléhből
pompásan elkészítve, aranyágaival az inkák pihenő helyét, mély, de
komor hatást tett rám. Itt is légvárak és álmodozások a vigasztalók a
nagy nélkülözésekben és földi szenvedésekben. «Nem érzesz-e te,
meg a szüleid – kérdeztem a fiút – ha olyan erősen hisztek ezeknek
a földalatti kerteknek a létezésében, néha vágyat arra, hogy
leássatok ezekig a földalatti kincsekig nagy szegénységtek
közepett?» A fiú felelete olyan egyszerü volt, annyira kifejezte a
csendes rezignácziót, mely ez ország őslakóinak fajtáját jellemzi,
hogy feljegyeztem uti naplómban: «Ilyen vágy nem jön ránk; apám
azt mondja, hogy ez bűn volna. Ha miéink volnának az arany ágak
az arany gyümölcsökkel, akkor a fehér szomszédok gyűlölnének
minket és ártanának nekünk. Megvan a kicsi földünk és a jó
buzánk.»
 A lokális tapasztalatok nem tagadják meg magukat másutt sem.
A periodikusan visszatérő özönvizeket nemcsak bárka-építéssel
győzik le, hanem a magas hegyekbe való meneküléssel, óriási
pálmákra való felmászással, amelyek olyan sebesen nőnek, hogy az
ár nem birja őket utolérni. Nagyon sok ilyen mondában (a
mexikóiaknál is) az ember kövekből keletkezik. Számos indiánus
nyelvben az embert jelölő szó egyuttal földet és követ is jelent. Az
özönvíz után a csekély számu megmenekültek uj embereket
teremtenek azzal, hogy isteni tanácsra köveket dobálnak maguk
mögé. Ez a legenda elég sajátságosan ismétlődik az indogermánban
is, anélkül, hogy az átvezető hidat tudnók. A legbonyolultabb az
ember keletkezése a Quiché-törzs, Guatemala egykori rejtelmes
kulturnépének mondáiban. Az istenek, igy szólnak ezek a mondák,
előbb az állatokat teremtették meg, de felboszankodtak, mert ezek
némák voltak és nem áldoztak nekik tisztelettel. Ezért aztán
agyagból embereket alkottak. Ezek azonban torzak voltak, akik nem
tudták a fejüket forgatni és beszélni tudtak ugyan, de nem értettek
semmit. Egy első pusztító özönvíznek kellett jönni. Az istenek ezután
ismét hozzáfogtak a teremtéshez; ekkor az embert fából, az
asszonyt fenyőmézgából alkották. De még ez a nemzedék sem tudta
a kivánt módon tisztelni az isteneket. Ekkor Herakon, az ég szive,
ismét elsülyesztette a világot és pedig égő mézga-eső és földrengés
által. Csak néhány ember menekült meg – ezekből lettek a majmok.
Az istenek azonban erre valahára megalkották remekművüket;
megteremtették az igazi embert fehér és sárga kukoriczából. Eleinte
túlságosan jól sikerült, úgy, hogy maguk az istenek is megijedtek
művüktől. Néhány nagyon is istenhez hasonló tulajdonságát el kellett
venniök és ekkor végre-valahára készen volt a Quichék őse.
A mexikói-perui fennsik népeivel már átléptük a szigorú
értelemben vett határvonalat a természeti népek és kulturnépek
között. Csak egy helyen ugyan, ahol meg nem érdemelt korai
balsors – Cortes és Pizarro spanyoljainak erőszakos betörése – ezt
a kulturát első virágzásában elfojtotta. Ennek lefolyásától elütően az
óvilági kultura (különösen az, amely lassankint a Földközi tenger
körül konczentrálódott és időmultával Európa északi részéig hatott
fel) aránylag egységesen emelkedett, nemzetenkint érintkezett és
összeolvadt egyik a másikkal és végül azt a kultur-komplexumot
teremtette, mely azután a «kultur-emberiség» számba ment és
eredményes gyarmatosító és pusztító hadjáratot kezdett minden a
természeti fokon álló nép ellen.
Elég lesz, ha ennek a nagy kultur-egyesülésnek a kozmogoniáját
egy vonalban követjük, – t. i. legtartósabb irányában – amely utóbb a
keresztény mithoszban jegeczesedett ki és mai napjainkba is
belenyúlik.
A tekervényes utakat, melyeken a kulturvilágon belül az ősi
hagyományos kozmogoniai mithosz mellett a természetkutatás
győzelmesen felküzdötte magát, a következő fejezetek fogják
feltüntetni. Az eredeti mithosz szétfolyását a spekuláló philosophia
sokszorosan összebonyolódott hadjárataiba követni nem tartozik e
munka keretébe. Csak arra utalunk, hogy kozmogoniai mithoszok
valamiféle philosophiai fogalmi sallangokkal napjaink
philosophiájába is belenyomulnak: igy az indiai mithosz
Schopenhauer Arthur hatalmas eszmemenetébe. Ezeket az
elágazódott szálakat egyenkint felkeresni nem lehet itt feladatunk.
A héber kozmogonia, mely az ugynevezett Mózes első
könyvében van letéve, abban a sajátsámos szerencsében részesült,
hogy évezredeken át túlélte a dolgok változásait és megőrzött
bizonyos hatalmat olyan időkig, amelyek keletkezése napjaitól épp
oly messze esnek, mint például a mai északsarki utazó, aki a
természettudomány minden eszközével fölszerelve és ennek a
természettudománynak az érdekében fölkeresi a legtávolabbi
lakható helyeket a sarkkörön túl, az odavaló, igen alacsony fokon
megrekedt eszkimótól. Az egyház dogmájától védve úgy származott
ránk, mint a szibériai mammuth-elefánt óriási hullája, amely
belefagyott a jégbe és a szemünk láttára került napfényre szőröstül-
bőröstül. Ha azonban pontosan megvizsgáljuk, nem tagadja meg
ősi, a népek gyermekkorához tartozó alkatát; épp úgy, mint ahogy
azok az elefánt-testek a rég elmult jégkorszakhoz való tartozásukat.
Századunk szigorúan tárgyilagos, elfogulatlan tudománya, amely
megjelölte azoknak a mammuthoknak a helyét, komolyan nekilátott
annak a feladatnak is, hogy ennek a rejtelmes művelődéstörténeti
őslénynek természetrajzát erejéhez képest nyilvánvalóvá tegye. Az
eredmények most már lényeges pontjaikon teljesen
megtámadhatatlanok.
Mózes könyvei az ótestámentomban mint «könyvek» egyáltalán
nem oly régiek, mint ahogy Mózesre való vonatkozásuk szerint
gondolni lehetne. Előttünk ismeretes alakjukban nemcsak hogy nem
is Mózestől származnak, de még csak nem is egy szerzőtől. Hogy
nem egészen Mózestől származnak, ezt már maga az a tény is
bizonyítja, hogy a végén el van beszélve Mózes halála és hozzá van
fűzve ez is: «ezután nem lett próféta Izraelben stb.» (Mózes I. 34,
10.). Más helyeken mint pl. ezekben a szavakban (Mózes I. 36, 31.):
«és ezek a királyok, akik Edon földjén uralkodtak, mielőtt még Izrael
fiainak királyaik lettek volna», egész világosan kiderül a szövegből,
hogy a könyv szerzője olyan korban élt, mikor a királyság Izraelben
megint fel volt állítva, tehát sok idővel Mózes után. De ha nem
tekintjük is Mózest magát, akkor is az egész mű, és pedig már a
ránk nézve most legfontosabb teremtési mondában – az egymástól
függetlenül előállott darabok sorából áll, melyek csak ügyetlenül
vannak összeillesztve. A teremtési és özönvíz-mondát illetőleg két
ilyen külön forrás jön tekintetbe. Az egyik valószinűleg papi körökből
származó följegyzésekre vezethető vissza, melyek lényegükben az
áldozatokra s más effélékre vonatkozó följegyzéseket tartalmaztak
történelmi bevezetéssel. Ezek keletkezési ideje a Krisztus előtti
kilenczedik és ötödik század között ingadozik. A másik forrás egy
talán még a kilenczedik században fogalmazott történeti mű; az
ebből vett részekben az Isten neve általában Jahve. A két forrás a
legsajátságosabb módon keveredik össze, minduntalan
ellentmondva egymásnak. A Genesis első fejezete, a
tulajdonképpeni teremtési monda, teljesen ama papi okiratokból
való. Ebben az emberek teremtése a befejező jelenetben, szoros
kapcsolatban az ég és föld teremtésének beható leirásával, csak
röviden meg van említve ezekkel a szavakkal: «és Ő megteremtett
egy embert és egy asszonyt.» Ezután ezekkel a szavakkal: «abban
az időben, mikor Jahve-isten megalkotta az eget és földet, de a
földön még nem volt semmiféle növény a mezőkön», megkezdődik a
Jahve könyv lényegesen eltérő forrása az ember teremtéséről
(Ádámot először egyedül magát teremti meg isten) és ez tart a
negyedik fejezet végéig. Az özönvíz-mondában (7. és 8. fejezet)
úgyszólván versről-versre váltakoznak a kétféle szövegek. A Jahve-
szöveg azt mondja el a 7. fejezet 7. versében, hogy Noé feleségével
és fiaival és számos páros állattal a bárkába szállott s a papi szöveg
a 13. versben még egyszer megtéteti vele ugyanazt. Az ismétlésnek
és a konfuziónak se vége, se hossza!
Ennyi elég a bibliai szöveg ránk maradt alakjának jellemzésére. A
másik fontos kérdés ez kell hogy legyen: Honnan erednek ezek a
Krisztus előtti kilenczedik századtól a tizedikig leirt teremtési
mondák? Ősrégi tulajdonai-e a hébereknek, amelyek a hagyomány
révén többféle formában éltek a nép között? Avagy egyes vonások
arra utalnak, hogy a legrégibb kor más kulturnépeinek mithoszairól
van szó, amelyeket a zsidók átvettek, mint ahogy a mózesi mithoszt
átvették pl. a kereszténynyé vált germánok? Legújabbkori nagyon
szerencsés kutatások eredményei itt is világosságot teremtettek a
sötétben. A teremtési és az özönvíz-monda, ahogyan a jahvista
történeti könyve és a királyok korának papi kódexe elmondja,
valóban ősrégi mithosz, melynek gyökereit nyomon lehet követni az
egész sémitizmus történeti határáig, melynek a héberek csak egyik
ága. A Genezisnél sokkal régibb forrás tárult fel hirtelen a héber-
kutatók bámuló szemei előtt a babiloniaiak kozmogoniai
mithoszaiban.
A biblia maga is elbeszéli Palesztina leendő urainak egy régi
vándorlását Mesopotámiából, Bábelből, az Euphrates és Tigris közti
földről Kanaánba, sok idővel az Egyiptommal való kapcsolatok és
Mózes előtt. Egyiptomra valóban nem emlékeztet a mózesi
kozmogonia egyetlen vonása sem. Az egyiptomiaknak, kiknek Nilus
folyama periodikusan megáradt, de éppen ezzel jóltevője lett a
világnak, természetszerűleg nem volt özönvíz-mondájuk, amelyben
az árvíz mint valami ijesztő dolog szerepelt volna. Már ezért is a
valószinüség Babiloniára vallott, a két folyam közötti fenyegetett
földre, amely egyenesen arra való hely, hogy egy pusztító
vízáradásról szóló mondát képezzen ki, amely áradásból nincs
menekülés azok számára, akiket a két folyó körülzár. A
legváratlanabb eredmény adott igazat a sejtelemnek. A mult század
első évtizedében egy fiatal német gimnáziumi tanár, Grotafend,
először fejtett meg egyes, már a történelemből is ismeretes
királyneveket (Darius, Xerxes) az úgynevezett ékírásban, vagyis a
persepolisi, babiloni stb. romokban talált ékalakú irásjelekben,
melyek az asszír, babiloniai és perzsa birodalom idejéből valók. Erre
aztán hamarosan bekövetkezett ez irásjelek teljes ismerete. Az új
irással egész új élet tárult fel. Agyagtáblákra és agyaghengerekre
elpusztíthatatlanul belerótt egész könyvtárak árasztották ki tudásukat
és a modern kutató egyszerre világosan belenézhetett egy oly
korszak irodalmába, mely már a legműveltebb görög szemében is
mesésnek tünt fel. A hatalmasan halmozódó anyagnak koronájául
tünt fel a babiloniai teremtési mithosz. Ezzel minden kétértelmüséget
kizáró módon kezünkben volt a héber legendák forrása.
A homályba vesző őskorban vándoroltak a sémiták – nem tudni
honnan – az Euphrates vidékére. Gazdag kulturát találtak már itt.
Hogy itt – egyszerre hódítókul és a meghódítottak kulturális igájába
befogottakul, mint ahogy később a rómaiak jártak a görögökkel –
megtalálták-e már a teremtési mithoszt, az most nem tartozik ide. Az
a sémita ág, amely később Palesztinát benépesítette, kozmogoniai
képzeteinek alapvonásait mindenesetre onnan hozta magával, csak
aztán átformálta a monotheisztikus felfogás értelmében.
A babiloniai ékirásos szöveg, ahogy ránk maradt, bizonyára nem
iratott le előbb, mint a Mózes első könyvében fennmaradt bibliai
szöveg. Tartalma azonban tényleg messze Mózesen túl terjed, a
Krisztus előtti kétezredik évig. Időzzünk egy kicsit szavainál, ahogy
ezeket a táblák töredékei számunkra fenntartották. Egy legősibb
hang szólal meg belőle, melyhez képest a biblia fiatalnak tünik fel és
melylyel szemben csak Egyiptom piramisai állhatnak meg.
A mithosz a chaoszszal kezdődik. «Amint odafönn az égnek még
nem volt neve, idelenn a föld még nem kapott nevet, akkor az
Óczeán, a legislegelső, amely ezeket nemzette és a zűrzavar, a
tengerár, amely ezeket szülte, összeelegyítették vizeiket. Mikor még
az istenek egyike sem volt megteremtve, egy név sem volt
megnevezve, egy sors sem volt meghatározva, akkor hozattak létre
az istenek.» A mithosznak ez a bevezetése bizony még nem
hasonlít a mózesi jelentéshez, nyomait inkább lehetne a későbbi
görög chaos-legendában megtalálni. Semmiből való teremtésről még
nincs szó, az ősanyagok még kezdettől fogva megvannak. Az
istenek még csak ezután «hozatnak létre». És pedig «istenek»,
többesszámban, nem pedig «az» isten. A bibliától való különbözés a
továbbiakban még mintha nőne. A gigászok harczának valami
formája csúszik bele. Tiamat, a chaotikus tengerár, valami bünt
követett el a legfőbb istenek ellen, ellenük támad a tengeri
szörnyetegekkel szövetkezve, – itt aztán csaknem két egész tábla
hiányzik s az összefüggés nem egészen nyilvánvaló. A fenyegetett
istenek – mint a negyedik tábla szövege folytatja, vezérharczost
választanak Marduk személyében. Az istenek lakomáján felruházzák
a legfőbb hatalommal. «Mától fogva – jelentik ki neki –
parancsodnak foganatja legyen. A felmagasztalás és lealacsonyítás
a te kezedben legyen. Álljon szilárdan a te szemed, parancsoddal ne
ellenkezzék senki. Senki az istenek közül ne hágja át a te
parancsodat… Az egész mindenség teljessége a tied legyen. Egy
szó és parancsold, hogy legyen – és lesz. Nyisd ki szádat – és a
ruha (melyet az istenek előzőleg reá adtak) tünjön el. Parancsold
neki: «térj vissza» és a ruha legyen rajtad.» Marduk megcsinálja a
próbát, a ruha eltünik és visszatér. Az istenek pedig örülnek és áldón
üdvözlik: «Marduk legyen király!» Marduk erre fölfegyverzi magát
villam-dárdákkal és segítségül hívja a szeleket, aztán kivonul Tiamat
ellen. «Közeledtek egymáshoz Tiamat és a bölcs az istenek között,
Marduk, harczra rohantak, közel jöttek a csata teréhez. Akkor az Ur
kiterjesztette hálóját és befogta őket és egy orkánt, mely hátul állott,
elébük bocsátott… Akkor megnyitotta Tiamat száját,…
belebocsátotta az orkánt, hogy ajkai ne tudjanak bezárulni és
megtöltötte hasát erős szelekkel, felfújta belsejét és tágra szakította
fel száját, erősen megragadta a dárdát és átszúrta hasát,
kettéválasztotta belsejét és elvagdalt mindent, ami benne volt, –
megragadta és megsemmisítette életét. A holttetemét odadobta és
ráállott». Miután Tiamat segítő társai is legyőzettek, a szöveg igy
folytatja: «Látta ezt és az arcza örvendett, ujjongott, ajándékokat
hozatott magának béke adományául. Ekkor megszelidült az Ur,
megszemlélte a holttestet… és valami mesterit alkotott. Szétverte a
holttestet két részre, egyik részét fölállította és menyezetet csinált
belőle, égboltozatot, ráhuzott egy pántot, odaállított egy őrt és ennek
meghagyta, hogy ne engedje kifolyni a vizeit. Az eget
összekapcsolta az alsóbb vidékekkel és szembeállította az
ősvízzel… Ekkor az Ur megmerte az ősvíz kerületét és egy nagy
alkotmányt emelt, mint az ég, nevezetesen az Izara (a föld)
alkotmányát, melyet úgy épített fel, mint egy égboltozatot…
megcsinálta a nagy istenek tartózkodó helyeit, a csillagokat,
felfüggesztette az állatok csillagképeit, megjelölte az évet és
megrajzolt minden képet. Tizenkét hónapot és (mindegyikbe?)
három csillagot állapított meg. Ezután odaállította a Jupiter-csillag
álláspontját… az északi sarkot és a déli sarkot ezzel együtt
állapította meg. És kapukat nyitott mindenfelől, zárat erősített meg
balról és jobbról. A középre helyezte a zenithet. Az (új) holdat
felragyogtatta és alája helyezte az éjjelt és megjelölte őt mint éji
testet. Hogy a napokat megjelölje, hónaponkint szünet nélkül befödte
a holdat egy királyi süveggel, hogy a hónap kezdetén este
felragyogjon, hogy szavai ragyogjanak az ég megjelöléseül.» Aki e
leirásnak ezt a részét figyelmesen olvassa, két jelentős dogot talál
benne. Először is nyilvánvalólag egy valódi természeti mithosz
maradványai előtt állunk, ahogy a természeti népeknél mindenfelől
elénkbe tünik. Az istenek csak mellékes szerepet játszanak. Maguk
is a chaos szüleményei. Ennek a chaosnak legyőzésére választják
meg Mardukot. Marduk teljesen úgy jelenik meg, mint a korai nap
megszemélyesítése. Legyőzi a vad, sötét őstengert, Tiamatot azzal,
hogy sugaraival két részre osztja: égre és földre. A részletek
kiképzése egy korán a csillagászat felé fordult népet árul el, amely
meglehetős szilárd képet csinált magának a világ alkatáról: a föld,
mint belül üres hegy az alatta elhömpölygő vizek fölött, fölül pedig az
igazi szilárd ég-kupola, melyen a csillagok, miután egy kapun
beléptek, elhaladnak és amely fölött egész fölül megint egy «égi
óczeán» hullámzik, melyen túl végül a «belső égben» az istenek
laknak.
A másik dolog, ami egy bizonyos szempontból nézve elég
nyilvánvalóan szembetünik, a bibliai jelentésre való vonatkozás.
Marduk nem egyéb, mint a biblia uristene, csak éppen hogy a
monotheisztikusan alakított mózesi mithosz elhagyja előzetes
történetét, amely őt magát mint az istenek eszközét, ezeket pedig
mint a chaos produktumait vezeti be. Isten szelleme a Genesis
szerint a vizek felett lebeg, mint Marduk, mikor Tiamat, a chaotikus
ősvíz ellen kivonúl. Épp úgy, mint Marduk, aki a kettészakított Tiamat
egyik felét mint égboltozatot állítja fel, ellátta egy zárral, melynek a
vizet kell visszatartania a boltozat fölött – isten is mennyezetet emel
a vizek között és elválasztja általa a «mennyezet alatti vizet» a
«mennyezet feletti víztől», mire a mennyezet égnek neveztetik. És
ép ily párhuzamosan következik mindkét jelentésben a mennyezet
alatt is, a föld és a földalatti víz elválasztása: a föld berendezése és
azután az égi testek felállítása a nappal és éjjel elválasztására. Egy
későbbi tábla töredéke bőségesen felismerteti, hogy a babiloni
mindenesetre nem elég világosan fenntartott mithoszban
ugyanabban a sorrendben, mint a bibliában, legvégül következik az
élő lények megteremtése. Más forrásokból az következik, hogy
kezdetben itt is két ember teremtetett; még pedig agyagból.
Ha azonban még egy meggyőző bizonyítékra volna szükség,
hogy a héber mithosz valósággal csak gyermeke a régibb
babiloniainak, akkor ezt a bizonyítékot megadja, minden tekintetben
kielégítő módon, a babiloniai és a héber özönvíz-monda egysége.
Fentebb különböző özönvíz-mondákat vettünk figyelembe, melyek
egymástól függetlenül alakulhattak ki. Itt azonban a közvetlen
leszármazás annyira nyilvánvaló, hogy szó sem lehet más
föltevésről. A babiloniai özönvíz-monda egy ókori forrás révén
(Berossus fragmentumai, aki kevéssel Nagy Sándor ideje után
három könyvet irt a chaldaeai történetről) is ismeretes, de a
gyanusan késői forrást tekintve a bibliai szöveg befolyására
gyanakodtak. Időközben azonban (George Smith 1872-ben) erre
vonatkozólag is ismeretessé vált a kutatás előtt a valódi babiloni
ékirásos szöveg, melynek ősrégisége végkép eldönti a vitát arról,
hogy melyiket illeti meg az elsőség.
Mint a természetből táplálkozó költői alakító erő műve a
babiloniai özönvíz-mithosz épp oly magasan áll a bibliai fölött, mint
régiség dolgában. A királyok korabeli héberek nagyon alkalmatlan
nép voltak özönvíz-képzetek kifestésére. Holt tengerük sötét, puszta
tava oly kevés árvizi képett nyujtott, mint a mély völgyektől barázdált,
hegyekben gazdag országuk, amely mindenben ellentéte az
Eufrates melléki lapos, a tenger felől nyilt agyagsíkságnak, amelyen
a babiloniai mithosz megfoghatóan világos természeti képekből
szívta erejét. Mint epizód egy nagy nemzeti eposzba beleszőve áll
elénk a babiloniaiak özönvíz-mondája, közvetlen beszédben, a
bárkaépítő elbeszélésekép, aki megmenekülése után fölvétetett az
istenek közé és halhatatlanúl él tovább «a folyamok torkolatánál» –
vagyis az Eufrates és Tigris torkolatánál a perzsa tengeröbölben,
egy nemén a «boldogok szigetének», – ahol Gisztuber, az eposz
hőse veszedelmes vándorlás után meglátogatja. Szit-napisztim, a
babiloniai Noé, elmondja, hogyan határozták el az istenek (a
politeisztikus elemet a bibliai mithosz itt is gondosan kiirtotta), hogy
az emberek megsemmisítésére vízáradást támasztanak. Ninigiazag
Ja azonban, a tenger istene, figyelmezteti barátját, Szit-napisztimet,
aki Szurippak városából való. «Ácsolj házat, építs hajót, hagyd el
földedet, keresd az életet, ne törődj holmiddal és mentsd meg
életedet. Vigyél mindenféle életmagvakat magaddal a hajóra. A
hajót, melyet építened kell… indítsd bele az ősvízbe». Az ember
ekkor megkérdi istent, hogy felelhet meg egy ilyen hajó építéseért a
népnek és a nép véneinek és Ja ezt tanácsolja: «Válaszul mondd
ezt nékik: Mivel Bil gyülöl engem, nem akarok városotokban lakni és
a földön… az ősvízbe akarok lehajózni és uramnál, Ja-nál lakni. Ti
reátok ő ekkor gazdag áldást hullat, madarakat, tömérdek halat,
bőséges marhát, gazdag aratást». A hajó felépül (egy másik
töredékesen fennmaradt formájában a legendának Szit-napisztim
előbb megkéri istent, rajzolja le neki a földre a hajó képét) és pedig
140 rőf magas falakkal, hat emeletre. Ellátják evezőkkel és
gondosan beszurkolják. Ünnepi lakoma ünnepli meg elkészülését.
Ekkor a bárkába hordják «ami ezüstöm és aranyam volt».
«Megtöltöttem mindenféle életmagvakkal, amim csak volt.
Felhoztam a hajóba egész családomat és női cselédségemet, a
mezei barmokat, a mezei állatokat, mesterembereket,
mindvalamennyit együtt felhoztam.» Mikor este eső jön, neki
magának is a bárkába kell szállnia és el kell zárnia kapuját. «Ez a
megbeszélt jel beállott: az, aki a záporesőt küldi, este nehéz esőt
hullatott. Ettől a naptól fogva féltem felragyogásától. Rettegtem a
napba nézni. Beléptem a hajóba és elzártam a kaput… Amint a
reggel pirkadni kezdett, az ég fundamentumán sötét felhő szállott
fel.» Mennydörgés és villámlás közben kitört a veszedelem, «a vizek
úgy rontottak az emberekre, mint valami harczi robaj». Maguk az
istenek is menekülnek és kuporogva ülnek, «mint a kutya», az ég
boltozatán. Isztar úgy visítozott, mintha vajudna, az istenek úrnője, a
széphangú így kiáltott: «az elmult idő (azaz az előbbi emberiség)
újból agyaggá lett, mert az istenek előtt gonoszat parancsoltam és…
emberiségem megsemmisítésére vihart parancsoltam. Amit szültem,
hova lett? Mint a halak ivadéka tölti meg a tengert». «Az istenek vele
sírtak… Hat nap és éjjel száguldott a szél, a vízár, az orkán lecsapott
a földre. Mikor a hetedik nap megjött, alábbhagyott a vihar, a vízár,
az égiháboru, melyek úgy harczoltak, mint egy hadsereg. Nyugodott
a tenger, melyet az orkán felkorbácsolt, a vízár megszünt. Ránéztem
a tengerre és megcsendítettem hangomat, de minden ember ismét
agyaggá vált, s mint egy kopasz tarló feküdt előttem az erdő.
Megnyitottam a légnyilást, a napfény arczomra hullott, lehajoltam,
leültem, sírtam, arczomon végig folytak a könnyek. Ránéztem a
világra, minden egy tenger volt. Tizenkét nap mulva szárazföld tünt
fel, a Nizir földjéhez közeledett a hajó. Nizir földjének hegysége
megállította a hajót és nem eresztette tovább… Mikor a hetedik nap
bekövetkezett, kieresztettem egy galambot és elbocsátottam. A
galamb röpködött ide-oda, de mivel nem volt hely, ahova leüljön,
visszatért. Aztán egy fecskét eresztettem ki és elbocsátottam.
Röpködött a fecske ide-oda, de mivel nem volt hely, a hova leüljön,
visszatért. Ekkor egy hollót eresztettem ki és elbocsátottam.
Röpködött a holló, látta a víz alászállását, közelebb jött károgva, de
nem tért vissza. Ekkor kimentem, áldozatot áldoztam a négy
szélirány felé, békülési áldozatot áldoztam a hegy csúcsán.» Az
elbeszélésnek ebben a részében a Noé-monda forrása lépésről
lépésre szembeszökik. A befejezés aztán megint politheisztikus
babiloniai s ezért a bibliai krónikás elhagyta. Az istenek odagyülnek
az áldozat szagára, mint a legyek. Czivódás támad köztük. Az egyik
párt jajgat a pusztulás műve miatt, Bil ellenben haragra gerjed az
embereknek a hajóban való megmenekülése miatt. A megoldás az,
hogy Szit-napisztim és felesége emberből istenné változik és örök
életre jut a folyamok torkolatánál, mint a bibliai Enoch, aki nem halt
meg, hanem «eltünt». A föld újra elkezd benépesedni, legalább
Berossus jelentése szerint, amely nagyjában véve párhuzamosan
halad az ékirásos szöveggel, – Szit-napisztim csak később a hajóból
kilépő barátaival és rokonaival, kiknek egy mennyei hang
megmutatja az utat Arméniából, ahol a hajó partot ért, Babilonba.
A mózesi teremtési monda történetében egyuttal benne van a
kritikája is legenyhébb, de legkegyetlenebb formájában. Minden
mesterséges magyarázgatás a közvetlen kijelentés misztikus
módján nem jelent egyebet, mint kihágást egy tudomány ellen,
melynek erkölcseink hasonlíthatatlanúl becses kincseit és a haladás
leggazdagabb forrásait köszönhetjük: az előitélet nélküli
történetkutatás ellen. Egy közvetítő szempontból kiindulva, melyben
számos kiváló szellem osztozott, az «Isten» fogalmát azonosíthatjuk
a természeti törvény tudományos fogalmával; a «kijelentés» alatt
nem fogunk akkor egyebet érteni, mint a törvényszerü kapcsolatok
lassankénti nyilvánvalóvá válását mindjobban táguló tapasztalatok
alapján. Ebben az esetben azonban arra tanít a történelem, hogy a
Kelet ama régi népeinek és gondolkodóinak megközelíthetőleg sem
lehetett részük olyan kijelentésekben, amilyenekkel mi birunk, mivel
tapasztalataik még gyermekczipőikben jártak. Évezredekig kellett
hogy tartson még, mire Columbus utazásával «kijelentette magát» a
földgömb másik fele, évezredekig, mire, «kijelentette magát» a föld
keringése a nap körül. Honnan jöhetett volna az ősi keletkezési
forma szerinti ismeret olyan dolgokról, melyek mai állásuk és
formájuk szerint még nem voltak ismeretesek? Ha másfelől a
«kijelentés» szót tudományosan meg nem fogható, természetfölötti
értelemben veszszük, akkor megint nem volna szabad
visszautasítani azt a kérdést, miért hogy az időközben megtalált
tudományos «természet-kijelentés» tényei oly élesen
ellentmondanak a mózesi mithosznak, szóval miért, hogy az a
misztikus kijelentés nem volt jobb és a haladásnak megfelelőbb?
Mert ennek az ellenmondásnak a dolgában nem lehet kétség. Az
összehasonlítás, ha egyszer komolyan felállítjuk, olyan
megsemmisítő a biblia irányában, hogy a részletekbe való behatolás
bizonyos tekintetben kínos, van benne valami, ami ellentmond a
nagy, igazi tudomány méltóságának. Hogy mindig kétség ki legyen
zárva, csak néhány pontot kell a talán még ingadozók számára
jelezni.
A bibliai teremtési monda mindjárt kezdetben, egy régebbi
mondától függve, mely ama babiloni forrást sokkal tisztábban
képviseli, teljesen a babiloniai világképen alapúl, olyan világképen,
amely a maga idejében egészen elmés volt, minket azonban
mosolyra indít. Eszerint alul volt a világ mint sziget a vizekben (a föld
alatt is víz volt, mint a tíz parancsolat egy helyéből kitünik: «Ne
csinálj magadnak képmást sem arról, ami fönt az égben, sem arról,
ami lent a földön, sem arról, ami a föld alatt a vízben van).» Fenn az
ég, mint mennyezet, mely a felső vizet visszatartja. A mi tudományos
világképünk golyóformájú, belsejében forrón folyékony, a világürben
szabadon lebegő földjével nem tud már ezekből a
megkülönböztetésekből semmit, a «menny» kristály csészéje a mi
számunkra nyilt térré vált. Ha már az a kép sem felel meg, amelynek
a teremtés történetét kellene megmagyaráznia, mit mondhatnak
akkor a részletek, hogy isten hogyan különítette el a mennyezetet
vagy hogyan gyüjtötte össze a vizet! Ha még tovább is akarunk
haladni, akkor az minden legbiztosabb kutatási eredményünk teljes
felfordítása, hogy a mózesi mithoszban előbb elválik a víz és a
szárazföld és a föld füvektől és fáktól zöldül ki és csak ezután
helyeztetik a mennyboltozatra a nap és a hold. A modern tudomány
előtt nincs arról kétség, hogy a nap régebbi, mint a föld; hogy a föld
már akkor keringett a nap körül, mikor még teljesen folyékony
állapotban volt, hogy csak nagyon sokkal ezután, a mind jobban
fokozódó lehüléssel vált lehetségessé a víz képződése és hogy ettől
fogva organikus fejlődés volt, mely azonban kezdettől fogva két
párhuzamos ágra oszlott: állatokra és növényekre – egy közvetítővel
az úgynevezett protista vagy őslény képében. Csak a nap
energiájának megmaradására kell gondolnunk egy régebbi földi
növényzet maradványában, a kőszénben, hogy belássuk a füvek és
fák létezésének lehetetlenségét a világító, erőt adó nap keletkezése
előtt. A tények tökéletesen hasonló összezavarásáról van szó,
mintha előbb számtalan dolgozó gőzgép létezéséről hallanánk és a
gőz csak kifejezetten egy nap mulva teremtetnék!
 Az organikus teremtés sorrendje dolgában arra kell utalni, hogy
darwinista kutatásunk legjobban bizonyított nézetei szerint a vizi
állatok és a madarak első teremtési periodusának bibliai
elkülönböztetése, melyre csak később következtek a szárazföldi
állatok, teljesen megfelel a valóságnak; a madarak például aránylag
későn fejlődtek ki szárazföldön lakó hüllőkből. És az ember és emlős
állat közti kézzelfoghatóan nyilvánvaló összefüggést tekintve
egyáltalán nem szükséges amellett bizonykodni, hogy az embert
illetőleg nem lehetett szó valami független generatio aequivocá-ról
(ős-nemzésről anorganikus anyagból) a földi göröngy legendájának
értelmében, az ember lényege szerint koronája a magas fejlettségű
emlős állatfajnak és ebből történetileg fejlődött ki ugyanazon
természeti törvények szerint, amelyek a gyíkból madarat
fejlesztettek. Az anyaméhben ma is minden más organizmussal
egyezően keletkezik egy petéből és mielőtt ez a pete születésre
alkalmas gyermekké válik, az érlelődő csira vagy embrió a
félreismerhetetlenül állathoz hasonló fokozatok egy sorát járja meg,
világos emlékjeleképen az ember állatból való egykori
keletkezésének. A tudományos kutatás nem tud semmiféle
paradicsomi ősállapotról, az emberi nem földi szereplésének
legrégibb nyomai, melyeket ismerünk, egy a létért kemény
küzdelmet folytató vadásznépre vallanak, amely az óriási barlangi
oroszlánnal viaskodik a mészkőhegység barlangjában levő
védőfödélért.
Hogy az özönvíz, mint az egész földnek vízzel való beborítása
nem lehetséges, azt nem is kell ismételni. Igy tehát minden ponton,
ahol csak hozzányulunk, reménytelenül szétfoszlik annak
lehetősége, hogy tudományunkat utólag belemagyarázhassuk az ősi
babilon-héber teremtési mesékbe. A gyermek első gügyögése az
anya számára megható hang, sajátságos költői valami lehet és a
megfigyelő kutató buzgó tanulmánynyal nem egy felvilágosítást
nyerhet belőle a nyelv kezdeteit illetőleg, de legalább is nagyon
csodálatraméltó kivánság volna, ha ebbe a gügyögésbe erőszakkal
bele akarnók magyarázni a nyelvnek mindazt a legfőbb
tökéletességét, amelylyel a művelt ember férfikorában rendelkezik,
csakhogy megmentsük azt az állítást, hogy minden gyermek mint