Rambles by Land and Water; or, Notes of Travel in Cuba and Mexico

by Benjamin Moore Norman

CHAPTER XIII.

THE TWO AMERICAN RIDDLES.

Humboldt's caution.—Antiquities of the Old World long involved in mystery, now explained. Ancient ruins never fully realized by description.—The two extremes of theorists.—A medium.—My own conclusion.—Reasons for it.—1. Absence of Tradition.—Necessity and importance of tradition.—Most likely to be found among the Aztecs.—An attempt to account for its absence.—Answered.—The Toltecs and their works.—A choice of conclusions.—2. Character and condition of ruins.—Widely different from each other.—The works of different and distant ages.—Probable origin of the people.—One universal tradition, its relevancy to the question.—Variety of opinions.—Variety of ancient works.—Conclusion.

The great problems of the origin of the American races, and of American civilization, though volumes have been written upon them, are yet unsolved. Whether, according to the inquisitive and sagacious Humboldt, we ought to regard it as lying "without the limits prescribed to history, and even beyond the range of philosophical investigation," or whether we may look upon it as still open to the examination of those who are curious in ancient lore, must be determined rather by the ultimate result of our discoveries, and of the speculations based upon them, than upon the exaggerated notions of the difficulty of the question, which the first confused revelations of the travelled enquirer may seem to suggest.

I am by no means convinced in my own mind, that this question is one which cannot now be reached, or which must be looked upon as every year receding farther and farther from our grasp. The antiquities of the old world, buried for so many ages in midnight oblivion, had remained through a long course of centuries, the standing enigma of Time. With the help even of some imperfect records from the archives of ancient history, and the aid of what seemed to be a fair line of tradition, the origin and purpose of many of them, and the hidden meaning of their hieroglyphical embellishments, had continued to be an inexplicable mystery quite down to our own times. Much learned investigation, from acute observers, and profound reasoners, had been expended upon them, without arriving at any satisfactory result. And yet, after all, the nineteenth century has expounded the riddle. The lapse of ages, instead of scattering beyond recovery the dim, uncertain twilight that hung about these august monuments of the solemn Past, has miraculously preserved it, as it were embalmed by a magic spiritual photography, to be concentrated into a halo of glory around the brow of Champollion. May it not be so with the now mysterious relics of the ancient races of America?

It may be remarked, and I think the remark cannot fail to commend itself to the good sense of every reflecting mind, that no description, however perfect, or however faithfully and ably illustrated by the art of the engraver, can convey any adequate idea of the character of these ruins, or furnish, to one who has not seen them with his own eyes, the basis of a rational argument upon their origin. Were it possible to transport them entire to our own fields, and reconstruct them there, in all their primitive grandeur and beauty, it would not help us to solve the mystery—it would not convey to us any just notion of what they have been, or what they are. To be realized and understood, they must be studied where they are, amid the oppressive solitude of their ancient sites, surrounded with the luxuriant vegetation and picturesque scenery of their native clime, the clear transparent heaven of the tropics above them, and their own unwritten, unborrowed associations lingering dimly about them.

There are two errors, lying at the two extremes of the broad area of philosophical inquiry, into which men are liable to fall, in undertaking the discussion of questions of this nature. The one leads to hasty conclusions upon imperfect, ill-digested premises; the other shrinks from all conclusions, however well supported, and labors only to deepen the shadows of mystery, which hang about its subject. One forms a shallow theory of his own, suggested by the first object he meets with on entering the field—or, perhaps borrows that of some equally superficial observer who had gone before him, or even of some cloistered speculator, who has never ventured beyond the four walls of his own narrow study—and, clinging to it with the tenacity of a parental instinct to its first born impression, sees nothing, hears nothing, conceives nothing, however palpable and necessary, that will not illustrate and aggrandize his one idea. The most convincing proofs are lost upon him. Demonstration assails him in vain. He started with his conclusion in his hand, and it is no marvel if he comes back as ignorant as he went, having added nothing to his argument, but the courage to push it somewhat more boldly than before.

Another enters the field, thoroughly convinced that it is impossible to come to any conclusion at all. He fears to see any thing decisive, lest it should compel him to favor an opinion. He dreads an object that suggests a definite idea, lest it should draw him perforce to support some tangible theory. He stumbles blindfold over palpable facts, and clearly defined analogies, and converses only with shadows. His philosophy consists in leaning to whatever embarrasses a conclusion, and following only those contradictory lights, which perplex the judgment, and prevent it from arriving at a precise and positive inference.

Unsafe as it is to trust to the guidance of a mere theorist, there is little satisfaction in attempting to follow the timid lead of the universal doubter. Is it not possible to find a medium course?—to proceed with philosophic prudence and caution, taking due heed to all our steps, and yet to look facts and analogies boldly in the face, listen fearlessly to all their suggestions, collate, compare, and digest every hint and intimation they put forth, and venture, without exposing ourselves to the uncharitable imputation of dogmatism, to form and express a definite opinion? If any thing would deter me from so bold a step, it would be the formidable array of eminent names in the list of the doubters. When so many of the wisest have given it up as hopeless, it requires no less courage than skill to assume to be an Œdipus. But, having already, on a former occasion, been driven to a positive inference from the narrow premises afforded by the question, and being answerable therefor at the bar of public criticism, I have less at stake than I should otherwise have, upon the opinion which I have now to offer.