I am free to acknowledge then, that the impressions formed by my first "rambles" among the ruined cities of Yucatan, have been fully confirmed by what I have now been permitted to see in Mexico. I am compelled, in view of all the facts and analogies which they present, to assign those ruins, and the people who constructed them, to a very remote antiquity. They are the works of a people who have long since passed away, and not of the races, or the progenitors of the races, who inhabited the country, at the epoch of the discovery.
To this conclusion I am led, or rather driven, by a variety of considerations, which I will endeavor to state, with as much brevity and conciseness as the nature of the case will admit.
The first consideration to which I shall allude, in support of the opinion above expressed, is the absence of all tradition respecting the origin of these buildings, and the people by whom they were erected. Among all the Indian tribes in all Central America, it is not known that there is a solitary tradition, that can throw a gleam of light over the obscurity that hangs about this question. The inference would seem to be natural and irresistible, that the listless, unintellectual, unambitious race of men, who for centuries have lingered about these ruins, not only without knowing, but without caring to know, who built them, cannot be the descendants, nor in any way related to the descendants, of the builders. Tradition is one of the natural and necessary elements of the primitive stages of society. Its foundations are laid deep in the social nature of man. And it is only because it is supplanted by other and more perfect means of transmission, as civilization advances, that it is not, always and every where, the only channel of communication with the past, the only link between the living and the dead. In all ages, among all nations, where written records have been wanting, tradition has supplied the blank, and, generation after generation, the story of the past has been transmitted from father to son, and celebrated in the song of the wandering bard, till, at length, history has seized the shadowy phantom, and given it a place and a name on her enduring scroll. This is the fountain head of all ancient history. True, it is often so blended with the fabulous inventions of poetry, that it is not always easy to sift out the truth from the fiction. Still, it is relied upon in the absence of records: while the very fable itself is made subservient to truth, by shadowing forth, in impressive imagery and graceful drapery, her real form and lineaments. What else than fable is the early history of Rome?
Now, if these ruins of America are of comparatively modern date, if, as some have undertaken to show, they were constructed and occupied by the not very remote ancestors of the Indian races who now dwell among them, in a state of abject poverty and servitude, is it reasonable, is it conceivable, that there should not be found a man among them acquainted with their ancient story, claiming affinity with their builders, and rehearsing in song, or fable,
The marvels of the olden time?
With these splendid and solemn reminiscences always before their eyes, with all the hallowed and affecting associations that ever linger about the ancient homes of a cultivated people,—the temples of its worship, the palaces of its kings and nobles, the sepulchres of its founders and fathers, always present and constantly renewed to their minds, is it possible they could, in three brief centuries, forget the tale, and lose every clue to their own so gloriously illustrated history. I cannot admit it. I cannot conceive of it.
The attempt to lay aside, or narrow down, this argument from tradition, or the absence of it, in order to arrive at an easy explanation of the mystery of these ruined cities, appears to me to be unphilosophical in another point of view. If I understand aright the character and history of the people who once flourished here, this is just the region, and they are just the people, where this kind of evidence would exist and abound. The Aztecs were a highly imaginative and poetical people. The picture writing, which prevailed among them, and in which they had attained so high a degree of perfection, was precisely the material on which to build traditionary lore, and cultivate a taste for it among the common people. It was the poetry of hieroglyphics—a national literature of tropes and figures. It selected a few prominent comprehensive images, as the representatives of great events. Strongly drawn and highly colored, these would impress themselves powerfully on the minds and memories of the people, and be associated with all that was dear to their hearts. Their personal histories, their family distinctions, their national pride, would all be involved in them, and all have a part in securing their faithful preservation and transmission. Inexhaustible fountains of national song and poetical fable, they would be recited in their public assemblies, and handed down from generation to generation. They would be to America what the Homeric poems were to Greece, and many long ages would not obliterate or destroy them.
It has been argued, by way of anticipating such views as these, that the unexampled severities and oppressions of the Spanish conquerors, broke the spirit of these once proud nations, and so trampled them in the dust, as to annihilate those sentiments and affections, which form the basis of national pride and traditionary lore. It is a violent assumption, unsupported by any parallel in history, ancient or modern. Remove them from their ancient inheritance, transplant them to other climes, surround them with other scenes, amalgamate them with other people, and they may, in process of time, forget their origin and their name. But, in the midst of their father's sepulchres, with their temples, their pyramids, their palaces, all around them,
Their native soil beneath their feet,
Their native skies above them,—
it is inconceivable, impossible.