“What do you say, father? How can that be? Do you imagine how people forty leagues apart can converse by means of a cord?”
But when my interlocutor answered that he could not either know or imagine how that could be done, and particularly when my friends assured me that Chablé had no idea of the electric telegraph, I then became convinced of his good faith, and began to ponder on the strange disclosure we had just listened to. The old man soon rose to take his departure, and I invited him to call again, when he had not been to church and consoled himself with his spiritual friend, in order that I might be able to take his portrait. He repeated his visit a few days later, as requested. I took his portrait, and asked him again about the monuments of Chichen. But, alas! that day his lips were sealed, or his memory failed, or his Indian secrecy had returned. He knew nothing of them; had never been there; did not remember what the old men said of the enchanted houses when he was young, except that the place had been enchanted for many, many years, and that it was not good to sleep near them, because the Xlab-pak-yum, the lord of the old walls, would be angry at the intrusion, and chastise the offender by disease and death within the year.
Some months later I arrived at Chichen. The revelation of the old man recurred vividly to my mind. I immediately went in quest of the building he had mentioned—the Akab-sib. [This name literally means—Akab, dark, mysterious; sib, to write. But we believe that anciently it was called Alcab-sib; that is, Alcab, to run in a hurry; sib, to write.] We had some trouble in finding it, concealed and confounded as it was among the tall trees of the forest, its roof supporting a dense thicket. We visited its eighteen rooms in search of the precious inscription, and at length discovered it on the lintel of an inner doorway in the room situated at the south end of the edifice. The dust of ages was thick upon it and so concealed the characters as to make them well-nigh invisible. With care I washed the slab, then with black crayon darkened its surface until the intaglio letters appeared in white on a dark background. (The photographs of this inscription can be seen at Mr. H. Dixon’s.)
While thus employed Mrs. Le Plongeon stood by my side, studying the characters as they gradually appeared more and more distinct. To our astonishment we soon discovered the cord mentioned by Chablé. It started from the mouth of a face (which represents the people of Saci), situated near the right-hand upper corner of the slab, then runs through its whole length in a slanting direction and terminates at the ear of another head (the inhabitants of Ho). The inclined direction of the cord or line indicates the topographical position of the respective cities—Saci (Valladolid)—being more elevated above the level of the sea than Ho (Merida). But imagine now our amazement at noticing the strange fact that the mode of communication that Chablé ignored was ... by means of electric currents! Yes, of electricity! This fact is plainly indicated by the four zigzag lines, representing the lightning, coming from the four cardinal points and converging toward a centre near the upper or starting station, and also by the solitary zigzag seen about the middle of the cord—following its direction—indicating a half-way station. Then the electric telegraph, that we consider the discovery par excellence of the nineteenth century, was known of the ancient Itza sages 5000 or 10,000 years ago. Ah, Nihil novum sub solem! And in that slab we have a clue to the deciphering of the Maya inscriptions,—an American Rosetta stone.
I will now say a few words of that language that has survived unaltered through the vicissitudes of the nations that spoke it thousands of years ago, and is yet the general tongue in Yucatan—the Maya. There can be no doubt that this is one of the most ancient languages on earth. It was used by a people that lived at least 6000 years ago, as proved by the Katuns, to record the history of their rulers, the dogmas of their religion, on the walls of their palaces, on the façades of their temples.
In a lecture delivered last year before the American Geographical Society of New York, Dr. C. H. Berendt has shown that the Maya was spoken, with its different dialects, by the inhabitants of Mayapan and Xibalba and the other nations of Central America south of Anahuac. He ought to be a good authority on the subject, having dedicated some years in Yucatan to its study.
The Maya, containing words from almost every language, ancient or modern, is well worth the attention of philologists. And since, as Professor Max Muller said, philology is the shining light that is to illuminate the darkness of ethnology, besides the portraits of the bearded men discovered by me in Chichen, those of the princes and priests, and the beautiful statue of Chac-Mool, which serve to determine the different types, may be a guide to discover whence man and civilization came to America, if the American races can be proved not to be autochthonous. Notwithstanding a few guttural sounds, the Maya is soft, pliant, rich in diction and expression; even every shade of thought may be expressed.
* * * * * * *
Whence, then, are the Maya language and the Mayas? I should like to learn from the Americanists who are soon to congregate in Luxembourg.
Augustus Le Plongeon, M.D.