Chapter XIV: Part III: Graphic Systems and Literature (3)

Along the base of the stone, which is in thickness some five feet, at the feet of the giant, there are a series of figures inscribed which are now almost obliterated; at least the photographs sent the Society give no clear idea of them, and the cuts of Dupaix are plainly for the most part fanciful. Their presence there, however, proves that the block was not intended to have been set up on edge, or inserted vertically into a wall, as either of these arrangements would have obscured these hieroglyphs.[251]

I now approach the decipherment of the inscriptions. Any one versed in the signs of the Mexican calendar will at once perceive that it contains the date of a certain year and day. On the left of the giant is seen a rabbit surrounded with ten circular depressions. These depressions are the well-known Aztec marks for numerals, and the rabbit represents one of the four astronomic signs by which they adjusted their chronologic cycle of fifty-two years. The three others were a house, a reed, and a flint. Each one of these recurred thirteen times in their cycle, making, as I have said, a term of fifty-two years in all. A year was designated by one of the four names with its appropriate number; as “3 house,” “12 flint,” “4 reed,” etc., the sequence being regularly preserved.

The days were arranged in zones or weeks of twenty, the different series being numbered, and also named from a sequence of eighteen astronomical signs called “wind,” “lizard,” “snake,” “deer,” etc. The five days lacking to complete the 365 were intercalated. A second or ritual system had thirteen weeks of twenty days each; but as thirteen times twenty makes only two hundred and sixty, in this computation there remained 105 days to be named and numbered. Their device to accomplish this was simple: they merely recommenced the numbering and naming of the weeks for this remainder, adding a third series of appellations drawn from a list of nine signs, called “rulers of the night.” At the close of the solar year they recommenced as at the beginning of the previous year.[252]

With these facts in our mind, we can approach our task with confidence. The stone bears a carefully dated record, with the year and day clearly set forth. The year is represented to the left of the figure, and is that numbered “ten” under the sign of the rabbit, in Nahuatl, _xihuitl matlacth tochtli_; the day of the year is numbered “one” under the sign of the fish, _ce cipactli_.

These precise dates recurred once, and only once, every fifty-two years; and had recurred only once between the year of our era 1450 and the Spanish conquest of Mexico in 1519–20. We may begin our investigations with that one epoch, as from other circumstances, such as local tradition[253] and the character of the work, it is not likely that the inscription was previous to the middle of the fifteenth century. Within the period named, the year “10 rabbit” of the Aztec calendar corresponded with the year 1502 of the Gregorian calendar. It is more difficult to fix the day, as the mathematical problems relating to the Aztec diurnal reckonings are extremely complicated, and have not yet been satisfactorily worked out; but it is, I think, safe to say, that according to both the most probable computations the day “one fish”—_ce cipactli_—occurred in the first month of the year 1502, which month coincided in whole or in part with our February.

Such is the date on the inscription. Now, what is intimated to have occurred on that date? The clue to this is furnished by the figure of the giant.

On looking at it closely we perceive that it represents an ogre of horrid mien with a death-head grin and formidable teeth, his hair wild and long, the locks falling down upon the neck; and suspended on the breast as an ornament is the bone of a human lower jaw with its incisor teeth. The left leg is thrown forward as in the act of walking, and the arms are uplifted, the hands open, and the fingers extended, as at the moment of seizing the prey or the victim. The lines about the umbilicus represent the knot of the girdle which supported the _maxtli_ or breech-cloth.

FIG. 1. The Stone of the Giants.
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There is no doubt as to which personage of the Aztec pantheon this fear-inspiring figure represents; it is _Tzontemoc Mictlantecutli_, “the Lord of the Realm of the Dead, He of the Falling Hair,” the dread god of death and the dead.[254] His distinctive marks are there, the death-head, the falling hair, the jaw bone, the terrible aspect, the giant size.

There can be no question but that the _Piedra de los Gigantes_ establishes a date of death; that it is a necrological tablet, a mortuary monument, and from its size and workmanship, that it was intended as a memorial of the decease of some very important personage in ancient Mexico.

Provided with these deductions from the stone itself, let us turn to the records of old Mexico and see if they corroborate the opinion stated. Fortunately we possess several of these venerable documents, chronicles of the empire before Cortes destroyed it, written in the hieroglyphs which the inventive genius of the natives had devised. Taking two of these chronicles, the one known as the _Codex Telleriano-Remensis_, the other as the _Codex Vaticanus_,[255] and turning to the year numbered “ten” under the sign of the rabbit, I find that both present the same record, which I copy in the following figure.

FIG. 2. Extract from the Vatican Codex.
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You will observe the sign of the year, the rabbit, shown merely by his head for brevity. The ten dots which give its number are beside it. Immediately beneath is a curious quadruped with what are intended as water-drops dripping from him. The animal is the hedge-hog and the figure is to be construed _iconomatically_, that is, it must be read as a rebus through the medium of the Nahuatl language. In that language water is _atl_, in composition _a_, and hedge-hog is _uitzotl_. Combine these and you get _ahuitzotl_, or, with the reverential termination, _ahuitzotzin_. This was the name of the ruler or emperor, if you allow the word, of ancient Mexico before the accession to the throne of that Montezuma whom the Spanish _conquistador_ Cortes put to death. His hieroglyph, as I have described it, is well known in Mexican codices.[256]

Returning to the page from the chronicle, we observe that the hieroglyph of Ahuitzotzin is placed immediately over a corpse swathed in its mummy cloths, as was the custom of interment with the highest classes in Mexico. This signifies that the death of Ahuitzotzin took place in that year. Adjacent to it is the figure of his successor, his name iconomatically represented by the head-dress of the nobles; the _tecuhtli_, giving the middle syllables of “Mo-_tecuh_-zoma.”[257] Beneath is also the figure of the new ruler, with the outlines of a flower and a house, which would be translated by the iconomatic system _xochicalli_ or _xochicalco_; but the significance of these does not concern us here.

This page of the Codices gives us therefore a record of a death in the year “10 _tochtli_”—1502—of the utmost importance. No previous ruler had brought ancient Mexico to such a height of glory and power. “In his reign,” says Orozco y Berra, “Mexico reached its utmost extension. Tributes were levied in all directions, and fabulous riches poured into the capital city.”[258] The death of the ruler was therefore an event of the profoundest national significance. We may well believe that it would be commemorated by some artistic work commensurate with its importance; and this I claim was the purpose of the _Piedra de los Gigantes_ of Escamela.

But we may add further and convincing testimony to this interpretation. The day of the month _ce cipactli_, 1 Fish, is engraved to the right of the figure as connected with the event commemorated. Now, although I have not found in the records the exact day of Ahuitzotzin’s death, I do find that the native historian Ixtlilxochitl assigns this very day, _ce cipactli_, 1 Fish, as that of the accession of Montezuma;[259] and another native historian, Chimalpahin, states distinctly that this took place “immediately” after the death of his predecessor on the throne.[260] It may possibly have been on the very day of Ahuitzotzin’s decease, as still another native writer, Tezozomoc, informs us that this was not sudden, but the slow result of a wound on the head.[261]

It is indeed remarkable that we should find the precise dates, the year and the day of the year, depicted on this stone, and also recorded by various native writers, as connected with the demise of the emperor Ahuitzotzin. These coincidences are of such a nature that they leave no doubt that _La Piedra de los Gigantes_ of Escamela is a necrologic tablet commemorating the death of the emperor Ahuitzotzin some time in February, 1502.

NATIVE AMERICAN POETRY.[262]

In our modern civilization we are apt to consider that a taste for poetry is a mark of high culture, something which belongs exclusively to trained mental fibre and educated perceptions. It causes us, therefore, some surprise when we study the psychology of savage tribes, to find them almost everywhere passionate lovers of verse and measure, of music and song. This fact, well established by the researches of ethnology, was recognized by more than one keen thinker before ethnology was born. In the last century that erratic genius, Hamann, known in German literature as “the magician of the north,” penned the memorable words, “Poetry is the common mother-tongue of the human race,” and insisted that to attain its noblest flights, “we must return to the infancy of the race, and to the simplicity of a childlike faith,” a dictum warmly espoused by the philosophic Herder and by the enthusiasm of the young Gœthe. Later on, that profoundest of psychologists, Wilhelm von Humboldt, reflecting on the problems presented by the origin of languages, expressed his conviction that man as a zoological species is a singing animal, like many birds; that his vocal organs turn to song as their appropriate function with a like spontaneity as his mind turns to thought or his eyes to the light.

If we inquire into the psychological principle which makes rhythm agreeable to the ear, we shall find that this principle is that of _repetition_. I could carry the analysis still further, and demonstrate to you that the physiological principle of all pleasure is expressed in the formula—“maximum action with minimum effort;” and that the nerves of audition are most successfully acted upon in accordance with this law by limited repetitions with harmonious intervals. All metres, all rhythm, all forms of alliteration and assonance, are but varied applications of the principle of harmonious repetition; and the poet, as a poet, as an artist, must be rated, and practically always is rated, by the skill with which he employs the resources of repetition. Lofty thoughts, beautiful metaphors, delicate allusions, these are his extraneous aids, and by no means his exclusive property; but the form is his own, be it quantity, rhyme, alliteration or accent.

I have felt it necessary to state very briefly these general principles, in order to place in its proper light that form of poetry which is most prevalent among the native tribes of America. You will not find among them any developed examples of either rhyme or alliteration; their dialects do not admit of fixed vocalic quantity, like the Latin; even accent and assonance, which are the more imperfect resources of the poetic art, are generally absent. What, then, in a literary analysis, constitutes their poetic form?

I answer, _repetition_ in its simplest expressions. These are two. The same verse may be repeated over and over again; or the wording of the verses may be changed, but each may be accompanied by a burden or refrain, which is repeated by the singer or the chorus. These are the two fundamental characteristics of aboriginal poetry, and are found everywhere on the American continent. The refrain is usually interjectional and meaningless; and the verses are often repeated without alteration, four or five times over.

We may, if we choose, begin our survey of the continent with its extreme northernmost inhabitants, the Eskimo, whose abode is along the inhospitable shores of the Arctic sea. One might think that the eternal snows which surround them, the vast glaciers which chill the air for miles beyond their limits, would also freeze out and kill all fire of poesy. Quite the contrary. I doubt if throughout the American continent I could quote you a more thoroughly poetic people, one taking a greater delight in song, than these same boreal, blubber-eating, ice-bound Eskimo. Their great delight is in long tales of magic and adventure, and in improvisation. An Eskimo hunter, with a ready power to string together verse after verse of their peculiar poetry, soon extends his fame beyond the confines of his native village, and becomes known for many a league up and down the shore. Often in the long winter nights, genuine tourneys of song are organized between the champions of villages, not unlike those which took place in fair Provence in the palmy days of _la gaye science_. More than this, I have been assured by Dr. Franz Boas, who recently passed two years among the Eskimo of Baffin’s Land, living with them as one of them, that it is nothing uncommon for downright hostile feelings, personal grudges, to be settled by the opponents meeting on a fixed occasion and singing satirical and abusive songs at each other. He who comes out best, raising the most laughter at his antagonist’s expense, is considered to have conquered, and his enemy accepts the defeat. These controversial songs have been called by the Danish writers “nith songs,” from the word _nith_, which is also old English, and means cursing and contention.

The distinguished traveler, Dr. Heinrich Rink, who has passed nineteen winters in Greenland, has furnished me the originals, with translations, of several of these nith songs.

As an example, I will read you one which took place between two rivals, _Savdlat_ and _Pulangit-Sissok_. Savdlat lived to the north, Pulangit-Sissok to the south. To appreciate the satire, you must know that an Eskimo gentleman prides himself chiefly on two points: first, that he speaks his own tongue with precisely the right accent, which, I need not say, he considers to be the accent of his own village, wherever that may be; and secondly, that he is a skillful boatman.

Savdlat begins the poetic duel in these words:

SAVDLAT AND PULANGIT-SISSOK.

SAVDLAT—

The South shore, O yes, the South shore, I know it;
Once I lived there and met Pulangit-Sissok,
A fat fellow who lived on halibut; O yes, I know him.
Those South-shore folk can’t talk;
They don’t know how to pronounce our language;
Truly they are dull fellows;
They don’t even talk alike;
Some have one accent, some another;
Nobody can understand them;
They can scarcely understand each other.

PULANGIT-SISSOK—

O yes, Savdlat and I are old acquaintances;
He wished me extremely well at times;
Once I know he wished I was the best boatman on the shore;
It was a rough day, and I in mercy took his boat in tow;
Ha! ha! Savdlat, thou didst cry most pitiful;
Thou wast awfully afeared;
In truth, thou wast nearly upset;
And hadst to keep hold of my boat strings,
And give me part of thy load.
O yes, Savdlat and I are old acquaintances.

A similar humorous strain is very marked in most of the Eskimo songs. Indeed, I know no other tribe in America where the genuine fun-loving spirit bubbles forth so freely. In Mexico and Central America, in the midst of beautiful scenery and where the flowery earth basks in the lap of an eternal spring, the tone of most of the songs is sad and lugubrious; or, if humorous, with a satirical, bitter, unhealthy humor, a _Schadenfreude_, which is far from wholesome merriment. Dr. Berendt, who spent seventeen years in studying the languages of Central America, has pointedly called attention to the great predominance of words in them expressing painful, over those expressing pleasurable emotions. It teaches us how little the happiness of man depends upon his environment, that the merriest of the American nations is found precisely where according to our usual notions almost every cheering and enlivening element is withdrawn from life, where darkness, cold, and destitution have undisputed rule.

But I will not continue with such generalizations, attractive though they are. Let me relieve their dryness by a little Eskimo song, the full Eskimo text of which you will find printed in Dr. Rink’s work entitled “Tales of the Eskimo.” As usual, each line is followed by an interjectional burden, which I shall repeat only in part. The song is called

THE SONG OF KUK-OOK, THE BAD BOY.

This is the song of Kuk-ook, the bad boy.
Imakayah—hayah,
Imakayah—hah—hayah.
I am going to run away from home, hayah,
In a great big boat, hayah,
To hunt for a sweet little girl, hayah;
I shall get her some beads, hayah;
The kind that look like boiled ones, hayah;
Then after a while, hayah,
I shall come back home, hayah,
I shall call all my relations together, hayah,
And shall give them all a good thrashing, hayah;
Then I shall go and get married, hayah,
I shall marry two girls at once, hayah;
One of the sweet little darlings, hayah,
I shall dress in spotted seal-skins, hayah,
And the other dear little pet, hayah,
Shall wear skins of the hooded seal only, hayah.

But you must not derive the idea from these specimens that the Eskimos are triflers and jesters only. Some of their poetical productions reveal a true and deep appreciation of the marvellous, the impressive, and the beautiful scenes which their land and climate present. Prominent features in their tales and chants are the flashing, variegated aurora, whose shooting streamers they fable to be the souls of departed heroes; the milky way, gleaming in the still Arctic night, which they regard as the bridge by which the souls of the good and brave mount to the place of joy; the vast, glittering, soundless snowfields; and the mighty, crashing glacier, splintering from his shoreward cliffs the ice mountains which float down to the great ocean.

As an instance of this appreciation of natural scenery I shall read you a song obtained by Dr. Rink, at the small trading station of Arsut on the southern coast of Greenland, near Frederickshaab. Close to Arsut stands Mt. Koonak, whose precipitous sides rise fully four thousand feet above the billows of the Atlantic which dash against its foot. It is the play of the clouds about the mountain which inspires the poet:

MOUNT KOONAK: A SONG OF ARSUT.

I look toward the south, to great Mount Koonak,
To great Mount Koonak, there to the south;
I watch the clouds that gather round him;
I contemplate their shining brightness;
They spread abroad upon great Koonak;
They climb up his seaward flanks;
See how they shift and change;
Watch them there to the south;
How the one makes beautiful the other;
How they mount his southern slopes,
Hiding him from the stormy sea,
Each lending beauty to the other.

No doubt there were and are many historical or traditional songs among the natives; but I should have little hope of deriving from them much information of a really historical character. Their references to occurrences are very vague, and rather in the form of suggestion than narration. The auditors are supposed to be familiar with the story, and a single name or prominent word is enough to recall it to their minds.

I may illustrate this by a short Pawnee song sent me by Mr. Dunbar, whose intimate acquaintance with the language and customs of that tribe lends entire authority to all he writes about them.

About 1820 the Pawnees captured a young girl from their enemies the Paducas, and according to custom, prepared to burn her alive. On the appointed day she was fastened to the stake, and the village gathered around in order to commence the tortures which were to precede her death. At that moment a young Pawnee brave, by name _Pitale-Sharu_, whose heart had been touched with pity and perhaps with love, dashed madly into the ring with two fleet horses. In a moment with his ready knife he had slit the thongs which fastened the girl to the stake, had thrown her on one horse, himself on the other, and was speeding away on the prairie toward her father’s village. The Pawnees were literally stricken dumb. They retired silently to their cabins, and when, three days later, Pitale-Sharu returned to the village, no man challenged his action. All regarded it as an act of divine inspiration, even to inquire about which would be sacrilege. This act is remembered to this day in the tribe, and commemorated in the following song:

A PAWNEE COMMEMORATIVE SONG.

Well, he foretold this,
Well, he foretold this,
Yes, he foretold this;
I, Pitale-Sharu,
Am arrived here.
Well, he foretold this,
Yes, he foretold this,
I, Pitale Sharu,
Am arrived here.

One of the Pawnee war-songs has a curious metaphysical turn. It is one which is sung when a warrior undertakes to perform some particularly daring individual exploit, which may well cost him his life. The words seem to call upon the gods to decide whether this mortal life is only an illusion, or a divine truth under the guidance of divine intelligence.

PAWNEE WAR-SONG.

Let us see, is this real,
Let us see, is this real,
Let us see, is this real,
Let us see, is this real,
This life I am living?
Ye gods, who dwell everywhere,
Let us see, is this real,
This life I am living?

The so-called Indian medicine-songs cannot be understood without a thorough insight into the habits and superstitions of these peoples, and it would only fatigue you were I to repeat them to you.

I prefer to turn to some of the less esoteric productions of the native muse, to some of its expressions of those emotions which are common to mankind everywhere, and which everywhere seek their expression in meter and rhythm.

A recent German traveler, Mr. Theodore Baker, furnishes me with a couple of simple, unpretending but genuinely aboriginal songs which he heard among the Kioway Indians. One is a

SONG OF A KIOWAY MOTHER WHOSE SON HAS GONE TO WAR.

Young men there are in plenty,
But I love only one;
Him I’ve not seen for long,
Though he is my only son.

When he comes, I’ll haste to meet him,
I think of him all night;
He too will be glad to see me,
His eyes will gleam with delight.

The second example from the Kioways is a song of true love in the ordinary sense. Such are rare among the North American Indians anywhere. Most of their chants in relation to the other sex are erotic, not emotional; and this holds equally true of those which in some tribes on certain occasions are addressed by the women to the men. The one I give you from the Kioway is not open to this censure

A KIOWAY LOVE-SONG.

I sat and wept on the hill-side,
I wept till the darkness fell
I wept for a maiden afar off
A maiden who loves me well

The moons are passing, and some moon
I shall see my home long-lost,
And of all the greetings that meet me,
My maiden’s will gladden me most.

A specimen of a characteristic Chipeway love-song is given in one of the works of the late Henry R. Schoolcraft. It was chanted by the lover, at night, in front of the dwelling of the girl he would captivate. The song is in four verses, and it will be noticed that each verse approaches nearer and nearer the final request. It should be understood that each verse was to be repeated several times, so as to give the fair one an opportunity to express her approval or disapproval by some of those signs which belong to the freemasonry of love the world over. If the sign was negative and repelling, the singer abruptly ceased his chant and retired, concealed by the darkness of the night; but if he was encouraged, or heard without rebuke, he continued, in hope that at the close of the song timid fingers would partially draw aside the curtain which closes the lodge door, and that his prayer would be granted.

The serenade runs as follows:

SERENADE SONG OF A CHIPEWAY LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

I would walk into somebody’s dwelling,
Into somebody’s dwelling would I walk.

Into _thy_ darkened dwelling, my beloved,
Some night would I walk, would I walk.

Some night at this season, my beloved,
Into thy darkened dwelling would I walk.

On this very night, my beloved,
Into thy darkened dwelling would I walk.

While dealing with these amatory effusions, I will add one or two from another part of the map, from the tribes who make their home in our sister republic, Mexico. You are aware that there are many tribes there barely tinged with European culture or religion. They retain the ancestral tongues and modes of thought. The sword and whip of the Spaniard compelled an external obedience to church and state, but the deference to either was reluctant, and in the minimum degree. Consequently, there also the field for research is rich and practically uncultivated. To employ a native metaphor, frequent in the Aztec poets, I will cause you to smell the fragrance of a few of the flowers I have gathered from those meads.

My late friend, Dr. Berendt, personally known, I doubt not, to some present, obtained a curious Aztec love-song from the lips of an Indian girl in the Sierra of Tamaulipas. It is particularly noticeable from the strange, mystical conceit it contains that to the person who truly loves, the mere bodily presence or absence of the beloved object is unimportant, nay, not even noticed. The literal translation of this song is as follows:

I know not whether thou hast been absent:
I lie down with thee, I rise up with thee,
In my dreams thou art with me.
If my ear drops tremble in my ears,
I know it is thou moving within my heart.

This rough rendering has been put into metrical form as follows:

A MODERN AZTEC LOVE-SONG.

I knew it not that thou hadst absent been,
So full thy presence all my soul had left;
By night, by day, in quiet or changing scene,
’Tis thee alone I see, sense of all else bereft.
And when the tinkling pendants sway and ring,
’Tis thou who in my heart dost move and sing.

In another love-song in the same language I have met a conceit which I distinctly remember to have read in some old English poet, that of a lover who complains that his heart has been gathered in along with her flowers by a maiden picking roses.

The literal translation of this song reads thus:

On a certain mountain side,
Where they pluck flowers,
I saw a pretty maiden,
Who plucked from me my heart.
Whither thou goest,
There go I.

As a metrical expansion of this couplet the following has been suggested:

AZTEC LOVE-SONG.

Do you know that mountain side
Where they gather roses?
There I strolled one eventide
In the garden closes.
Soon I met a lovely maid
Fairer than all fancies,
Quick she gathered in my heart
With her buds and pansies,
But take heed, my pretty may,
In reaping and in sowing,
Once with thee, I’ll ever stay,
And go where thou art going.

Perhaps the refinement of some of these sentiments may excite skepticism. It is a favorite doctrine among a certain class of writers that delicacy of sexual feeling is quite unknown among savage tribes, that, indeed, the universal law is that mere bestiality prevails, more or less kept in bounds by superstition and tribal law. I am well acquainted with this theory of several popular philosophers, and do not in the least accept it. Any such dogmatic assertion is unscientific. Delicacy of sentiment bears no sort of constant relation to culture. Every man present knows this. He can name among his acquaintances men of unusual culture who are coarse voluptuaries, and others of the humblest education who have the delicacy of a refined woman. So it is with families, and so it is with tribes. I have illustrated this lately by an analysis of the words meaning “to love” in all its senses in five leading American linguistic stocks, and have shown by the irrefragable proof of language how much they differ in this respect, and how much also the same tribe may differ from itself at various periods of its growth. As the result of this and similar studies I may assure you that there is no occasion for questioning the existence of highly delicate sentiments among some of the American tribes.

As I found the Mexican love poems the most delicate, so I have found their war songs the most stirring. We have a number of specimens written down in the native tongue shortly after the conquest. They have never been translated or published, but I will give you a rendering of one in my possession which, from intrinsic evidence, was written about 1510. I say _written_ advisedly, for the nation who sang these songs possessed a phonetic alphabet, and wrote many volumes of poems by its aid. Their historian, Bernardino de Sahagun, especially mentions that the works used for the instruction of youth in their schools contained “poems written in antique characters.”

The first of my selections is supposed to be addressed by the poet to certain friends of his who were unwilling to go to war.

A WAR-SONG OF THE OTOMIS.

1. It grieves me, dear friends, that you walk not with me in spirit,
that I have not your company in the scenes of joy and pleasure, that
never more in union do we seek the same paths.

2. Do you really see me, dear friends? Will no God take the
blindness from your eyes? What is life on earth? Can the dead
return? No, they live far within the heavens, in a place of joy.

3. The joy of the Lord, the Giver of Life, is where the warriors
sing, and the smoke of the war-fire rises up; where the flowers of
the shields spread abroad their leaves; where deeds of valor shake
the earth; where the fatal flowers of death cover the fields.

4. The battle is there, the beginning of the battle is there, in the
open fields, where the smoke of the war-fire winds around and curls
upward from the fatal war flowers which adorn you, ye friends and
warriors of the Chichimecs.

5. Let not my soul dread that open field; I earnestly desire the
beginning of the slaughter, my soul longs for the murderous fray.

6. O you who stand there in the battle, I earnestly desire the
beginning of the slaughter, my soul longs for the murderous fray.

7. The war-cloud rises upward, it rises into the blue sky where
dwells the Giver of Life; in it blossom forth the flowers of prowess
and valor, beneath it, in the battle field, the children ripen to
maturity.

8. Rejoice with me, dear friends, and do ye rejoice, ye children,
going forth to the open field of battle; let us rejoice and revel
amid these shields, flowers of the murderous fray.

The song which I have just read, like most which I bring before you, has no name of author. The poet has passed to an eternal oblivion, though his work remains. More fortunate is the composer of the next one I shall read you. It is a poem by an Aztec prince and bard who bore the sonorous appellation, _Tetlapan Quetzanitzin_. I can tell you little about him. At the time Cortes entered the City of Mexico, Tetlapan Quetzanitzin was ruler of one of its suburbs, Tlacopan or Tacuba. At the interview when the daring Spaniard seized upon the person of Montezuma and made him a captive, this Tetlapan was one of the attendants of the Aztec monarch, and it is recorded of him that he made his escape and disappeared. I have found no mention of his subsequent adventures.

This war-song is one of two of his poems which have survived the wreck of the ancient literature. It is highly metaphorical. You might at first think it a drinking song; but the drunkenness it refers to is the intoxication of battle, the _Berserkerwuth_ of the Norse Vikings; the flowers which he sings are the war-shields with their gay ornaments; and the fertile plains which he lauds are those which are watered with the blood of heroes. Finally, I should tell you that the white wine he speaks of was a sacred beverage among the Mexicans, set forth at certain solemn festivals. Like the rest of their wine, it was manufactured from the maguey.

A WAR-SONG OF TETLAPAN QUETZANITZIN (1519).

1. Why did it grieve you, O friends, why did it pain you, that you
were drunk with the wine? Arise from your stupor, O friends, come
hither and sing; let us seek for homes in some flowery land; forget
your drunkenness.

2. The precept is old that one should quaff the strong white wine in
the moment of difficulty, as when one enters the battle-plain, when
he goes forth to the place of shattered stones, where the precious
stones are splintered, the emeralds, the turquoises, the youths, the
children. Therefore, friends and brothers, quaff now the flowing
white wine.

3. Let us drink together amid the flowers, let us build our houses
among the flowers, where the fragrant blossoms cast abroad their
odors as a fountain its waters, where the breath of the dew-laden
flowers makes sweet the air; there it is that nobility and strength
will make glorious our houses, there the flowers of war bloom over a
fertile land.

4. O friends, do you not hear me? Let us go, let us go, let us pour
forth the white wine, the strong wine of battle; let us drink the
wine which is as sweet as the dew of roses, let it intoxicate our
souls, let our souls be steeped in its delights, let them be
enriched as in some opulent place, some fertile land. Why does it
trouble you? Come with me, and listen to my song.

Alongside of these specimens from Mexico, I put a war-song of the Peruvians. It is from the drama of _Ollanta_, a production dating from shortly before the conquest, and one of the most interesting monuments of American native literature. The hero, Ollanta, a warrior of renown but of humble parentage, had, on the strength of his successes against the enemy, applied for the hand of the Inca’s daughter, and had been rejected with scorn. All his loyalty and allegiance turns to hatred, and he sings his war-song against his native country and its ruler in these words:

A WAR-SONG OF OLLANTA.

O Cuzco, beautiful city,
Henceforward I shall be thy enemy.
I shall break the walls of thy bosom,
I shall tear out thy heart
And fling it to the vultures.
Thy cruel king shall witness
My thousands of warriors,
Armed and led by me,
Gather, like a cloud of curses,
Against thy citadel.
The sky shall be red with thy burning,
Bloody shall thy couch be,
And thy king shall perish with thee.
Gasping in death, with my hand on his throat,
We shall see if again he will say:
“Thou art unworthy of my daughter,
Never shall she be thine.”

A variety of poetic production of frequent occurrence among the aborigines is the prophetic. You are aware that it is by no means peculiar to them; the oracle at Delphi, the sibylline leaves in the Capitol, the words of the Hebrew seers, even the forecasts of Nostradamus, were usually cast in poetic form. The effort to lift the veil of futurity is one ineradicable from the human breast, and faith in its possibility is universal. Those prophets who are wise, those augurs who pass the wink to each other, favor great obscurity and ambiguity in their communications, or else express themselves in such commonplaces as that man is mortal; that all beauty fadeth; that power is transitory, and the like. We find both kinds flourished in ancient America. You may remember that Montezuma in his first interview with Cortes told the Spanish invader that the arrival of a white and bearded conqueror from the East had long been predicted by Mexican soothsayers. Similar prophecies were current in Yucatan, in Peru, and in other portions of the continent. They are all easily explained, and there is no occasion either to question the fact, or to seek for them any supernatural inspiration. It would lead me away from my theme to enter into a discussion of their meaning, but I should like to read you two brief examples of them. Both are from the Maya language of Yucatan, and I have no doubt both antedate the conquest. The first, according to an expression in the poem itself, was composed in the year 1469. It was the prediction of a Maya priest at the close of the indiction or cycle which terminated in that year of our chronology.

THE PROPHECY OF PECH, PRIEST OF CHICHEN-ITZA (1469).

Ye men of Itzá, hearken to the tidings,
Listen to the forecaste of this cycle’s end;
Four have been the ages of the world’s progressing.
Now the fourth is ending, and its end is near.
A mighty lord is coming, see you give him honor;
A potent lord approaches, to whom all must bow;
I, the prophet, warn you, keep in mind my boding,
Men of Itzá, mark it, and await your lord.

The second example of these mystic chants which I shall give you is from a curious native production called, “The Book of Chilan Balam,” a repertory of wild imaginings and scraps of ancient and modern magical lore, which is the very Bible of the Maya Indians. Although I have a copy of it, I have been unable to translate any large portion of it, and my correspondents in Yucatan, though some of them speak Maya as readily as Spanish, find the expressions too archaic and obscure to be intelligible. This particular song is that of the priest and soothsayer Chilan, from whom the sacred book takes its name. There is every reason to believe that it dates from the fifteenth century.

RECITAL OF THE PRIEST CHILAN.

Eat, eat, while there is bread,
Drink, drink, while there is water;
A day comes when dust shall darken the air,
When a blight shall wither the land,
When a cloud shall arise,
When a mountain shall be lifted up,
When a strong man shall seize the city,
When ruin shall fall upon all things,
When the tender leaf shall be destroyed,
When eyes shall be closed in death;
When there shall be three signs on a tree,
Father, son and grandson hanging dead on the same tree;
When the battle flag shall be raised,
And the people scattered abroad in the forests.

Such poems properly belong to the mythologic class. This class was fully represented in the productions of the primitive bards, but chiefly owing to the prejudices of the early missionaries, the examples remaining are few.

I could continue to bring before you specimens of this quaint and ancient lore. My garner is by no means emptied. But probably I have said enough for my purpose. You see that the study of the aboriginal poetry of our continent opens up an unexpectedly rich field for investigation. It throws a new light not only on the folk songs of other nations, but on the general history of the growth of the poetic faculty. More than this, it elevates our opinion of the nations whom we are accustomed to call by the terms savage and barbarous. We are taught that in much which we are inclined to claim as our special prerogatives, they too have an interest. In the most precious possessions of the race, in its aspirations for the infinite and the forever true, they also have a share. They likewise partake, and in no mean degree, of that sweetest heritage of man, the glorious gift of song, “the vision and the faculty divine.”