Dear Hannevig:

The three days’ time which has elapsed since my last letter to you, has been so crowded with a confusion of bewildered impressions produced by this astonishing city and its still more astonishing inhabitants, that I am in doubt whether I shall be able to convey to you any clearer pictures than those which fill the disordered canvas of my own mind. I will, however, strive to reproduce my experiences in the order in which they came to me, and allow you to draw your own conclusions.The first amazing thing that happened to me was the way in which I reached my hotel. Fancy being blown up on the shore, for the pneumatic tube being many hundreds of feet below the shore level, we were literally blown up on the beach; there we found air-balloon omnibuses, into which we and our luggage were transported by means of little electrical cars, running on an inclined plane. The balloon rose about a thousand feet into the air, affording a fine view of the city. Great is not a large enough word to describe so vast a city as this city of the Socialists—it has the immensity of an unending plain, and the flatness of one also. In former times, I believe, the original city was an island, on either side of which flowed a river; but as more and more land became necessary new channels for these rivers were dug, and the river-beds filled in, so that now, far as the eye can reach, there is a limitless expanse of roof-tops.

As seen from an aerial elevation, there was nothing to attract the eye from the picturesque standpoint—there were few large buildings of noticeable size or beauty. The city was chiefly remarkable because of its immensity. When landed at my hotel I found these first impressions confirmed by a nearer view.

First let me tell you, however, that after entering the vestibule of the hotel, I felt as if I had stepped into some dwelling of gnomes or sprites. Not a human being presented himself. No one appeared to take my luggage, nor was a clerk or hall boy visible anywhere. The great hall of the hotel was as deserted and silent as an empty tomb; at first I could not even discover a bell. Presently, however, I saw a huge iron hand pointing to an adjacent table. On the table lay a big book with a placard on which was printed, “Please write name, country, length of stay and number of rooms desired.” All of which I did. The book then miraculously closed itself and disappeared! The next instant a tray made its appearance where the book had been, on the tray was a key, and on the key a tag with a number and the words, “Take elevator at your left to third flight.” The elevator as I stepped into it, stopped as if by magic at the third story, when another iron hand shot out of the wall, pointing me to the left. Soon I found the room assigned me, opened it, and entered to discover the apartment in complete order, and the faucets in the bath-chamber actually turned on!

My dear Hannevig, can you believe me when I tell you that I have been in this hotel four mortal days, have eaten three substantial meals a day, have been fairly comfortable, and yet have not seen a human creature, from a landlord to a servant? The whole establishment apparently is run by machinery. There is a complicated bell apparatus which you ring for every conceivable want or need. Meals are served in one’s own room, by a system of ingenious sliding shelves, which open and shut, and disappear into the wall in the most wizard-like manner. Of course the reason of all these contrivances is obvious enough. In a society where labor of a degrading order is forbidden by law, machinery must be used as its substitute. It is all well enough, I presume, from the laborer’s point of view. But for a traveller, bent on a pleasure trip, machinery as a substitute for a garrulous landlord, and a score of servants, however bad, is found to be a poor and somewhat monotonous companion. I amuse myself, however, with perpetually testing all the bells and the electrical apparatus, calling for a hundred things I don’t want, to see whether they will come through the ceiling or up the floor.

Most of my time, however, is spent in the streets. My earlier impressions of the city I find remain unchanged. It is as flat as your hand and as monotonous as a twice-told tale. Never was there such monotony or such dulness. Each house is precisely like its neighbor; each house has so many rooms, so many windows, so many square feet of garden, which latter no one cultivates, as flowers and grass entail a certain amount of manual labor, which, it appears, is thought to be degrading by these socialists. Imagine, therefore, miles upon miles of a city composed of little two-story houses as like one unto another as two brown nuts. There are parks and theatres and museums, and libraries, the Peoples’ Clubs, and innumerable state buildings; but these are all architecturally tasteless, as utility has been the only feature considered in their construction. Every thing here, from the laying out of the city to the last detail concerning the affairs of commerce or trade is arranged according to the socialistic principle—by the people for the People. The city itself was rebuilt a hundred years ago, in order that the houses and the public buildings might be in more fitting harmony with the new order and principles of Socialism. What the older City of New York may have been, it is difficult to determine, although it is supposed to have been ugly enough. But this modern city is the very acme of dreariness. It is the monotony I think, which chiefly depresses me. It is not that the houses do not seem comfortable, clean and orderly, for all these virtues they possess. But fancy seeing miles upon miles of little two-story houses! The total lack of contrast which is the result of the plan on which this socialistic city has been built, comes, of course, from the principle which has decreed that no man can have any finer house or better interior, or finer clothes than his neighbor. The abolition of poverty, and the raising of all classes to a common level of comfort and security, has resulted in the most deadening uniformity. Take for example, the aspect of the shop windows. All shops are run by the government on government capital; there is, consequently, neither rivalry nor competition. The shop keepers, who are in reality only clerks and salesmen under government jurisdiction, take naturally, no personal or vital interest either in the amount of goods sold, or in the way in which these latter are placed before the public. The shop-windows, therefore, are as uninviting as are the goods displayed; only useful, necessary objects and articles are to be seen. The eye seeks in vain throughout the length and breadth of the city for any thing really beautiful, for the lovely, or the rare. Objects of art and of beauty find, it seems, no market here. Occasionally the Government makes a purchase of some foreign work of art, or seizes on some of those recently excavated from the ruins of some 19th century merchant’s palace. The picture or vase is then placed in the museums, where the people are supposed to enjoy its possession.

To connect the word enjoyment with the aspect of these serious socialists is almost laughable. A more sober collection of people I never beheld. They are as solemn as the oldest and wisest of owls. They have the look of people who have come to the end of things and who have failed to find it amusing. The entire population appear to be eternally in the streets, wandering up and down, with their hands in their pockets, on the lookout for something that never happens. What indeed, is there to happen? Have they not come to the consummation of everything, of their dreams and their hopes and desires? A man can’t have his dream and dream it too. Realization has been found before now, to be exceedingly dull play.

As it is, I am free to confess, that the dulness and apathy of these ideally-perfect socialists weighs on me. My views of their condition may change when I come to know them better.

It is late and I must close.

Ever yours, W.