# The Diothas, or, A Far Look Ahead/Chapter 1

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THE DIOTHAS;
OR,
A FAR LOOK AHEAD.
"What you assert is as incomprehensible as it is strange."
My old friend, usually so earnestly matter-of-fact, now so mysteriously earnest, regarded me with a quiet smile, much as an elder listens to the objections of a child.
"You have it in your power to judge for yourself, subject to the conditions already mentioned."
As I gazed at my interlocutor, his serene confidence began to dispel my incredulity, and produce that condition of trusting belief in his power demanded as an indispensable prerequisite for the purpose in view. What we intensely desire to be true, we strongly, almost inevitably, tend to accept as true.
"I am willing to try the experiment," said I, after a long pause.
"Remember the conditions," was the response. "Your ​mind is imaginative and poetical; mine logical, and fairly stored with science and history. It is necessary to the success of our experiment, that your mind submit entirely to the guidance of mine."
"I consent," was my reply. "Let us begin at once."
Rising without a word from his seat on the opposite side of the fireplace, he turned down the lamp, so as to leave only a subdued light. Then, standing on the rug before me, he began to make the peculiar passes employed by mesmerists,—to whose influence, I may remark in passing, I have always been highly susceptible.
Gradually the objects before me grew indistinct: the multitudinous noises of the busy street below died away to a gentle murmur, like the sound of distant waves. That, too, ceased. I was wrapped in a profound and dreamless sleep.
Suddenly I awoke. My friend was standing in the same position as before, and was regarding me intently, not without some appearance of anxiety. The apartment presented its usual appearance, as I could well see, the lamp being now turned up. Full of disappointment, I supposed the experiment to have failed. For there I was. as wide awake, apparently, as ever I had been, with no sign of anything unusual in my surroundings.
Evidently reading my feelings in my countenance, he said, pointing toward the door,—
"Beyond that slight partition you will find that future society upon which you have so often curiously speculated. It is now in your power to see and judge for yourself."
While speaking he had approached the door. After a ​ momentary hesitation, I followed, and passed through. Outside, instead of the familiar landing and the stairs up which I had so often wearily plodded, extended, far as I could see, a fairly lighted corridor of handsome proportions. In surprise I turned involuntarily toward the door through which I had just passed; but that, too, had vanished. The corridor extended, apparently, as far in that direction as in the other. For the moment, at least, we two seemed to be the only occupants of this seemingly endless gallery. Smiling at my look of amazement, my companion said,—
"You seem surprised; but are you quite certain of never having seen this place before?"
"Absolutely certain!" was my emphatic reply.
My companion regarded me with a look of keen inquiry, seemed to repress some observation that rose to his lips, but went on to say,—
"On passing at a step from the nineteenth to the ninety-sixth century, you must naturally expect to find many changes. The New York you knew and dwelt in crumbled into dust almost eighty centuries ago, in the ages that are now regarded as the twilight of history. Its fragments form only the lowermost layer of the five fathoms deep of detritus on which the present city stands, the accumulated remains of a succession of cities, each more magnificent than its predecessor."
Meanwhile we had reached and entered one of the recesses from which the corridor seemed to receive its light. This recess was closed toward the street by a single sheet of glass, presenting no visible outlet. It yielded, however, to a gentle push from my companion, ​and, turning on a central pivot, offered a means of exit by which we passed to the open air.
We now found ourselves in a colonuade, or, rather, arcade, which I supposed to be on the level of the street. Its width might be about that of our Broadway sidewalk. Here I saw shops, indeed, and numbers of people passing in both directions, but could not see the throng of vehicles indicated by the sounds that reached my ears. I stepped over to the balustrade that bounded the farther side of the arcade, and found that I was by no means on the level of the street, but in a sort of balcony two stories above it. The room I had left but a moment before was fully sixty feet above the sidewalk. New York had truly risen, in the course of ages, upon the ruins of its former self.
I was struck with amazement at the spectacle before. How different this from the Broadway up which I had sauntered but a few hours before!
The buildings, it is true, were not much taller than those to which I had been accustomed; but their effect was indescribably grand and strange. Imagine the present sidewalk covered by an arcade supported on arches and pillars of polished granite. The architecture was of a style to me utterly unknown, but combined in a remarkable degree the characteristics of lightness and solidity. Above the lower arcade rose others, one for each story, each slightly receding within the other, and of correspondingly lighter construction. The material of only the lowest arcade was of stone; that of the upper ones was a metal, incrusted with a peculiar oxide of stone color. So similar was it, indeed, to stone, that it was only by ​accident I discovered the real material of the delicate carved work, surpassing in airy grace and exuberant variety of detail the far-famed wonders of the Alhambra. The whole, though pervaded by a controlling unity of design, varied in details from story to story and from block to block; while color, sparingly and judiciously introduced, relieved the monotony of the stony-hued masses.
No intersecting streets were apparent, but their position was indicated by the wide and massive archways that pierced at intervals the otherwise unbroken lines of colonnade stretching toward the distant horizon. Over each archway, semi-recessed in a niche, stood a statue, each a work of genius. These statues, portraits as regards the features, but otherwise emblematic, served to indicate the names of the cross-streets. I was looking down upon the Wavoltha, or Avenue of Nations, the main artery of the great city. Of the figures above the archways, each pair symbolized one of the great nations of the earth in the persons of its most distinguished son and most distinguished daughter.
I was allowed to remain only a short time at the spot from which I caught my first glimpse of these wonders. Obedient to a gesture from my companion, I followed him a short distance along the arcade. He led me to the middle of one of the light bridges, that, thrown across at convenient intervals, afforded passage from one side to the other without the necessity of descending to the street.
From this spot I could pursue with my eyes the far-receding ranges of building to where, in the distant perspective, what loomed up so huge close by, seemed reduced ​to comparative insignificance. These long arcades, I was informed, as also the interior corridors, extended the whole length of the avenue for six miles without a break. As a natural consequence of this peculiar style of building, the respective location of shops and offices was exactly the reverse of that now seen. The lower story was assigned to offices and warerooms: the shops were in the upper stories. Each arcade, in fact, was equivalent to a whole street-front, possessing the great advantages of complete shelter from rain, sun, and dust, besides being free from the interruption of cross-streets in all above the lowest.
Manhattan Island, as might have been expected, had, long ages before, become, so to say, one enormous warehouse,—the chief port of entry for a population of more than a thousand millions. Space was far too valuable to be occupied with dwelling-houses. Besides, with their wonderful facilities for locomotion, a distance of fifty miles from the centre of business was of less consequence than five at present.
All this, of course, was not learned during the few minutes I devoted to gazing at the buildings. They so engrossed my attention for the moment, that I bestowed scarcely a glance on the busy traffic at my feet. I not only asked no questions, but forgot even the presence of my companion, who stood by in silence.
Soon, however, my eyes wandered from the works of man to man himself. From where I stood, only imperfect glimpses could be obtained of the numerous throng passing along the arcades. I readily assented, therefore, to my companion's proposal to descend to the busiest ​arcade, that a story below. A short walk along the colonnade on which we had first emerged brought us to a contrivance subserving the same purpose as our elevators. This, like all the similar contrivances throughout the city,—and they were found everywhere at short intervals,—worked automatically, by an ingenious application of force derived from the rise and fall of the tide in the harbor.