WOLFGANG. VI. DEAR FRIEND: The longer I stay here the more I am impressed with the profound melancholy which appears to have taken possession of this people. The men, particularly, seem sunk in a torpor of dejection and settled apathy. The women, although by no means so vivacious and vigorous as our women, are, however, far more animated, and seem to have a keener relish for life, than the men. Probably the comparatively recent emancipation of the women, their new political and social freedom, adds a zest to the routine of life here which men do not feel. So universal is the dreary aspect of the people, whether at work or play--and they play, I observe, far more languidly than they work--that the type of face among them has undergone a strange and interesting transformation. You remember in the old prints the typical “Yankee” face, with its keen, penetrating eye, its courageous, determined chin, its intelligent brow, and its extraordinarily shrewd and intently alert expression. This vivacity and energy, once the chief charm of the American face, has entirely disappeared. In its stead, imagine wooden, almost sodden features, heavy, dull eyes, receding chins, and a brow on which dulness that very nearly approaches stupidity is writ in large letters. On all the faces is a stereotyped expression, a mingling of discontent and dejection. There is the same lack of variety of types among the faces I have noticed, as there is a want of contrast in the houses and streets. The entire population appears to have one face; wherever one turns one sees it repeated _ad infinitum_, whether it be that of man or woman, youth or old age. I have accounted to myself for this curious physiological uniformity by finding in it simply a reflection of the uniformity seen in the life and occupations of this people. The race having been leveled to a common plane, there has been a gradual dying out of individuality. The inevitable curtailment of individual aims, individual struggle, individual ambitions, has naturally resulted in producing a featureless type of character, common to all. Since, of course, it is character alone which moulds feature, this people, being all more or less alike, have come, in process of time, to look alike. Nature, after all, is only clay in the potter’s hand; man, with his laws and creeds, fashions in the end his own face.