They want new romanticists and artists as indigenous to their soil as was Hawthorne to witch-haunted Salem or Longfellow to the chestnuts of his native heath.

Whatever may be said of the patriarchs, from Oliver Wendell Holmes to Amos Bronson Alcott, they were true sons of the New England stone fences and meeting houses.

They could not have been born or nurtured anywhere else on the face of the earth.
Some of us view with a peculiar thrill the prospect that Los Angeles may become the Boston of the photoplay.

Perhaps it would be better to say the Florence, because California reminds one of colorful Italy more than of any part of the United States.

Yet there is a difference.
The present-day man-in-the-street, man-about-town Californian has an obvious magnificence about him that is allied to the eucalyptus tree, the pomegranate.