, one inch square, at the head of his
effusion. He takes in the Catholic festivity; and does it phaze him?
It does not! He is a newspaper man, and if his city editor sent him to
hell, he would take the assignment and write like the devil. To read
him now you might think he had been reared in a convent; his soul is
uplifted, and he bursts forth in pure spontaneous ecstacy:

Solemnly magnificent, every brilliant detail symbolically
picturing the holy history of the Roman Catholic Church in
the inexorable progress of its immense structure, which
rises from the rock of Peter, with its beacons of faith and
devotion piercing the fog of doubt and fear which surround
the world and the worldly, was the ceremony yesterday at the
Cathedral of St. Vibiana, whereby Bishop John J. Cantwell
was installed in his diocese of Monterey and Los Angeles.

And then, a month later, conies another occasion of state--the
twenty-third Annual Banquet. the Merchants' and Manufacturers'
Association of Los Angeles. I should have to write a little essay to
make clear the sociological significance of that function; explaining
first, a nation-wide organization which has been proven by
congressional investigation and by the publication of its secret
documents to be a machine for the corruption of our political life;
and then exhibiting our "City of the Angels", from which all Angels
have long since fled; a city in the first crude stage of land
speculation, without order, dignity or charm; a city of real estate
agents, who exist by selling climate to new arrivals from the East; a
city whose intellectual life is "boosting", whose standards of truth
are those of the horse-trade. Its newspapers publish a table of
temperatures, showing the daily contrast between Southern California
and the East. This device is effective in the winter-time; but last
June, when for five days the temperature went to over 110, and several
times 114--the Los Angeles space was left empty!

In the same way, there is a rule that our earth-quake shocks are never
mentioned, unless they destroy whole towns. On the afternoon of Jan.
26th, 1918, a cyclone hit Pasadena, of violence sufficient to lift a
barn over a church-steeple and deposit it in the pastor's front yard.
That evening a friend of mine in Los Angeles called up the office of
the "Times" to make inquiry; and although they are only thirteen miles
away, and have a branch office and a sp