224 Life and Sport on the Pacific Slope 



will do well to remember that certain subjects 

 must always be presented — in pantalettes. 



I intended to devote a chapter to Western Art 

 and Literature, but on both these fascinating sub- 

 jects I am unwilling to speak. The reader will 

 remember the story of the undergraduate who was 

 asked to name the minor prophets : he refused, on 

 the ground that he was not in the habit of making 

 invidious distinctions. In writing of the authors 

 and artists of the Pacific Slope, it is hardly possible 

 to avoid invidious distinctions. From what samples 

 we have already : such landscapes as Keith's, for 

 instance, and such poetry as Joaquin Miller's and 

 Miss Coolbrith's — we may confidently expect both 

 in Art and Literature something sui generis. Some- 

 thing entirely different from what the East has 

 given us. Much as I admire the subtlety and 

 delicacy of Mr. James's and Mr. Howells's art, I am 

 sensible that they deal with what is secondary 

 rather than primal. The grandeur of the Pacific 

 Slope is elemental, and the form in which that 

 grandeur will find adequate expression will cer- 

 tainly not be a preciosite of diction. I remember 

 Mr. Ambrose Bierce falling foul of the words " local 

 colour," which, like other phrases, has become shop- 

 soiled. But for lack of better words, these do 

 convey definite meaning. The colour of Californian 

 skies and seas and mountains and flowers is local. 

 At least I have seen nothing like it elsewhere. 

 The colour of that great Silent Land to the north 

 of the Golden State is local. The adjective may 

 be detestable, but we seem to have no other. And 

 so we may predict that the picture, or poem, or 



