imagine that he had reached the limit of the civilized world:
eastward, the desert stretches far away to the bases of the San
Jacinto Mountains; westward, thousands of miles of ocean billows
shoulder one another toward the setting sun; southward, extends that
barren, almost unknown strip of earth, the peninsula of Lower
California; yet in this _cul-de-sac_, this corner between mountain,
desert, and sea, rises a charming and inspiring picture,--San Diego.

[Illustration: SAN DIEGO.]

The beautiful harbor of this city is almost closed, on one side, by a
bold majestic promontory called Point Loma; and on the other, by a
natural breakwater, in the form of a crescent, twelve miles long,
upon the outer rim of which the ocean beats a ceaseless monody. At
one extremity of this silver strand, directly opposite Point Loma and
close to the rhythmic surf, stands the Hotel Coronado; its west front
facing the Pacific, its east side looking on the azure of the
peaceful bay, beyond which rises San Diego with a population of
twenty thousand souls. To reach this hotel, the tourist crosses the
harbor from the city by a ferry, and then in an electric car is
whirled for a mile along an avenue which he might well suppose was
leading him to some magnificent family estate. The pavement is
delightfully smooth and hard; on either side are waving palms and
beds of radiant flowers; two charming parks, with rare botanical
shrubs and trees, are, also, visible and hold invitingly before him
the prospect of delightful hours in their fragrant labyrinths; and,
finally, out of a semi-tropical garden, the vast extent of which he
does not comprehend at first, rises the far-famed hostelry which,
itself, covers about four and a half acres of ground, at the extreme
southwestern corner of the Union, and on a spot which yesterday was a