mere tongue of sand. In the tourist season this palatial place of
entertainment presents a brilliant throng of joyous guests who have,
apparently, subscribed to the motto: "All care abandon ye, who enter
here." It is one of the few spots on this continent where the great
faults of our American civilization--worry and incessant work--are
not conspicuous. Men of the North too frequently forget that the
object of life is not work, but that the object of work is life. In
lands like Southern California, however, where flowers fill the air
with fragrance, where fruits are so abundant that starvation is
impossible, and where the nerves are not continually whipped by
atmospheric changes into restless energy, men live more calmly,
probably more rationally. Sunshine, roses, and the throbbing tones of
the guitar would seem to be the most appropriate sources of amusement
here. Meanwhile the northern millionaire breaks down from overwork
and leaves his money to be squandered by his relatives. Yet he also,
till the last gasp, claims that he is happy. What is happiness?
_Quien sabe_?

[Illustration: POINT LOMA.]

[Illustration: HOTEL CORONADO.]

[Illustration: COURTYARD OF THE HOTEL.]

The country about San Diego is a miniature reproduction of the plains
of Arizona and New Mexico, and just above the city rises a genuine
_mesa_, which, though comparatively small, resembles the large
table-lands of the interior, and was formed in the same way. Cutting
it, here and there, are little cañons, like that through which the
Colorado rolls, not a mile deep, but still illustrative of the