V. OVER THE MEXICAN BORDER.

SAN DIEGO AND CORONADO BEACH—AN IDEAL CLIMATE—AN ARTIFICIAL LAKE—HOW TOWNS ARE RAISED—THE NATIONAL BOUNDARY—DONKEYS VERSUS RAILROADS—MORE SALOONS THAN HOUSES—LIMES VERSUS LEMONS.

Although San Diego has no lack of hotels, most of the tourists cross the bay which separates the city from the thirteen-mile-long peninsula known as Coronado Beach, and take up their abode in the Coronado hotel, covering more than seven acres,—the largest in Southern California, and second in size and elegance only to the Del Monte at Monterey. Porpoises sport about the ferry-boat, almost within arm’s reach, and excite the appetite for sea-fishing. On the peninsula, a steam-dummy connects with the ferry and conveys those passengers for whom the coaches are too slow to the hotel. Coronado affords an excellent instance of what can be done in this region with irrigation. A few years ago this whole peninsula was a desert, while now there are numerous villas and stores, and good roads, and avenues of young trees, which in a few years will afford welcome shade. The hotel is surrounded by flower-beds as monstrous in proportion as itself, crowded with enormous double stocks, petunias, large pansies, marguerites, etc., etc.: and another superb flower-garden takes up the interior court. Dining-room, parlors, and dance-hall are sufficiently spacious for all emergencies, and simply though tastefully decorated. It may seem a disadvantage that, owing to the position of the dance-hall, there are few rooms facing the ocean; but as it is always cool here, day and night, summer and winter, the site of rooms is not so important a matter as on the Atlantic Coast.

No other part of California has so perfect a climate as Coronado and San Diego, the mean difference in temperature between summer and winter being only 12.3°, with an average of only five days a year when the thermometer rises above 85°; and, what is still more remarkable, only twelve days a year when it rises above 80°. As only ten inches of rain fall in a year,—just one hundred inches less than at Sitka, the other extremity of our Pacific Coast,—and clouds or fogs of more than a few hours’ duration are rare, it may be inferred that the sun shines almost perpetually, even in winter. When an invalid who proposes to make the Coronado his home for awhile reads in the rules and regulations pasted upon his door that a single fire costs a dollar, he is relieved to be told that cold weather is as scarce as fuel, and that, according to official government records, during the ten years from 1876 to 1885, there were only six days on which the temperature fell below 35°, two on which it fell to 32°, and none below that point! I had also read somewhere that mud is practically unknown, since the little rain that falls sinks into the soil immediately, so that it is safe to lie on the ground a few hours after a shower. I was therefore surprised, on picking up a local newspaper, to see an editorial headed “Too Much Mud.” But on examination it proved to be a political, not a meteorological article. On politics climate has no effect.

The Coronado beach is well adapted to bathing, which is indulged in all the year round, there being only about six degrees’ difference in the temperature of the water, winter and summer. When the ocean is too rough, or the tide unfavorable, the bay affords a safe bathing-ground, as at Fire Island. That the ocean is rough sometimes is evinced by the sad havoc it has made with the plank walks between the hotel and the water, and, as at Coney Island, it seems to be encroaching on the hotel premises, and will soon thunder against its very foundations. It is interesting to walk along the beach towards Point Loma, on which a lighthouse is picturesquely situated. Entertainment is afforded on the way by the water-fowl, which stand inside of the breakers waiting for a big foaming wave, into which they plunge headlong, emerging calmly swimming on the other side, with a fish struggling in the beak. Twenty miles at sea, to the southwest, are the Coronado Islands, the haunt of seals, occasionally visited by yachting parties. There is always something that appeals to the imagination in the meeting of two countries, and the fact that these islands belong to Mexico makes them doubly interesting.

Twice a week or oftener opportunity is given the guests at the Coronado to put foot on Mexican soil. A steam-dummy, with open cars, starts from the hotel, goes down the peninsula and up on the other side of the bay, as far as National City, and then branches off, first to the great Sweet Water Reservoir, and then to Tia Juana. It would be difficult to imagine a more delightful excursion than this seventy-mile round trip in open cars. The cool, fragrant air is free from dust, and the country is so picturesque that one keeps on choosing one place after another as an ideal site for a cottage and an orange grove. On reaching the Sweet Water Reservoir, which covers seven hundred acres, it is difficult to believe that it is not a natural lake, so prettily and cosily does it rest at the foot of the surrounding hills. Yet here, where now the wild ducks disport themselves, stood several farmhouses a few years ago, surrounded by green fields. The dam which created this lake is about four hundred feet long at the top and forty-six feet thick at the base, built of solid rock; and the reservoir holds six billion gallons, sufficient to supply National City and San Diego with water for consumption and irrigation for three years, though not another drop of rain should add to its volume. A flume seven miles in length carries the water to the two cities, which now, with abundant and cheap water, can amend their arid, treeless appearance, which at present is their least attractive feature.

After visiting Sweet Water Lake, the train faces about and turns towards old “Aunt Jane,” or Tia Juana, in Mexico, passing through the town of Chula Vista, a characteristic Southern California enterprise. A tract of five thousand acres has been subdivided by a land company into five-acre lots, with avenues and wide streets through which the steam-motor passes, and ornamented with thousands of evergreen trees. These lots are sold only to purchasers who will agree to build on them houses costing not less than two thousand dollars within six months from date of purchase; and by way of providing models and starting the ball, the company itself has erected a number of cottages. Such an attempt to force a town by hot-house methods would fail anywhere else: here it will probably succeed. Every time the train stops, a handful of real-estate circulars is thrown into each car, setting forth the unique advantages of that particular locality; while the fine appearance of the residences, with their lovely gardens and orchards, contributes its share towards advertising the region. For the convenience of the scattered settlers, the train-boy throws the daily papers into the yards from the flying train. Near the boundary line are some yellow pools, in one of which a water-snake darted out its angry tongue at a whole carload of tourists and then dived out of sight. A few minutes more and we were on Mexican soil; and though sufficient of the Mexican element lingers in Southern California to form a gradual transition, the change is distinctly perceptible. Characteristically enough, the first thing I saw after leaving the train was a young burro, with silky hair and no larger than a Newfoundland dog. In Spanish countries, where the railroad ceases the donkey begins. One side of Tia Juana is American; the other, Mexican. The dividing line, where the Estados Unidos meet Mexico, is occupied by a restaurant which bears the modest title of “Delmonico.” Opposite is a cigar-store which has the suggestive sign of “The last chance.” There are more saloons in Tia Juana than buildings. This may seem a paradoxical statement, but it is true; for some of the saloons are in tents, open in front, with a counter in the centre and empty beer-barrels for seats. The sight of the town is the Custom-House, with its polite but pistolled officials, and the rooms filled with rifles which parties crossing the line had to leave behind to await their return. There are also a few curiosity stores, conducted with a truly Spanish lack of enterprise. Almost every tourist wants to buy a memento of his hour in Mexico, but there is nothing to be had except some very crude pottery and a few tiny, hideous clay gods. Nor does the proprietor’s knowledge of English go beyond the ability to say twenty cents or thirty cents.

Looking beyond Tia Juana, nothing is to be seen but lone, low mountains,—not a house or hut anywhere,—and we gladly return to civilization with the train. On the way back, the conductor pointed out to me the place where the famous Bonnie Brae lemons are grown. I had previously eaten some at San Diego, and found them large and juicy, with fewer seeds and a much less thick and coarse skin than other California lemons. This variety seems destined to retrieve the reputation of the California lemon, which is not equal to that of the orange, or of foreign lemons. But I doubt if any kind of lemon will have much of a future in this country. At San Francisco lemons are not valued nearly so highly as Mexican limes, which are gradually taking their place. The lime has a tougher skin than the lemon, and does not break so easily in the squeezer. In fact, it can be easily squeezed by hand; and besides, there is more juice in a small lime than in a lemon twice its size and twice or three times its cost. Its taste, after a few trials, is more agreeable and piquant than that of any lemon, and I believe that Eastern cities will soon follow the lead of San Francisco in this matter. The lemonade of the future will be made of limes.