"Things is a-needin' fixin' putty bad," he sez,turrible bad."

66

Then, we 'll git married day arter tomorrow," I sez, an' afore that, if them cloes is fallin' to pieces," fur I war n't goin' ter have no more slips an' me middlin' twenty year ol', an' Mr. Pussons done had three wives! Course 't war n't nat❜ral to suppose he'd have more 'n four, so if I did n't take him this time 't war n't likely I'd git off 't all-not that I keered pertic'lar, but Ma did, an' course ol' maids is kin'er lettin' down of a fambly.

Some folks sed as I mus' be turrible anxious to git off to marry a man with three wives gone to glory; but 't war n't no fault of hisn, an' I wuz n't goin' to let them meddlin' wimen skere me into stayin' single.

I'

T IS a dull, gray afternoon in March, when the sky overhead and the mud underneath harmonize into a gloomy a day when one's troubles and anxieties seem mountain-high, and one is wont to indulge in a fit of the blues.

whole;

The very atmosphere of a street-car is depressing at such a time, with the double row of tired, jaded women, laden with parcels and children. In this especial car, the general attention, languid as it is, is paid to a couple of middle-aged females, with determined jaws and sharp noses, who, with melancholy firmness, are discussing all the sins and ailments of various friends. One holds in a stiff position upon her knee a small boy, with a very dirty face, who is regaling himself with red gum-drops. The other woman, between her sentences, bestows her attention upon a flower-pot, in which is growing a tuberose with a very strong and sickening odor.

Opposite this group is a little girl, gazing with longing eyes at the consumer of gum-drops. She holds a bag of candy in her grasp, but her mamma deems it improper to eat in a street-car, and severely forbids her to open the bag. In one corner is a discontented-looking young girl, whose veil does not quite hide her straightened bangs. She is endeavoring to make her self as small as possible, so as to avoid any contact with her neighbor, a well-meaning and broadly-smiling Chinaman.

Then there is a little woman with lap and arms filled with packages, and shabbily dressed, patiently striving to entertain the old lady next her, who is inclined to be fretful. Her smile sometimes becomes very weak and there is a little tremble in her low voice, as she endeavors to soothe her mother's ruffled feelings.

The rest of the passengers are very ordinary beings,-middle-aged men absorbed in newspapers, sleepy children, and unhappy silent women.

The clattering bell on the horses rings monotonously, the driver's whistle gives an occasional shriek, and the patient animals plod along, while the impatient passengers wonder why the horses are so slow.

The monotony is relieved for a few minutes by the entrance of a young girl

in a stylish, close-fitting suit, with a great bunch of violets pinned to her coat. One of the newspaper mummies rises gallantly, the violets have a tussle with the all-conquering tuberose and the other odors wandering at large, but give up the fight, and the young girl leaves the car after having ridden a few blocks. The monotony is restored.

The people are slowly leaving, and, as the car begins to look empty, one notices for the first time a small group in one corner. A little, shriveled-up old man, with his hat pulled far down over his face, seems to find in the straight, hard seat a comfortable couch. He is sleeping so heavily that he does not notice the weary head of the little match-boy which rests so confidingly on his shoulder. The little, pale face is quite happy; he is in a dreamworld far more beautiful than this dreary, real one. The large basket at his feet, filled with matches, is a mournful hint of his pitiful trade.

As the number of passengers thins out, the conductor, a stolid, stupid native of the Land of the Midnight Sun, comes through the car and taps the aged sleeper on the shoulder. He may have passed his destination. His sleep must be very heavy, for he does not move. A rougher shake, repeated several times, fails to break the charm. The conductor begins to sniff the air suspiciously for a trace of some intoxicant, but the tuberose is still supreme.

Suddenly he happens to touch one of the wrinkled, old hands, which clutches with a clinging grasp a corner of the ragged, old coat, and he gives a start, looking around for a moment in surprise and dismay. Then he deliberately puts his hand up under the torn hat and lays it on the face of the old man. There is no question in his start this time, and a look of horror comes into his eyes, while he pulls away his hand as if it had been burnt.

The Angel of Death himself has entered that common street-car, has passed silently up the aisle, between that double row of every-day people, and has taken away with him a weary soul to a land far more beautiful than even the dream-world of the beggar-boy.

U

NQUESTIONABLY, the international competition to provide plans for a system of buildings to be erected by the University of California is one of the notable events of these closing years of the century. The foremost architects of both America and Europe, to the number of ninety-eight, submitted the results of their prolonged, conscientious and ambitious studies to a jury of their peers, meeting in Antwerp in September, 1898. At that time eleven contestants were selected for a second competition, and the final judgment was rendered, with an award of prizes, at San Francisco on September 7th of the present year.

The issue of these two years of competitive struggle between renowned artists of two continents, for a chance to embody their ideas and ideals in affirmative and enduring architectural forms, confronting the Golden Gate, is certainly of more than local interest. California, to be sure, and its University may not unreasonably rejoice that so noble a scheme has originated here; and that the wise and ample generosity of one of its citizens has advanced the undertaking to a point from. which its complete realization may be hopefully foreseen. But in thus laying tribute upon the genius of the world in behalf of its higher education, this Sunset Shore has initiated and carried through the first stage of success, a project which must challenge interested and continued attention on both sides of the Atlantic.

It is the intention of THE OVERLAND, in this article, and others in following numbers, to present the principal reasons why California and the University should congratulate themselves on the result of the competition. We shall find these reasons in a consideration of the local conditions, in a review of architectural development in America, and in tracing the relations of this competition and its issue to the art of the Old World and the general story of its evolution. The treatment will necessarily be brief, touching only on certain salient points; but we hope to show that what has thus far been accomVOL. XXXIV

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plished answers both to the requirements of the University and to the art sympathies and tendencies of America; while it is justified also as being in the line of architectural development from Greece to the western shores of the New World.

The present article will deal only with considerations of a general character, showing that the final choice of plans promises to realize all that was reasonably hoped for by the initiators of this remarkable and now famous project.

It can not be amiss to note at the outset certain facts regarding the personality and life of the architect whose designs bore off the first prize. We may indeed account it a piece of good luck that since the award was destined to go to a European, it should fall to a man whose sympathies are not strictly bound to any one national school. M. Bénard, though largely indebted to Paris, has developed his talents outside of that capital of art. Early in his career he took up residence at Havre, where the conditions affecting his professional work were different from those obtaining in the great French center. He has also resided and studied for prolonged periods in Italy and Greece, subject to the direct influence of classic ideas and achievements. These circumstances have disposed him to an exceptionally free sympathy with Italian forms and have liberated him from the remnant fences and conventionalities of the earlier French tendencies.

At the same time, M. Bénard is French, having all the simplicity, directness, and versatility of the French school. The French are exceptionally free from the cramping limitations of an undue emphasis upon what is called "style." The Germans and English lay great stress upon style. But the French do not use the word, and hardly recognize the idea; they just build practically along in a simple, innocent way without labeling anything that they do. This is a characteristic of the French mind in art. Their work is very clear, straight forward, and without complication.

All this enabled Bénard to come nearer than any other to our open American sympathies. While it is, perhaps, one of our characteristics to want to name things, yet the range of our sympathies is comparatively free. Indeed, even our preference for precise definition and exact nomenclature is due to our distaste for complication and confusion, and our admiration for the real thing. Therefore, when the real thing is brought to us, and the best thing, we are ready to accept it on its own merits. Bénard's attitude in art is similar to ours as practical Americans whenever we face any problem whatever, either artistic or economic or political. Accordingly, it might have been expected of M. Bénard, even in advance of his performance, and judged only on the basis of his training and experience, that he would bring forth for us, out of accredited architectural forms old and new, something that would appeal strongly to the American mind. That he has done so, we confidently believe.

This, then, is what we mean by characterizing the selection of M. Bénard as a stroke of good fortune. We have in him an architect whose career has fitted him to do in the New World something which shall not be alien to American tendencies and yet shall hold us reasonably back to the art of the older lands, even of Italy and classic Greece.

Few, perhaps, of the multitudes who have visited the recent exhibition of plans in San Francisco have realized the vastness and complexity of the task given out two years ago to the world's architects. Here was essentially a new idea,-that of an architectural city or village. The architecture of the international expositions had in some degree prepared the way; but no scheme of like extent or of so great possibilities has been heretofore proposed. Here was a project for a City of Education, to be adapted to all the needs that could now be foreseen or conceived of, or guessed at, of a rapidly growing institution of universal learning. This city must not merely accommodate a passing spectacle,-like an exhibition of the world's material progress, but it must meet the demands of centuries, adjusting itself to the experimental develop

ment of a great popular institution vitalized by the spirit of the New World, having promise of an unlimited term of life, and advancing rapidly under free and stimulating conditions.

The practical requirements, therefore, were not simple, but complex and diversified, as was shown by the original program, which laid down many hundreds of specifications providing for all conceivable needs of the University both for the present and, perhaps, forever. Furthermore, the plan must aim, of course, at a signal triumph in creative art,—such an expression of beauty as should satisfy, if possible, the critical judgment not of a generation only, but of all time. And lastly, we must have here a creation which should express to the world something of America's thought, and to America something of the world's thought as to what a great and noble university ought to be. The very project was in itself an invaluable contribution to both the history of education and the history of art; and the notable men who have applied their talents to its solution in a giant rivalry -a peaceable but prodigious contest of geniuses have wrought at a task worthy of their powers and inspirations.

In accordance with the above, there are two principal standpoints from which to judge of the designs to which the jury unanimously awarded the first prize; first, Utility, or the demands of practical service; second, Ideality, or the conditions of beauty.

It is probable that upon the question of adaptation to use, the plans will be subjected to their severest test. Here the judgments of the University people themselves may justly claim precedence. If that body of practical educators, being on the ground and presumably knowing what they need, find upon a careful study of the plans that they are well adapted to the working uses of the University, the general public will have little further concern on that point. It is a matter of popular interest, however, that the jury and other competent architects regard M. Bénard's plans as remarkably flexible. It is to be noted that although a survey of the general plan gives the impression of a definite and ordered symmetry, yet the buildings themselves are in every instance