work. He was, as his friend Hamlin Garland has said, "temperate in all
things but work--in that he was hopelessly prodigal."

These facts are worth stating in detail; for it has been said that
MacDowell had no drudgery to perform at Columbia; that he had few
students, and that the burden of the teaching work was borne by his
assistant. The impression has gone abroad that he had little didactic
capacity, that he was disinclined toward and disqualified for
methodical work. It cannot, of course, be said that his inclinations
tended irresistibly toward pedagogy, or that he loved routine. Yet
that he had uncommon gifts as a teacher, that he was singularly
methodical in his manner of work, are facts that are beyond question.
His students have testified to the strikingly suggestive and
illuminating manner in which his instruction was imparted. His
lectures, which he wrote out in full, are remarkable for the amount of
sheer "brain-stuff" that was expended upon them. They are erudite,
accurate, and scholarly; they are original in thought, they are lucid
and stimulating in their presentation and interpretation of fact, and
they are often admirable in expression. They would reflect uncommon
credit upon a writer who had given his life to the critical,
historical, and philosophical study of music; as the work of a man who
had been primarily absorbed in making music, rather than in discussing
it, they are extraordinary.

As conveying an idea of MacDowell's methods in the class-room I cannot
do better than quote from a vivid account of him in this aspect
written by one of his pupils, Miss J.S. Watson:

"A crowd of noisy, expectant students sat in the lecture room
nervously eyeing the door and the clock by turns. The final