"The closing lectures were in reality delightfully informal concerts
for which the class began to assemble as early as 8.30 in the morning.
By 9.30 every student would be in his chair, which he had dragged as
near to the piano as the early suburbanite would let him. Someone at
the window would say, 'Here he comes!' and, entering the room with a
huge bundle of music under one arm and his hat in his hand, MacDowell
would deposit them on the piano and turn to us with his gracious
smile. Then, instead of sitting down, he would continue to walk up and
down the room, his thoughts following, apparently, the pace set by his
energetic steps. He had an abundant word supply and his short, terse
sentences were easy to follow."

This is not the picture of a man who was unqualified for his task, or
indifferent, rebellious, or inept in its performance; it is the
picture of a man of vital and electric temperament, with almost a
genius--certainly with an extraordinary gift--for teaching. His ideals
were lofty; he dreamed of a relationship between university
instruction and a liberal public culture which was not to be realised
in his time. He was anything but complacent; had he been less
intolerant in his hatred of unintelligent and indolent thought on the
subjects that were near his heart, his way would have been made far
easier.

The results of his labours at the university, he finally came to feel,
did not warrant the expenditure of the vitality and time that he was
devoting to them. He was, in a sense, an anachronism in the position
in which he found himself. Both in his ideals and in his plans for
bringing about their fulfilment he had reached beyond his day. The
field was not yet ripe for his best efforts. It became clear to him
that he could not make his point of view operative in what he