In a letter to the writer, Mrs. MacDowell says: "In taking the position of Professor of Music at Columbia University, Mr. MacDowell went into an environment quite different from anything he had ever experienced before. He had no University training, no knowledge of its methods, and brought to his work an enthusiasm and freshness which eventually meant overcrowded class rooms."
During his vacation from the University in 1902-3, he undertook a
great concert tour of the United States, going as far west as San
Francisco. In 1903 he visited England, and on May 14th played his
D minor pianoforte concerto at a concert of the Royal Philharmonic
Society in Queen's Hall, London.
In 1904 he resigned from Columbia because of a disagreement with the faculty concerning the proper position of music and the fine arts in the curriculum. His plans for a freer and greater relationship between University teaching and liberal public culture were considered impracticable and the authorities rejected them. MacDowell's attitude in the matter was criticised, misunderstood and misrepresented at the time. He was even accused of neglecting the duties of the position he held, whereas, as it afterwards transpired, he had laboured ungrudgingly at his task. It is pleasant to know that his students were among the first to uphold his character. His patience, his droll criticisms, and the illuminating quality of his teaching endeared him to all who studied under him.
MacDowell was bitterly disappointed and hurt at the unfavourable reception of his reforming plans, but until the beginning of his fatal illness shortly afterwards, he continued his teaching privately, even giving free lessons to deserving students in whose talent he had faith.
His lectures at Columbia University are preserved in permanent form under the title of Critical and Historical Essays. In a letter to the writer, Mrs. MacDowell says of the volume, "I think my husband would have felt that just such a title implies a more finished product than one finds, but after his death the demand was very great among his old students that these notes might be preserved in permanent form … Mr. MacDowell had an extraordinary memory, and seldom had more than mere notes in delivering his lectures. Occasionally in preparing the lectures, without quite realising it, he dictated far more than he had intended, not always using this material in his class room. These Essays represent the result of what he dictated to me as he walked up and down his music room trying to crystallize his ideas; they were printed unedited. I sometimes think one reads in between the lines of these Essays a good deal of what the man was himself."
Although the time at his command was restricted, the eight years of MacDowell's Columbia professorship saw the composition of most of his finest works. For two years he was conductor of the Mendelssohn Glee Club, one of the oldest and best Male-voice choruses in the United States, and was also, for a short time, President of the Manuscript Society, an association of American composers. Princeton University and the University of Pennsylvania conferred on him the honorary degree of Doctor of Music.
In the spring of 1905, MacDowell began to suffer from nervous exhaustion. Overwork and morbid worry over disagreeable experiences, especially in connection with his resignation from Columbia, brought on insomnia. A quiet summer on his Peterboro property brought no improvement in his condition, and the eminent medical specialists who attended him soon pronounced his case to be a hopeless one of cerebral collapse. He should have rested earlier from both his crowded teaching and his composing.
Slowly, but with terrible sureness, his brainpower was beginning to crumble away and his mind became as that of a little child. Day after day he would sit near a window, turning over the pages of one of his beloved books of fairy-tales, an infinitely moving and tragic figure.
Time went by and the delicately poised intellect grew more and more dimmed, until at last he hardly recognised his dearest friends. A few months before the end his physical strength, hitherto well preserved, began to fail, until at last he sank rapidly, dying at 9 o'clock in the evening of January 23rd, 1908, at the age of forty-six, in the Westminster Hotel, New York, in the presence of his devoted wife.
A simple service was later held at St. George's Episcopal Church, and he was buried on the Sunday following his death. His grave is on an open hilltop of his Peterboro property that he loved, and is marked by a granite boulder on which is a simple bronze tablet bearing the lines inscribed at the head of one of his last pieces, From a Log Cabin (Op. 62, No. 9), an unconscious prophesy of his own tragic end:—