HE newspaper accounts of the illness of Edward MacDowell, the eminent. musician, came as a shock to all but his closest friends. Constitutionally modest and retiring, he has not kept himself so persistently before the public as many lesser men have done; and since his resignation from the chair of music at Columbia University, in February, in February, 1904, his movements were known to but few. A cruel combination of circumstances brought on on mental prostration last March; and since that time his condition has grown steadily worse, until now the doctors pronounce his case hopeless.

The loss to music is very greatgreater, probably, than will at first be realised, for Dr. MacDowell has not yet come into his own. His career, though comparatively short, has been rich in achievement. He has done more for American music than any other composer, not only by his works, but by the force of his splendid example and high ideals. His genius has long been recognised by observant musicians at home and abroad; and yet his high seriousness of purpose has for the time kept him

aloof, as it were, from general popularity. The recent formation of, a MacDowell Club in this city is a sign of the growing interest in his work, which must soon bring it into the favour it deserves.

Of MacDowell's ultimate place in music it is, of course, too early to speak; but a consideration of his works prompts the conviction that, in the record of events, the beginning of the twentieth century will be marked by no greater name in music than his. His compositions are strongly individual and distinguished by elegance of manner. Thororoughly original, they display the daring of the innovator combined with the skill, learning and restraint of a student of the classics. In both his orchestral and his piano music, there is shown a perfect mastery of the modern resources of tonal expression. His songs are imbued with deep romantic feeling and exhibit, perhaps, most clearly of all his work, the sensitive responsiveness of his nature to poetic beauty. It is sad indeed to be compelled thus to sum up the life work of a man who, only in his forty-fourth year, his maturest powers still untried, has suddenly and completely become lost to art.

Lewis M. Isaacs.

NE of the charms of the University Club of Indiana, as it is officially known, lies in the fact that its membership is not made up exclusively of University graduates. There are on its jealously guarded rolls enough non-diploma men to modify the Alma Mater flavour which, undiluted, is often aggressively pungent. This mixture really makes a most delightful blend, for the acridity that might ordinarily result from such an antagonistic infusion is made impossible by this safeguarding clause in the Articles of Incorporation relating to membership: "or by special qualifications, including attainments in letters, arts and sciences." College graduates are passed on, or in by the membership committee, but the unsheepskinned, "distinguished in letters, arts or sciences," must be endorsed by the committee and elected by the directors. Thus it is the University man protects himself in his own club, and rightly; but once the outsider is admitted he is admitted to full fellowship without prejudice. He has no class reunions, no memories of the "dear old days," no pins, no songs, no yells, but he eats, drinks and is merry, even as the most graduated graduate.

The University Club is not by any stretching of the term a literary organisation, although the State has set its seal on the association as "established for social, literary and scientific purposes.' is wholly a domestic aggregation, free and untrammelled, without any fixed programme or set scheme even in its social life. There are no special days, no gala nights, no annual celebrations. There are dues but no duties. Every man comes and goes as he will, seeks his own quiet corner or joins a grill-room group as his mood prompts. No stunts are expected of him, no obligations imposed, no sacri

fices demanded. It is a domestic democracy, a home for the homeless, a refuge for the social-sick. Yet these unrelated members are, in a fine way, held together by club spirit; there is in every one of them the feeling that he is enjoying a privilege not specified in the Rules and Regulations of the House Committee; a special blessing not set forth in his certificate of membership.

Rarely is a stranger brought to this club who does not say: "Ah, there is an air about it! an air of-of-" "Yes," helpfully replies his sponsor, "I really believe there is." Just what is the "air" nobody has ever said, but that it has an air everyone admits. everyone admits. The convenience and coziness of the arrangements, the simplicity and comfort of the furnishings, the quiet and order of the Japanese attendants, all these have their part in the creation of the atmosphere, but more than all else this feeling of privilege, this sense of appreciation that I have spoken of as characteristic of the members, these, though undefined and intangible, give to the University Club its real, its distinguishing

air.

The club is not old, though it has the easy dignity that usually comes only with added years. It was founded in 1898, and its founders made the late President Harrison its president. He accepted the office and held it until his death. An excellent portrait of the club's first and most distinguished president hangs in the formal reception-room. It is the work of a club member, Mr. T. C. Steele, the head of the "Hoosier group" of painters. Another example of Mr. Steele's art, an Indiana landscape, rests above the fireplace in the lounging-room. It was presented to the club by the Yale men. The resident membership is limited to three hundred and is practically filled. Out-oftown members are many and frequent in their visits, the attractive beds and baths drawing them whenever they get within