The “Sonata Tragica” might have been written of the composer himself, and “The Heroica” could easily have been inspired by his wife, instead of by the Arthur legends, for she is a knightly soul, combining to a most unusual degree the artistic temperament, womanly tenderness and charm, with a chivalrous sort of courage, suggesting Tennyson’s lines: 

  “My woman-soldier, gallant Kate,
  As pure and true as blades of steel.”

These are busy days for her at Peterboro, where she is daily striving to put the MacDowell ideals into permanent and practical effect.  The plan is most appealing and can, perhaps, be better understood by contrast, if a little insight is given into a state of things, the amelioration of which is the purpose of the project.

You are invited, then, to step into a neat and attractive modern apartment kitchen, say three years ago.  The grocery boy had just left.  Everything was there, and of unusually good quality—­crisp lettuce, golden oranges, the inevitable loaf of whole wheat bread, the sugar and lemons—­and as the housekeeper compared the articles with the grocer’s book which she held in her hand, she gave a start.  Some one across the way was playing “To a Wild Rose.”  Yes, it was Wednesday, and a glance at the kitchen clock revealed the fact that in ninety minutes the MacDowell Club would be called to order, and she had promised a poem for the programme.  Shades of Sappho!  What was to be done?  There had been no time in the two weeks since the last meeting, between housekeeping, mending, grinding out of pot-boilers and countless interruptions, to give the matter a thought, and she had never been known to forget such a promise.

Pegasus neighed reassuringly, and seizing the stub of a pencil attached to the grocer’s book, after a moment of concentration, in which she closed her eyes to shut out the material vision before her, she scribbled rapidly on a few blank pages in the back of the plebeian record.  After several readings of the lines and sundry interlined revisions, she tore out the sheets, blessed Pegasus for coming in under the wire so nobly, and hurried away to dress.  At the appointed time, sheepishly trying to conceal her unpoetic manuscript, which there had been no time to copy, behind a lace fan, she arose, flushed but sustaining her reputation for reliability as a programme feature.

’Twas for like-conditioned people, aspiring to work out their dreams in words, tones, color or clay in congenial surroundings, undisturbed by any domestic or other distraction or inharmony, that Edward MacDowell conceived the idea now being carried out at Peterboro, New Hampshire.

The plan was not to provide a rest-cure or moderate-priced summer home for broken-down musicians, artists and writers, as many seem to think, but to give those at the very height of their productiveness a chance for undisturbed work, under the inspiration of nature in her most alluring guise, and association, after work hours, with such rare souls as could arouse higher aspiration by thought interchange and comparison of ideals.