In the actual work of composition he was elaborately meticulous—­not often to the extent of changing an original plan, but in minor details; he never ceased working on a score until the music was out of his hands, or entirely put aside.  Sometimes he tried over a few measures on the piano as many as fifty times, changing the value or significance of a note; as a result, his piano writing is almost always “pianistic.”  In one respect he was sometimes careless:  in the noting of the expression marks.  By the time he arrived at that duty he was usually tired out.  For this reason, much in his printed music is marked differently from the way he actually played it in concert.  He never, in performance, changed a note, save in a few of the earlier pieces; but in details of expression he often departed widely from the printed directions.

He was always profoundly absorbed when at work, though not to the extent of being able to compose amid noise or disturbance.  He needed to isolate himself as much as possible; although, when it could not be avoided, he contrived to work effectively under obstructive conditions; the Largo of the “Sonata Tragica,” for example, was written in Boston when he was harassed by drudgery and care.  During the earlier days at Peterboro he composed in a music room which was joined to the main body of the house by a covered passage; in this way he could hear nothing of the household workings, and was unaware of the chance caller.  No one was ever allowed to intrude upon him, save his wife.  Yet certain outside noises were still apparent; so the log cabin in the woods was built.  There he used to go nearly every morning, coming home when he felt disposed, and usually going to the golf grounds for a game before dinner, which he always had at night.  He kept a piano in the music room as well as at the log cabin; so if he felt like working in the evening he could do so; and when he was especially engrossed he often worked into the small hours.  His unselfishness made it easy for his wife, when she deemed a change and rest essential, to make the excuse that she needed it.  After a preliminary protest he would usually give in, and they would leave Peterboro for a few days’ excursion.

He knew discouragement in an extreme form.  Many weeks, even months, had to pass before his discontent over the last child of his imagination would become normal.  Particularly was this so with the larger works; though each one was started in a fever of inspiration, a longing to reduce to actual form the impossible.  He was always disheartened when a work was finished, but he was too sane in his judgment not to have moments when he could estimate fairly the quality of what he had written.  But those were rare moments; as a rule, it was in his future music that he was always going to do his “really good work,” and he longed ardently for leisure and freedom from care, so that, as he once bitterly said, he would not have to press into a small piano piece material enough to make a movement of a symphony.