cs which comprises, among other tales, the story of the
matchless Deirdre,--whose loveliness was such, so say the
chroniclers, that "not upon the ridge of earth was there a woman so
beautiful,"--and the life and adventures and glorious death of the
incomparable Cuchullin. These two kindred legends MacDowell has
welded into a coherent and satisfying whole; and in a verse with
which he prefixes the sonata, he gives this index to its poetic
content:

"Who minds now Keltic tales of yore,
Dark Druid rhymes that thrall;
Deirdre's song, and wizard lore
Of great Cuchullin's fall."

At the time of the publication of the sonata he wrote to me as
follows concerning it:

"... Here is the sonata, which it is a pleasure to me to offer you
as a token of sympathy. I enclose also some lines [of his own
verse] anent Cuchullin, which, however, do not entirely fit the
music, and which I hope to use in another musical form. They may
serve, however, to aid the understanding of the _stimmung_ of
the sonata. Cuchullin's story is in touch with the Deirdre-Naesi
tale; and, as with my 3rd Sonata, the music is more a commentary
on the subject than an actual depiction of it."

[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF A PASSAGE FROM THE ORIGINAL MS. OF THE
"KELTIC" SONATA]

The "lines anent Cuchullin" I quote below. They do not, as he said,
have a parallel in the sonata as a whole; but in the _coda_ of the
last movement (of which I shall speak later) he has attempted a
commentary on the scene which he here describes:

"Cuchullin fought and fought in vain,
'Gainst faery folk and Druid thrall:
And as the queenly sun swept down.
In royal robes, red gold besown,
With one last lingering glance
He sate himself in lonely state
Against a giant monolith,
To wait Death's wooing call.
None dared approach the silent shape
That froze to iron majesty,
Save the wan, mad daughters of old Night,
Blind, wandering maidens of the mist,
Whose creeping fingers, cold and white,
Oft by the sluggard dead are kissed.
And yet the monstrous Thing held sway,
No living soul dared say it nay;
When lo! upon its shoulder still,
Unconscious of its potent will,
There perched a preening birdling gray,
A'weary of the dying day;
And all the watchers knew the lore:
Cuchullin was no more."

To Mr. Corey MacDowell wrote:

"... Even though you are not on intimate terms with Deirdre,
Cuc