246

OF A FAMILY OF MUSICIANS

The Organist of the First Congregational Church and His Antecedents.

W. T. Taber and His Accomplishments -- The Puritan Boy Learning the Organ in the Deserted Church.

[Drawing]
The wonderful thing about music -- heavenly maid -- is that she grows young whenever she is wooed. Ordinary women lose a few wrinkles out of their faces, and walk with lighter step, too, when they are loved, but at most they can only enjoy life for a part of a century, whereas music keeps dancing on down through the ages, always growing fairer to look upon, whether she wears purple robes and swings her timbrel of triumph by the Red Sea or mimics the white woes of Elsa of Braban upon the modern stage.

The lovers of music are different from the lovers of other women, because they are born with this love implanted in their souls, and no sooner do they hear the far off callings of the voice of her they are destined to live for than they cry, without so much as looking on her face: "Here, by God's rood, is the one maid for me."

These lovers come from every country on earth, and it is said that some as true crouch over the fire under the pale icelandic sky, as those who lift impassioned eyes and voices under the [hronding?] stars of Italy.

One finds these lovers right at one's own door, looking very much like other people, to be sure, but wearing on their hearts an amulet against old age and carking care.

Not so very many years ago there was born in Sherborn, Mass., one of these fortunate persons. Almost every one in Omaha knows him -- W. T. Taber, organist of the First Congregational church.

There were certain localities in the old Puritan and Pilgram districts where to be born a musician was a distinct misfortune. The frightful chill of a dogmatic and auto-eratic faith blew on all the flowers of beauty and blighted them. Wordly happiness was a crime, and music, being one of those things which conferred happiness was regarded as frivolous and dangerous. But in this desert of arid schism there were a few little onses where the esthetics grew and were cherished for a hundred years past. There was one in Maine; there was one in New York city; and there was one in Massachusetts.

Sherborn lies within a district which has given to America some of her best musical festivals and her finest musicians. So no one complained when Mr. Taber, then a shy and lank lad, hurried two miles after school to the old Pilgrim church, and climbed into the dusky organ left to play in solitude on the great organ. The occupation was at once an indulgence and a study. Each day the secret of some new harmony was learned; the function of another pedal, or the purpose of a stop, to many came there in the silence, into the knowledge of the boy -- a very shy boy, who did not like to talk, and who was even anxious that no one should know how well he was beginning to play. He shrank from voicing his enthusiasm; he was afraid that someone would discover in him an emotion. And he did not like it when anyone stole into the chilly to find out what made the organ swell so on a week day.

Practicing of a laborious sort was not a necessity with this boy. He read music with as much ease and more interest than he did letters. When he opened a music book it was to go through it from cover to cover, with avidity, as one reads a novel. And no one found any fault, or told him he was a fool or a coxcomb, as is often the habit in America when a boy is detected with a musical talent concealed about his person.

But then, who could have found fault? There was his grand-uncle, who had played the same organ for thirty years. there was his grandfather who organized the first brass band anywhere around Boston, and who could blow on any kind of an instrument you could get wind into and music out of; and another grand-0uncle, who sold pipes and horns, fiddles and flutes, melodeons and music; and there was his mother, who liked to sing better than to do anything else; and cousins and uncles and aunts, who made up a sort of faintly and musical society. None of these, it is evident, could with consistency find any fault with the lad.

After a time and much study in the New England conservatory, and particularly with Arthur Whiting of Boston, the composer and organist, and a cousin of Mr. Taber's, he took the position as organist, which had been held by his uncle for three decades. Mr. Taber played there five years. He played in a church at Worcester four years. He was seven years with the Chickering musical bureau in Boston. Then he came to Omaha. He essayed to live entirely by music, and would have managed to do so, discouraging as the circumstances were, had it not been that he was anxious to assume new responsibilities. He accepted the position of organist, of the First Congregational church and took up pen and ledger in the offices of the Burlington and Missouri railway. Then he went east and married.

Out here Mr. Taber began to try his hand at writing music. Sometimes it was a glee, sometimes a serenade, sometimes a Ge Deum. It was hard, though, to keep in the mood after a day at the desk. Anyone will admit that it is difficult to write Go Deums when one is writing in a railroad office.

The very first thing that Mr. Taber ever wrote is "The Brookside," a ballad. He did this one lazy afternoon back in Natick, in Massachusetts, in the summer of '77, when he chanced to be loading for an hour with some friends in a drug store. IN the original manuscript, where the ballad is written, is stuck the label of some patent tooth ache lotion, and on the reverse side of the sheet the [rollcking?] pencil has jotted the "Pillmaker's Waltz" -- a tribute apparently to the friends present. "Two Roses," a tenor solo, written for and often sung by Walter Kennedy, is another early song. Mr. Estabrook of this city sings an exquisite melody to the words of "Break, Break, Break." Mrs. Stowe's lines, "Think Not All Is Over," have been used in a soprano solo. William Winter's "The Apples Are Ripe in the Orchard" have furnished the idea for a gayer ballad. "O! Paradise," has been employed for a strong and simple harmony. A Te Deum in G, which promises much originality, is still unfinished. An exquisite serenade by Shelley has given the inspiration for a tenor melody which is perhaps the most delicate and imaginary work that Mr. Taber has done.

But better known than anything else that he has done is the "Cannibal Idyl," an octave chorus for men's voices. it is a very "snappy" song indeed, with a most invigoration and piquant melody, and no one who listens to it can be astonished at hearing that it is a favorite with the glee clubs of Harvard and Yale and other universities. Mr. Lang, leader of the Apollo club of Boston, the largest musical organization of the country, took it up and made it popular in Boston. It has also been sung lu light operas.

Recently, after several years of book keeping here and there, Mr. Taber decided to give his whole time to the pursuit of music. And now it will be safe to expect both dainty and serious work in the way of musical compositions form him. He is an honest worker in the field of true music. His successes may not be proud ones, but they will be creditable from every standpoint, though they will bring no more pleasure to the soul of a musician than his quietest and most unknown work. For here is an artist who works for true love of his art. Notoriety cannot add to his enthusiasm. He is never happier, perhaps, than when the congregation has filed out of church after the evening service, and he sits in the half-darkened loft, letting flow the sonorous fancies that can come through the pipes of the organ fresh from the organist's brain.

And there are many besides the musician who enjoy that hour.
ELIA W. PEATTIE.

REFLECTS THE DAYLIGHT.

An Invention Which Ought to Prove a Blessing to Many People.

A very practical invention has just been completed and put on them market abroad, says the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. It is nothing less than a "daylight reflection," by which dark rooms, factories, cellars and casements, museums, stores, etc., can be suffused with the light of day. This apparatus is impervious to the influences of inclement weather, rain, etc., because it is not lined with mercury, but consists of a highly polished, peculiarly [fluted?] metal surface. It is easily adjusted to a window by a carpenter or locksmith. The best results are obtained by adjusting the reflector to the upper part of the window, so that the sky is reflected in it and the diffused light thrown into the space that is thus to be lighted.

Many dark corners can in this way be serviceable, or used to advantage by prolonging the hours of daylight and saving the cost of artificial illumination.

The reflector can be adjusted that the light is carried to any desired point in the room.

AN ANECDOTE OF BOSWELL.

Walter Besant, in Harper's Magazine: Once, in a country inn, an aged man told me at great length, and with an infinity of windings, turns, harkings back, and episodes, a story. He was once, a long time ago, he said, a child, and in the days of his childhood there was once, remembered, some kind of fete or rejoicing at which he was present. A gentleman who was there took him into his arms and kissed him. "My dear," said the gentleman, kindly, "you will now be able to tell your children that you have been kissed by the great Boswell." "Pray, Mr. Boswell," said a lady (and I do think it was a most cruel thing to say) -- "pray, Mr. Boswell, why are you great? A story like this seems to give one a kind of connection, not granted to all the world, with the last century, because Boswell died in the year 1705.

AN OLD FASHIONED NOSEGAY.

An old fashioned nosegay, it standeth before me
In old fashioned shape and in old fashioned dish;
'Twas culled by my mother, an old fashioned lady,
And not here to grant me an old fashioned wish.

There's pinks and sweet williams with bergamot mingled.
There's gay ragged robbins of every shade,
There's roses of May time and milky white pansies
A prettier nosegay could hardly be made.

A cluster of sweet scented flowers fo woodbine,
And yes there's a bunch of red clover in view:
And here, like a star, is a waxen day lily.
Well flanked by a mass of the tall feverflow.

And low twined around is a spray of ground ivy.
It's tiny blue flowers just [poeping?] in sight.
While fern leaves serve well for a background effective
To just a small bunch of the pretty by night.

An old fashioned nosegay with stems long and slender.
Their texture unmarred by stick, wire or thong,
An old fashioned girl sitting here to admire,
And weave up their names in an old fashioned song. MAY BLACK.
Lamar, Neb., May, 1891.

OF A FAMILY OF MUSICIANS

The Organist of the First Congregational Church and His Antecedents.

W. T. Taber and His Accomplishments -- The Puritan Boy Learning the Organ in the Deserted Church.

[Drawing]
The wonderful thing about music -- heavenly maid -- is that she grows young whenever she is wooed. Ordinary women lose a few wrinkles out of their faces, and walk with lighter step, too, when they are loved, but at most they can only enjoy life for a part of a century, whereas music keeps dancing on down through the ages, always growing fairer to look upon, whether she wears purple robes and swings her timbrel of triumph by the Red Sea or mimics the white woes of Elsa of Braban upon the modern stage.

The lovers of music are different from the lovers of other women, because they are born with this love implanted in their souls, and no sooner do they hear the far off callings of the voice of her they are destined to live for than they cry, without so much as looking on her face: "Here, by God's rood, is the one maid for me."

These lovers come from every country on earth, and it is said that some as true crouch over the fire under the pale icelandic sky, as those who lift impassioned eyes and voices under the [hronding?] stars of Italy.

One finds these lovers right at one's own door, looking very much like other people, to be sure, but wearing on their hearts an amulet against old age and carking care.

Not so very many years ago there was born in Sherborn, Mass., one of these fortunate persons. Almost every one in Omaha knows him -- W. T. Taber, organist of the First Congregational church.

There were certain localities in the old Puritan and Pilgram districts where to be born a musician was a distinct misfortune. The frightful chill of a dogmatic and auto-eratic faith blew on all the flowers of beauty and blighted them. Wordly happiness was a crime, and music, being one of those things which conferred happiness was regarded as frivolous and dangerous. But in this desert of arid schism there were a few little onses where the esthetics grew and were cherished for a hundred years past. There was one in Maine; there was one in New York city; and there was one in Massachusetts.

Sherborn lies within a district which has given to America some of her best musical festivals and her finest musicians. So no one complained when Mr. Taber, then a shy and lank lad, hurried two miles after school to the old Pilgrim church, and climbed into the dusky organ left to play in solitude on the great organ. The occupation was at once an indulgence and a study. Each day the secret of some new harmony was learned; the function of another pedal, or the purpose of a stop, to many came there in the silence, into the knowledge of the boy -- a very shy boy, who did not like to talk, and who was even anxious that no one should know how well he was beginning to play. He shrank from voicing his enthusiasm; he was afraid that someone would discover in him an emotion. And he did not like it when anyone stole into the chilly to find out what made the organ swell so on a week day.

Practicing of a laborious sort was not a necessity with this boy. He read music with as much ease and more interest than he did letters. When he opened a music book it was to go through it from cover to cover, with avidity, as one reads a novel. And no one found any fault, or told him he was a fool or a coxcomb, as is often the habit in America when a boy is detected with a musical talent concealed about his person.

But then, who could have found fault? There was his grand-uncle, who had played the same organ for thirty years. there was his grandfather who organized the first brass band anywhere around Boston, and who could blow on any kind of an instrument you could get wind into and music out of; and another grand-0uncle, who sold pipes and horns, fiddles and flutes, melodeons and music; and there was his mother, who liked to sing better than to do anything else; and cousins and uncles and aunts, who made up a sort of faintly and musical society. None of these, it is evident, could with consistency find any fault with the lad.

After a time and much study in the New England conservatory, and particularly with Arthur Whiting of Boston, the composer and organist, and a cousin of Mr. Taber's, he took the position as organist, which had been held by his uncle for three decades. Mr. Taber played there five years. He played in a church at Worcester four years. He was seven years with the Chickering musical bureau in Boston. Then he came to Omaha. He essayed to live entirely by music, and would have managed to do so, discouraging as the circumstances were, had it not been that he was anxious to assume new responsibilities. He accepted the position of organist, of the First Congregational church and took up pen and ledger in the offices of the Burlington and Missouri railway. Then he went east and married.

Out here Mr. Taber began to try his hand at writing music. Sometimes it was a glee, sometimes a serenade, sometimes a Ge Deum. It was hard, though, to keep in the mood after a day at the desk. Anyone will admit that it is difficult to write Go Deums when one is writing in a railroad office.

The very first thing that Mr. Taber ever wrote is "The Brookside," a ballad. He did this one lazy afternoon back in Natick, in Massachusetts, in the summer of '77, when he chanced to be loading for an hour with some friends in a drug store. IN the original manuscript, where the ballad is written, is stuck the label of some patent tooth ache lotion, and on the reverse side of the sheet the [rollcking?] pencil has jotted the "Pillmaker's Waltz" -- a tribute apparently to the friends present. "Two Roses," a tenor solo, written for and often sung by Walter Kennedy, is another early song. Mr. Estabrook of this city sings an exquisite melody to the words of "Break, Break, Break." Mrs. Stowe's lines, "Think Not All Is Over," have been used in a soprano solo. William Winter's "The Apples Are Ripe in the Orchard" have furnished the idea for a gayer ballad. "O! Paradise," has been employed for a strong and simple harmony. A Te Deum in G, which promises much originality, is still unfinished. An exquisite serenade by Shelley has given the inspiration for a tenor melody which is perhaps the most delicate and imaginary work that Mr. Taber has done.

But better known than anything else that he has done is the "Cannibal Idyl," an octave chorus for men's voices. it is a very "snappy" song indeed, with a most invigoration and piquant melody, and no one who listens to it can be astonished at hearing that it is a favorite with the glee clubs of Harvard and Yale and other universities. Mr. Lang, leader of the Apollo club of Boston, the largest musical organization of the country, took it up and made it popular in Boston. It has also been sung lu light operas.

Recently, after several years of book keeping here and there, Mr. Taber decided to give his whole time to the pursuit of music. And now it will be safe to expect both dainty and serious work in the way of musical compositions form him. He is an honest worker in the field of true music. His successes may not be proud ones, but they will be creditable from every standpoint, though they will bring no more pleasure to the soul of a musician than his quietest and most unknown work. For here is an artist who works for true love of his art. Notoriety cannot add to his enthusiasm. He is never happier, perhaps, than when the congregation has filed out of church after the evening service, and he sits in the half-darkened loft, letting flow the sonorous fancies that can come through the pipes of the organ fresh from the organist's brain.

And there are many besides the musician who enjoy that hour.
ELIA W. PEATTIE.

REFLECTS THE DAYLIGHT.

An Invention Which Ought to Prove a Blessing to Many People.

A very practical invention has just been completed and put on them market abroad, says the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. It is nothing less than a "daylight reflection," by which dark rooms, factories, cellars and casements, museums, stores, etc., can be suffused with the light of day. This apparatus is impervious to the influences of inclement weather, rain, etc., because it is not lined with mercury, but consists of a highly polished, peculiarly [fluted?] metal surface. It is easily adjusted to a window by a carpenter or locksmith. The best results are obtained by adjusting the reflector to the upper part of the window, so that the sky is reflected in it and the diffused light thrown into the space that is thus to be lighted.

Many dark corners can in this way be serviceable, or used to advantage by prolonging the hours of daylight and saving the cost of artificial illumination.

The reflector can be adjusted that the light is carried to any desired point in the room.

AN ANECDOTE OF BOSWELL.

Walter Besant, in Harper's Magazine: Once, in a country inn, an aged man told me at great length, and with an infinity of windings, turns, harkings back, and episodes, a story. He was once, a long time ago, he said, a child, and in the days of his childhood there was once, remembered, some kind of fete or rejoicing at which he was present. A gentleman who was there took him into his arms and kissed him. "My dear," said the gentleman, kindly, "you will now be able to tell your children that you have been kissed by the great Boswell." "Pray, Mr. Boswell," said a lady (and I do think it was a most cruel thing to say) -- "pray, Mr. Boswell, why are you great? A story like this seems to give one a kind of connection, not granted to all the world, with the last century, because Boswell died in the year 1705.

AN OLD FASHIONED NOSEGAY.

An old fashioned nosegay, it standeth before me
In old fashioned shape and in old fashioned dish;
'Twas culled by my mother, an old fashioned lady,
And not here to grant me an old fashioned wish.

There's pinks and sweet williams with bergamot mingled.
There's gay ragged robbins of every shade,
There's roses of May time and milky white pansies
A prettier nosegay could hardly be made.

A cluster of sweet scented flowers fo woodbine,
And yes there's a bunch of red clover in view:
And here, like a star, is a waxen day lily.
Well flanked by a mass of the tall feverflow.

And low twined around is a spray of ground ivy.
It's tiny blue flowers just [poeping?] in sight.
While fern leaves serve well for a background effective
To just a small bunch of the pretty by night.

An old fashioned nosegay with stems long and slender.
Their texture unmarred by stick, wire or thong,
An old fashioned girl sitting here to admire,
And weave up their names in an old fashioned song. MAY BLACK.
Lamar, Neb., May, 1891.