Fifty years in Wall Street
and amusements, and on the principle that water finds its level, so did
Mr. Travers in the sporting world. He soon became President of the
Jerome Jockey Club, President of the Racquet Club, President of the
Athletic Club, and was thoroughly identified as a leader in the large
majority of manly and out-door sports, in which the youth of New York
city and its suburbs were interested.
It is due both to Mr. Travers and his quondam partner, the renowned
Leonard W. Jerome, to state that the efforts of these two men have been
chiefly instrumental in elevating the social and moral tone of the
race-course in this part of the country, and raising it to a standard of
respectability, to which before their reformatory efforts it was
partially a stranger. It was, in a great measure, through their
exertions that the race-track became a fashionable resort, in the North,
for ladies, as it had been in the South for many years, especially in
Kentucky. The ladies of the present day can now talk horse at Jerome
Park, Sheepshead Bay and Long Branch with a volubility that twenty years
ago would have shocked their mothers, and would still cause their
grandmothers to have epileptic fits. So the ladies of the present
generation are greatly indebted to these two gentlemen for having
removed the social stigma from the turf, in this section, thus enabling
the fair sex to enjoy, in common with the lords of creation, and without
compunction and loss of dignity, one of the greatest pleasures in the
whole range of out-door recreations.
The breed of horses has been improved to an extent that leaves the
famous Arabian steed of yore, that outstripped the flight of the
ostrich, far in the distance. This development in speed has been brought
to its highest pitch in Harry Bassett, and Wm. H. Vanderbilt’s fondly
cherished Maud S., now the property of Mr. Robert Bonner. For this
immense evolution in speed and staying powers the patrons of the turf
are largely indebted to Jerome and Travers.
One of Travers’ best _bon mots_ was inspired by the sight of the Siamese
Twins. After carefully examining the mysterious ligature that had bound
them together from birth, he looked up blankly at them and said,
“B-b-br-brothers, I presume.”
Among Travers’ contemporaries, Mr. Charles L. Frost was very well known
a few years ago. His specialty was purchasing the junior securities of
foreclosed railroads which were supposed to be wiped out, so far as any
visible element of value was concerned.
Then, at a time when it was quite inconvenient for the reorganized
companies, he would pounce down upon them with some sort of vexatious
litigation, and would often levy on the bank balances of these
corporations as a part of his proceedings and peculiar methods of
management. He was enabled to take such action as they were foreign
corporations. In this way he made it exceedingly difficult for these
corporations to defend the various suits in law engineered by him, and
rendered their existence exceedingly uncomfortable by placing their
money in a tight place and cutting off the interest.
These peculiar methods of financiering identified Mr. Frost in a measure
with Wall Street men, as a character whom most of the bankers and
brokers who had any dealings with him have had good reason to remember
feelingly. Frost had bushy, white curly hair, a beardless, full face,
and a very red nose, which could only be acquired at considerable
expense or as the result of chronic dyspepsia. There is no evidence,
however, that he was a victim of this natural malady, so his
highly-colored proboscis must be accounted for in some other way.
Mr. Travers met this gentleman one morning by accident in a Fourth
Avenue railroad car going down town. Although formerly acquainted, they
had not met in years, and time, as indicated by his white locks, was
beginning to tell upon Mr. Frost.
This attracted the attention of Mr. Travers, who cordially shook hands
with the old gentleman, and after making a rapid survey of his person,
said, “Wh-why, Mr. Frost, wh-wh-what beautiful white hair you have; what
a su-su-superb blue n-n-necktie you wear; what a m-m-mag-magnificent red
nose you have got. If I had s-s-seen you as I do now in w-w-war times, I
should have taken you for a p-p-perfect p-p-patriot, red white and
blue.”
THE DEATH OF TRAVERS.
The foregoing reminiscences of Travers were written and stereotyped
while the great wit and financier was still alive. I have, therefore,
not deemed it necessary to recast the matter, but consider it sufficient
to add a few of the salient points in Mr. Travers’ character and career,
with more _bons mots_ which the death of this popular man brought out.
He died in Bermuda, March 19, 1887. He had gone there in the previous
November, where he had a residence of his own, in the hope that the
climate might restore him to health, but the malady, diabetes, had got
too far ahead, and, in spite of the best medical skill, carried him over
to the majority. His wit, like that of Tom Hood, did not forsake him
even in his last hours.
While on his death-bed at Bermuda a friend called to see him, and said,
“What a nice place Bermuda is for rest and change.” Travers replied:
“Y-y-yes, th-the waiters g-g-get th-th-the ch-change and th-the
h-h-hotel k-k-keepers th-the r-r-rest.”
Among Travers’ famous hits the following is one of the best: Jim Fisk’s
zenith of glory and grandeur was in the vicinity of its height when he
secured the control of the Boston & Providence line of steamboats. He
constituted himself Commodore, and was always on the deck as they
departed each day, dressed in a Commodore’s attire, and was evidently
very much elated in being supreme in command in connection with these
magnificent steamboats. Jay Gould was, financially, equally interested
with him in the venture, and Commodore Fisk, in his usual splurgy
manner, had a large likeness of both Gould and himself hung up at the
head of the stairs leading to the large saloon cabin on each of these
steamboats. Travers and others, who at that time were leading magnates
of the street, were invited to inspect one of these large boats that had
been newly fitted up, gilded, and put in magnificent shape, with a band
of music on board, etc. Fisk met Travers as he went on board, and
volunteered to escort him over the boat to show him its magnificence and
superb appointments. As they went up the stairs and came to the first
landing, he pointed out the likenesses of Fisk and Gould that were hung
there, and asked Travers if he didn’t think they were good. Travers
replied: “I th-think th-th-they are v-v-very good, b-b-b-but t-to m-make
th-th-them c-c-complete, th-there sh-sh-should b-b-be a p-p-picture of
our S-S-S-Saviour in th-th-the m-middle.”
The last time I saw Mr. Travers down town he called at my office. After
he ran his eye over the stock quotations, I said: “The market is pretty
stiff, Travers.” He said: “Y-yes, it is th-the st-st-stiffness of
d-d-death;” and, sure enough, in the course of two or three days
afterwards, a big smash took place.
Mr. Travers once said to a friend: “C-come and see me in S-September. If
y-you wish I will give you a p-point that will m-make m-money. He wished
to do the man a favor in return for a kindly office. Late in the month
mentioned the friend dropped into Travers’ office.
“C-come for that p-point?” asked Mr. Travers.
“Certainly,” replied the friend.
“Well, y-you are the luckiest d-dog I know. I p-played that p-point two
weeks ago myself and lost a pile of money. Y-you st-stick to m-me l-long
enough and c-close enough, and I’ll l-land y-you in the p-poorhouse,
sure.”
When “Plunger” Walton was in the height of his prosperity on the turf he
met Travers at Saratoga.
“I have been anxious to see you for some time,” said Walton. “I think we
can do business together,” he added. “I’ve got good judgment on horses
and horse racing, and you have the same on stocks and stock speculation.
I’ve made $350,000 on horse races in the last two years. Now, you give
me points on stocks, and I’ll give you points on races. Is it a go?”
“Y-you’ve made three h-hundred and f-fifty th-thousand dollars on
h-horse racing?” Travers repeated.
“Yes.”
“And you want m-me to g-give you p-points on st-stocks?”
“In exchange for my points on horses. Yes.”
“Well, I’ll give you a f-first rate p-point. If you’ve made that much in
two y-years, st-stick to your b-b-business. It is a f-first-rate
p-point.”
One day, many years ago, Mr. Travers was standing on the curb of New
street, opposite the Exchange, buying some stock from a gentleman whose
aspect was unmistakably of the Hebrew stamp.
“Wh-wh-what is your name?” asked Travers.
“Jacobs,” responded the seller.
“B-b-but wh-what is your Christian name?” reiterated Travers.
The Hebrew was non-plussed, and the crowd was convulsed with laughter.
The first time Mr. Travers attempted to find Montague street, in
Brooklyn, he lost his way, although he was near the place. Meeting a man
he said:
“I desire to r-reach M-montague st-street. W-will you b-be kik-kind
enough to pup-point the way?”
“You-you are go-going the wrong w-way,” was the stammering answer. “That
is M-montague st-street there.”
“Are y-you mimick-mimicking me, making fun of me-me?” asked Mr. Travers
sharply.
“Nun-no, I assure you, sir,” the other replied. “I-I am ba-badly
af-flict-flicted with an imp-impediment in my speech.”
“Why do-don’t y-you g-get cured?” asked Travers, solemnly. “G-go to
Doctor —, and y-you’ll get c-cured. D-don’t y-you see how well I talk?
H-he cu-cured me.”
The fortune left by Mr. Travers has been estimated at $3,000,000. He
left three sons, William B. Travers, John Travers, and Reverdy Travers,
and five daughters, four of whom are married. His only sister is Mrs.
Prince, mother of the late John D. Prince, of Prince & Whitely.
Mr. Travers assisted a large number of young men to go into business,
and helped to give the start in life to several of the most successful
men in Wall Street.
He was charitable, and his secret beneficences are said to have been
numerous. He enjoyed the wealth he had made in a way that should make
the majority of millionaires blush with shame at their parsimony. He was
a _bon vivant_ of the first water. He maintained five domestic
establishments on a first-class and luxurious scale, not like a
Caligula, merely for his personal gratification or the pride of
ostentation, but rather for the development of those social traits of
character in which he had few equals, and no superior. The great social
pride of his life was to make his friends feel happy. He had one of the
best cellars in New York. His table at any of his residences was not
only bountiful, but exhibited a menu equal to that at Delmonico’s. His
favorite wine was Madeira, of which he was a perfect judge. He was very
moderate, however, both in eating and drink, but would have the best of
everything despite the cost.
He was a kind and indulgent father, but was pleased to see his boys
manifest ample pluck like himself. Apropos of this characteristic, one
of his boys came home one day with a big blackened eye.
“W-w-w-where d-d-did you g-g-g-get th-th-that?” inquired the father,
anxiously.
“In a f-f-fight, sir,” replied the son, who has a similar impediment in
his speech.
“D-d-d-did y-y-you w-w-w-whip the other f-f-fellow?”
“Y-y-yes, sir.”
“Q-q-q-quite r-r-right. H-h-h-here’s a d-d-dollar f-f-for y-you. Always
w-w-whip the other f-f-fellow.”
Travers himself was courageous, tall, and sinewy, and in his younger
days a great athlete. He was 68 years of age at the time of his death.
He was a member of twenty-seven clubs, social, political, and athletic.