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390

[[newspaper clipping]]
MARCH 24.     

Literary Miscellany 

HIS WIFE.

I cannot touch his cheek,
 Nor ruffle with a loving breath his hair;
I look into his eyes, and hear him speak-
 He never knows that I am there!
Oh, if my darling would but only know
 That day and night, through all his weary life,
I, whom he loved in the years long ago,
 Am with him still-his wife!

I watch him at his task,
 When the broad sunbeams first light up his room;
I watch him till the evening lays her mask
 Upon the face of Day; and in the gloom
He lays his pencil down and silent sits,
 And leans his chin upon his hand and sighs;
How well I know what memory round him flies!
 I read it in his eyes.

And when his pencil's skill
 Has sometimes wrought a touch of happy art,
I see his face with sudden gladness fill;
 I see him turn, with eager lips apart,
To bid me come and welcome his success;
 And then he droops, and throws his brush aside;
Oh, if my darling then could only guess
 That she is near who died!

Sometimes, I fancy, too,
 That he does dimly know it-that he feels 
Some influence of love pass thrilling through
 Death's prison bars, the spirit's bonds and seals;
Some dear companionship around him still;
 Some whispered blessing, faintly breathed caress,
The presence of love no death can kill
Brightening his loneliness.

Ah, but it cannot be!
 The dead are with the living-I am here;
But he, my living love, he cannot see
 His dead wife, though she clings to him so near. 
I seek his eyes: I press against his cheek:
 I hear him breathe my name in wailing tone-
He calls me, calls his wife, I cannot speak-
 He thinks he is alone.

This is the bitterness of death:
 To know he loves me, pines and yearns for me:
To see him, still be near him, feel his breath
 Fan my sad cheek, and yet I am not free
To bid him feel my faintest touch,
 That she who never left his side in life-
She who so loved him, whom he loved so much-
 Is with him still-his wife.
                           -Justin McCarthy
[[/newspaper clipping]]

[[newspaper clipping]]
In early life Mr. Travers married Louisa, the fourth daughter of Reverdy Johnson, the well-known statesman who was once the Minister to England. He leaves a family of nine children.

As has been mentioned Mr. Traver's readiness of repartee was one of his most prominent characteristics. Not a little of the genuine humor of his stories was due to the telling. Afflicted with a slight stutter he deftly turned this apparent disadvantage to account and the point of the joke was always heightened by the stammer which lent to it a dramatic force which was indescribable. From the mass of witty sayings which have been attributed to him at various times the following seem worthy of record:

Shortly before he left New-York for the last time a friend tried to cheer him up by making light of his illness and prophesying his speedy return. "No," said Mr. Travers, "I've been burning the c-c-candle at both ends so long that I've got p-p-precious near the m-m-middle."

To a Baltimorean friend who met him in New-York and remarked: "I think you stammer more than you used now you've come to New-York." "B-b-bigger place," was the reply.

Driving in a light buggy one day, he saw a well-known editor, who weighs a great deal above two hundred, on the sidewalk, and drawing up, asked him to get in. "I don't know about that," said the editor, eyeing the buggy
suspiciously, "I'm afraid I'm too big for that trap of yours." "Oh, get in," said Travers, "p-p-perhaps you're n-n-not so b-b-big as you think you are!"

An often-told story describes Mr. Travers as going to Brooklyn by the Wall Street ferry to pay a long deferred visit to a friend who lived in Montague-st. He missed his way and meeting a respectable looking man said:
 "C-c-an you d-d-direct me to M-M-Montague-st?"
  "S-s-traight on to the l-l-left, sir."
  "Wh-wh-hat do you mean by m-m-ocking me, sir?"
  "B-beg p-p pardon, I've an imp-pediment in my speech."
  "T-t-that's what I used to have," said Travers.
  "Wh-wh-hy don't you g-g-go to Dr. Blank. He c-c-cured me!"

A well-known broker, who is extremely bald and extremely fond of telling from what a small beginning his present fortune sprung, was frequently chaffed by Mr. Travers. "You s-s-say you're a s-s-self-made m-man,"
said he once.
  "Yes, Mr. Travers, I am."
  "Then wh-wh-why the d-d-dickens didn't you p-p-put more hair on?"

When the famous Vanderbilt fancy dress ball was occupying the attention of all New-York there was much discussion in Wall Street as to appropriate costumes and so forth. The bald-headed broker mentioned asked Travers to give him an idea for a character. "S-s-ugar 
your head and go as a p-p-ill," said Travers.

Seated in a street car once with his little son Mr. Travers edged gradually up as seat after seat was taken by incoming passengers. Finally he lifted the lad on his knee and so sat for awhile. The car grew more and more 
crowded and a good-looking young woman seeing no vacant seat stared rather impertinently at Travers as though expecting him to rise. His eyes twinkled in characteristic fashion as he turned his face to his boy and said audibly: "G-g-get up, my son, and g-g-give the l-l-lady your seat." The young woman looked another
way.

When John Morrissey was in his prime he kept a stable of racers, which as a rule, were thought more highly of by Morrissey than his friends. Travers saw him one day watching one of his yearlings being exercised.
  "W-w-what's that, John?" asked Travers.
  "A race-horse," answered Morrissey, a little touchily. "Do you want to bet on him?" with sarcastic inflection.
  "Y-yes, I'll b-b-b-bet on him."
  "How?" asked Morrissey in Surprise.
  "I'll c-c-copper him," was the crushing answer.

At the call of the list one day at the Stock Exchange a dispute arose between Travers and H.G. Stebbins as to a bid for some certain stock. It seemed tolerably certain that Mr. Stebbins's bin had been put in first.
  "Stebbins may have g-got through before I did," said Travers however, "but I'll be hanged if I d-d-didn't b-b-begin first," and he got the stock.

"L-l-look there," he stammered one day in a state of apparent excitement. "That isn't Dash is it?" mentioning a well-known lawyer.
  "Yes, it is. But why do you ask?" was the reply.
  "D-don't you see he's g-g-got his hands in his own p-p-pockets."

Travers lamented one day in serio-comic fashion that he was so bothered by good-natured givers of advice that he had made up his mind to follow his own judgment in
future, "F-for instance." he explained. "Th-th-there's my wife. When, I g-g-get home rather l-l-late she says to me, "M-m-my dear, you really must s s-settle down. Well, I think that's pretty good advice and I ought to 
t-take it. Then I g-g-go down town and the b-b-boys say,'Travers, you r-r-really must s-s-settle up.' Now, what's a f-f-fellow to do?"
[[/newspaper clipping]]

Wednesday 30" March. 1887
Still cold as Winter. I am glad to stay in doors. Have been selecting a number of my pictures from which I mean to paint for a sale next year. Called on the Reeds at the Oriental Hotel to invite Reed to go to the club with me on Saturday but they are going to leave on Friday for their country place at Quogue. Went to the club and stayed until midnight. This little poem of Justin McCarthy's  Girard  gave to me when I was home last week. It seems almost that it might have been written for me.

Thursday 31. It is much milder but still cold with an East wind and a prospect of a Storm. Mary and I are going to see Sara Bernhardt in Theodora tonight. It costs me seven dollars, a pretty big sum to hear a good actress. This is varnishing day at the Academy. I went up after breakfast. The galleries have been  decorated with some olive plush which gives them a much more elegant appearance - but the most noticeable feature is the absence of the mountains of rubbish which used to encumber the walls. There are Enough pictures and one is not offended by such a mass of crude work. It is a decided step in advance and I hope it will be a precedent for future exhibitions. One of my pictures, Eastern Sky at sunset is hung in an excellent place in the line near the centre of the South wall of the south Gallery and looks well, to my surprise, better than in my room. I wish now I had painted it larger. The funeral of a Veteran is in the North room over another picture in a dark place. The Sunset is next the floor in the Coridor in a corner. I dont think I have been well treated but I shall make no complaint. Mary and I went to see Sara Bernhardt in Theodora this evening. The play lasted from 7 3/4 to nearly 12 o'clock and was a thoroughly artistic performance. She is a genius, no doubt of it, and I think this must be her finest role. There was a large and enthusiastic audience - we had seats in the second row, balcony in front, one of the best places in the house. I was surprised that I could understand so little of the language. After it was over we went to the Dairy Kitchen, not an ideal place and had some ice cream. It was 1 o'clock before I got to bed

Transcription Notes:
Texts done. Just missing the handwritten part. ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-04-23 10:02:02 Handwritten part transcribed, but has lots of [[?]]. Quogue (/kwɒɡ/) is a village in the Town of Southampton in Suffolk County, on the South Fork of Long Island, in New York, United States. the artist’s brother Girard ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-05-14 18:33:32