Washington, DC, 1999.
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The JUNKET
SATURDAY,
March 26th dawned cold, with gusts of rain; the alarm clock set inexorably for six A. M. But only one hapless person was reported missing when the train took off. Even those who arrived at Grand Central at seven found Dr. Leslie on hand. He and the invaluable Hortense Mendel were as busy as platoon sergeants, ticking off arrivals and anxiously awaiting the arrival of the messenger with the sumptuous Leslie box lunches. The wretch finally arrived at 7:26 with four minutes leeway. Poor Martin Oberstein, through a combination of mishaps, including a treacherous alarm clock, missed the train.
As soon as we were on board, each pilgrim was handed a suavely printed itinerary of the trip, accounting not only for the hours, but even for the minutes. Soon after, the box lunches (Bankers Club type) were passed out, only Shapiro having regretfully to say nay. The opportunity for a mutual exchange of ideas was eagerly seized, no telephones rang, no deadlines loomed on the horizon and there was a four hour period for good talk. Good conversation is one of man's most precious boons. Time and space vanished and a celestial stenographer could have noted such words as Alcuin of York, the Carolingian minuscule, uncials, monkish scribes, the
scrittura humanistica
and such outlandish names as Gutenberg, Jenson, Aldus, Estienne, Plantin, the Elzevirs, Van Dijck, Caslon, Baskerville, Didot, Bodoni, Pickering, Whittingham, William Morris and Bruce Rogers spoken with a variety of emphases. Periodically could be heard the inimitable gleeful laugh of Jerry Craw.
From the beginning, Willard Morgan and his camera were indefatigable. The shutter began clicking when the train took off and, bless him, did not stop until the very end of it all. From the multitude of photographs taken by this admirable artist of the camera, some forty-four remain, as if in amber, preserving the fleeting events of the junket.
Upon our arrival in Boston (cold and rainy) Bob Leslie shepherded
Many of us further explored some of the countless treasures of the Houghton (they have some 130,000 rare books, manuscripts and letters). In the opinion of most experts, the Houghton Library is the finest building in the world devoted to the housing of rare books and manuscripts. The Houghton people were most kind and even fetched up from a vault, the famous Royal Greeks Bible of Estienne, Paris, 1550, the masterpiece of Claude Garamond and Geofroy Tory and the inspiration for so many typographers and artists of the book.
From the Houghton, we went directly to the Fogg Art Museum where the balance of the wonderful group of manuscripts were on exhibition; nor were many other brilliant treasures of the Fogg ignored.
The bus then returned us to Boston, for our visit to the Boston Public Library, as the guests of Dr. Zoltan Haraszti, the chief of the Rare Book Division. Dr. Haraszti was most kind and opened his vaults to show us such fabled gems as the Bay Psalm Book (America's earliest existing printed book) of which the Boston Public owns two copies, the First Folio of Shakespeare, London, 1623, the first copy to come to America (Barton copy), Sir Isaac Newton's
Principia Mathematica
with Newton's precious manuscript notes, early Shakespeare quartos and in honor of Walt Whitman's centenary, the Library's copy of the first edition of
Leaves of Grass.
At least three renegades (Ettenberg, Craw and Shapiro) sneaked away
The group next reassembled at the Bellevue Hotel for a breather before descending to the lounge for a cocktail party as the guests of the Schlosser Paper Company. Again talk of a mellow and urbane nature flourished, spiced with a bit of discreet flirting and here we were joined by our charming Boston kindred spirit, Rollo Silver.
Dinner at the Durgin Park was surely one of the most curious and odd facets of the trip. This establishment is the shabbiest and most unencouraging possible. When we first saw it, the unlettered ones groaned. It turned out to be a fabulous place, clatter, bareness, crowds and all. We saw served to us the most amazing portions of prime roast beef, (2 ½ pound portions, six to the side of beef), tempting corn pone and the most delicious Indian pudding with whipped cream towers. The cicerone, a character if ever there was one, was decked out in a long white duster with a straw hat probably borrowed from his horse, the boater of thirty years ago. He insisted, after dinner, on dragooning the feebly protesting group into a behind the scenes tour of Durgin Park.
We limped or staggered to the studios of the Boston Bookbuilders, as the guests of Rollo Silver. Here we saw the interesting plans and programs of this alert group, snaffled many fine keepsakes, took aboard a further cargo of potent liquids and fooled about in the printshop, Bob Leslie as usual grabbing a stick of type.
Returning to the Bellevue Hotel, a group of unquenched spirits, on the spur of the moment, organized a little party of its own and determined to sample the hospitality of the Parker House, including genuine Parker House rolls. More delightful talk followed, even though Eugene Ettenberg's cheerful suggestion to see Louisburg Square at midnight was vetoed. This really ended the day, for Leslie had planned for the Sunday program to begin promptly at nine in the morning.
To many of us, the visit to the Boston Athenaeum on Sunday morning was a highlight of the trip because of the delicious personality of its Director, Mr. Walter Muir Whitehill, the possessor of the most imposing moustache since Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes (another Bostonian). Mr. Whitehill has a pawky and most stylized sense of humor and his talk, while talking us through the unique institution, was delectable. Some of us revelled in the interior design of the Library and its dainty miniature staircases.
Regretfully leaving Mr. Whitehill after his delicate suggestion that “plumbing was available” we next drive to Wellesley, some twelve miles from Boston for a visit to its famed Library. Here we were the guests of Miss Helen Brown, the Librarian and Miss Hannah D. French, her associate. Miss French had slaved to prepare for us a banquet of Wellesley treasures, including their Grabhorn Press collection, the best in the world, and their newly acquired Merrymount Press collection. Much to the keen regret of the group, only ninety minutes could be spared for Wellesley. There is such loving attention paid to the typographic arts as is rare in institutions ten times Wellesley's size. Shapiro was almost left behind.
We were able to include a brief but none the less fascinating glimpse of Mrs. Jack Gardner's house, Fenway Court, with its famed inner court, rising for some four stories, with the lovely masses of flowers, of every hue in the spectrum. We even saw a few of Mrs. Jack's celebrated Italian paintings and the general feel of the Renaissance which permeates the house. The vision of Bob Leslie pulling tiny Denise along for fear she might be left behind was delightful.
Wearily, footsore and hungry, but in the highest of spirits, we returned to the Bellevue for a very belated luncheon and more good talk. The now very martial Dr. Leslie saw to it personally that each and every one of us was present or accounted for before the bus took off to deposit us at the station for the train trip back to New York. The last stage of the trip was most pleasant for now it seemed that everyone was
en-amitié
with his fellows and back we came. Thirty-five and a half hours after we set out, we came again to New York, tireder than we had left, but far richer.
En avant!
S. R. Shapiro