Censoring the Censor

 Anthony Comstock was a man with an obsession and that obsession was vice. He started the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice (N.Y.S.S.V.) in 1873, which acted more or less as you might guess, lobbying for laws that would enforce a specific moral code for the public and then making sure that code was followed. Not long afterwards, the Comstock Act was passed, which made it explicitly illegal to distribute obscene matter via the U.S. postal service or other carriers. Comstock himself had a broad view of what should be considered obscene and so his targets ranged from literary works like The Decameron to nude paintings like Chabas' "September Morn" to even medical texts with remote references to sexuality and sexual health. During his career, he claimed to have arrested at least 3,800 people and to have driven at least fifteen to suicide.

Why are we bringing up such a truly unpleasant man, who saw immorality everywhere and thought that the arts were often just a cover for filth that would corrupt the public? Well, it's because we have a letter of his in the collections. In it, he addresses the Brooklyn Eagle, a daily newspaper which ran from 1841 to 1955, which apparently ran a piece stating that Comstock considered himself entitled to open people's mail and to enter the houses of citizens in the course of his duties. This seems to have made Comstock rather mad and, as this letter looks like a draft rather than a final product, we can see him self-censoring his cattier remarks. A digression is struck out in which he asks if there has been any change in management at the Eagle, as has the inquiry "Now sir, why cannot I be accorded fair play in your paper?" About a quarter of the text ends up being crossed out.

He leaves in his assertion that the editor will surely agree that "we have enough impure and unclean men and women at the present time" and that it is "not improper to repress, and keep from debauching the minds of the children" the materials which make them unclean. And the letter itself is typed on the N.Y.S.S.V. letterhead which presents an image summarizing his general position tidily: a man in simple clothes, being handcuffed and led away while another, dressed as a gentleman, tosses books into a fire.

To read Comstock's drafted letter, ask for Mss 886271.  

  

Will that be Cash or Beef?

When Hanover decided to erect a new meeting-house in 1794 it needed to find a way to pay for it. The meeting-house would serve many uses: a church, a place for important speakers visiting town, a venue for political debate. It was to be the focal point for the life of the town separate from the College that had come to dominate. In classic New England fashion, they allowed select pews to be claimed for a set amount of money or goods. Pledging to purchase a pew would let you assert your family's status at every church service and every town event.

What struck us were the options for how to express your support. Cash was always welcome but, if you were a person with forested land, you could also pay with lumber or, if you were without means, each day's labor on the building went into your account. And, well naturally, there was the option to pay with commodities: beef, pork, and grain were welcome payment. This broadside issued in 1794 by Dartmouth's first librarian, Bezaleel Woodward (who was on the select board at the time) spells out the payment options so Hanover's citizens could pledge their resources. And a select few could claim their pews of distinction.

To see it, ask for Broadside 001501.

Learning to Lead

On June 8, 1863, concerned members of Philadelphia's Union League gathered to listen to a talk by George L. Stearns, an abolitionist and leading figure in the North's efforts to recruit Black soldiers. The Confederate Army was growing closer and closer to the "Birthplace of America", and Stearns emphasized the need for Black citizens to bolster the ranks of the Union Army. His words found purchase with the well-to-do members of the League, who immediately gave their support for the formation of three Black regiments in Pennsylvania. The next challenge was to find qualified white officers to train and lead these troops; the predominant belief was that these new recruits would require leaders of exceptional sensitivity and intelligence because of their lived experience of Southern and Northern racism and oppression.

Despite this concern about emotional intelligence, the selection board failed 47% of the applicants for the officer positions because of their lack of a modicum of training in tactics and military logistics. The fix, as the board saw it, was the establishment of the Free Military School for Applicants  for Commands of Colored Troops in December 1863. The Free Military School was not meant to mirror West Point, but instead to 'teach to the test' so that applicants who had previously failed the selection board review process would be equipped with the military training necessary for them to pass a second attempt. By March 1864, the School had received 1,691 applications and accepted 843 of the candidates; 422 of those applicants actually attended the school. Although there were some initial successes, the School was shuttered after only a year of existence. The core issue for its dissolution was ongoing drama that centered on Thomas Webster, the chair of the school's Supervisory Committee, and his disagreements with both the War Department and his own Committee members.

Here at Rauner, we have a copy of the pamphlet that was printed in December of 1863 to solicit applications to the Free Military School. The document was written by Thomas Webster and lists the qualifications necessary for application, including the following crystallization of the Selection Committee's core ethos: "No talents, no zeal, no sympathy for the colored race, unless attended with military knowledge, and power to command men in battle, can avail; and no amount of presence or number of testimonials of influential friends will answer the purpose; the applicant must give reasonable evidence of his ability to command."

To see our copy, request Rare E540 .N3 F72 1863 online and then come to Rauner.

Two Shootings, One Mistake: The Cost of Leniency in Dartmouth’s Boom Boom Lodge Debacle

Colloquially known as the Boom Boom Lodge incident, the fatal shooting of graduating student Joseph Maroney in 1920 unsettled Dartmouth College in ways that administrators would have preferred to avoid. From the obvious displeasure of the student body to the criticism in the news to even some scrutiny from the government, the whole debacle was pleasant for none.  The shooter, Albert Meads, was hardly an unknown given he had previously been involved in the supposedly accidental death of Norman F. Arnold in 1916, a casual “misfiring” of a gun in the dorm halls they said. Accounts of the 1920 incident, both in Dartmouth histories and in contemporary press coverage though, simplified the Maroney shooting into a quarrel over liquor prices in the Prohibition era. This neat framing conveniently leaves out the awkward fact that Maroney had been sober for more than a year and that there was no grand thief-in-the-night tale. The more uncomfortable part of this story concerns not just the tragedy of 1920, but Dartmouth’s earlier decision to allow Meads back on campus after Arnold’s death, which, in hindsight, reads as a heavily misjudged decision. 

After Maroney’s death, correspondence between President Ernest Martin Hopkins and former faculty member Frederick Adler revealed how uneasy many already were about Meads’ presence. Adler, who had taught Meads himself, condemned Meads’ character in no uncertain terms, and Hopkins admitted that it was “a pity beyond measure that Meads should ever have returned to the College campus.” He assured Adler that Dartmouth would take “no action, direct or indirect, to temper the law’s course in this matter.” Hopkins’ comments acknowledge, if indirectly, that Meads’ readmission had been an error and perhaps one that now looked far more consequential than it had in 1916. More than that however, it strikes one as quite odd that, in opposition to the past, the law would operate as per normal and perhaps there was more than meets the eye to how Hopkins handled the first shooting.

The surviving correspondence on the case is equally notable for how much energy was devoted to Dartmouth’s public image. From friends, alumni, and occasional influential onlookers, Hopkins received a steady stream of offers of legal advice, reassurance about alumni opinion, suggestions on how to manage rumors about alcohol on campus, and more than a few invites to what could be viewed as emotional-support-and-friendly-catch-up golf. In a letter to the Associated Press, he expressed reluctance to make any public statement unless it was necessary to protect Maroney’s reputation, separating Dartmouth as an institution from Meads as an individual. “Among the exceptions there will be men potentially dangerous to the welfare and reputation of the group as a whole,” he wrote.

Even in 1920 though, some observers accused the college of mishandling the situation. One letter claimed that Dartmouth had sided with Maroney because of his “popularity”, using Meads as a convenient scapegoat and expediting his removal from campus before commencement. Hopkins, in private, rejected the idea, insisting that Meads had already benefited from extraordinary leniency after the Arnold shooting but did concede that perhaps it was a mistake to have let Meads roam free. His tendency to bootleg alcohol for instance, was a well known campus and administrative fact. 

What emerges from this all is a picture of an administration attempting to balance accountability with the instinct for institutional self-preservation. The Maroney case prompts a few difficult questions: Why was someone who killed another student, accidental or not, allowed to return to campus with little supervision? How much weight did Dartmouth place on its reputation compared to student safety? More than a century later, those questions still feel uncomfortably familiar, especially following the events of the past year. As such, Dartmouth’s 1920 tragedy remains more than just a curious episode of college lore; it serves as a reminder of how institutions manage crises. Unfortunately for the colleges, it's not always with the clarity or foresight they would like or wish to claim.

To read this and more correspondence about the Meads-Maroney shooting, request DP-11, box 6766, folder 17 at Rauner Library.

Posted for Erica Mao '28, recipient of a Historical Accountability Student Research Fellowship for the 2025 summer term. The Historical Accountability Student Research Program provides funding for Dartmouth students to conduct research with primary sources on a topic related to issues of inclusivity and diversity in the college's past. For more information, visit the program's website.

Sally Drew Hall: "One of Dartmouth’s Greatest Ladies of All Time"

For nearly a century, generations of Dartmouth students have turned to the college’s infirmary, known as Dick’s House, for first aid and medical care. Yet few realize that this enduring institution was born not merely out of necessity, but as a lasting testament to the profound love and devotion a mother had for her son. That mother was Sally Drew Hall and it was her perseverance, generosity, and unwavering dedication in the face of heartbreaking tragedy that gave rise to what we now know as Dick’s House.

Throughout her life, Sarah “Sally” Drew Hall was devoted to serving the many communities she belonged to. She served as a trustee of her alma mater, Radcliffe College, as well as Boston Children’s Hospital. Beyond her institutional roles, she was also an active member of the League of Women Voters and a dedicated supporter of the American Red Cross.

But it was the sudden and tragic death of her son, Richard “Dick” Hall, in 1924 that would inspire her most enduring act of philanthropy. Dick died of polio in 1924 during his sophomore year at Dartmouth. At the time, the college lacked proper on-campus medical care, and Dick passed away far from his family in a local hospital.

In the midst of overwhelming grief, Sally and her husband, Edward K. Hall (Dartmouth Class of 1892), resolved that no other Dartmouth student should have to endure serious illness without the comfort of home and family nearby. They donated $300,000 (around $5.7 million today) to create that home and worked hand in hand with the college, sharing ideas and overseeing the project to ensure it reflected their vision.

In 1927, the year Dick was meant to graduate, Dick’s House was completed and opened its doors. Throughout its planning and construction, Sally worked closely with the architect she selected, Jens Larson, to ensure the building felt more like a residence than a hospital. She insisted on including guest rooms so that family members could stay with ill students and advocated for the hiring of a House Mother, so there would always be a comforting presence within its walls.

Once construction was complete and attention turned to the interiors, Sally truly came into her own. With a deep sense of purpose and an eye for warmth and beauty, she immersed herself in designing a space that was both functional and comforting. Her notebook (now preserved in the Rauner Special Collections Library) contains detailed plans for each room, along with swatches of wallpaper, paint samples, and handwritten notes. These materials reflect not only her aesthetic sensibilities but also her profound dedication to making Dick’s House feel less like a hospital and more like a true home.

The final cornerstone of Dick’s House was placed during a special ceremony attended by members of the Class of 1927. At the event, Sally and Edward Hall shared their vision for the building:

“This House will serve as an infirmary for Dartmouth students who are sick, as a place of recuperation for those who simply need rest and a bit of care, and for all who sojourn within its walls we hope that it will serve as a home.”

Just five years later, in 1932, Edward Hall passed away. Sally continued to oversee Dick’s House with unwavering devotion, receiving frequent letters of gratitude from students who had stayed there. In one of her own letters, she responded to a student:

“If Dick’s House has served you well both physically and spiritually, it has once more fulfilled its highest purpose and I am happy indeed.”

In 1947, twenty years after Dick’s House first opened, Sally was awarded an honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters by Dartmouth College at the commencement of the Class of 1947. Among the seven recipients that year, she was the only woman. In presenting the degree, President John Sloan Dickey called her “one of Dartmouth’s greatest ladies of all time” and praised her unrelenting commitment to the care of students through Dick’s House. Fittingly, Dickey himself would receive hospice care and pass away at Dick’s House more than four decades later.

When Sally passed away in 1949, she ensured the continued care of Dick’s House by establishing the Sally and Edward K. Hall Fund, overseen by her daughter, Dorothy Leavitt. The fund was created specifically to preserve the home-like atmosphere she had so carefully crafted from the wallpaper and furniture to the comforting library still intact today. Her son’s portrait still hangs in the lounge, and the quiet warmth she instilled in every room continues to embrace each student who walks through its doors.

Though Sally Hall was formally recognized with an honorary degree, her letters make it clear that her greatest reward was knowing that, thanks to her, generations of Dartmouth students, just like her son, would find rest, healing, and comfort in the house.

To see Sally Drew Hall's design plans for Dick's House, request MS-1370. Her correspondence can be found in Mss 003179 and ML-33, boxes 8, 9, and 10.

Posted for Caítlin Layhe Nugent '25, recipient of a Historical Accountability Student Research Fellowship for the 2025 summer term. The Historical Accountability Student Research Program provides funding for Dartmouth students to conduct research with primary sources on a topic related to issues of inclusivity and diversity in the college's past. For more information, visit the program's website.

New York, Boston, and Chicago in Costa Rica? Sounds Bananas!

Every day, when you walk into the ‘53 Commons Dining Hall — locally known as FOCO — or any other dining location at Dartmouth, you can pick one out of three choices of fruit: apples, oranges, or bananas. The latter, in particular, are displayed in an array of baskets of their own, for you to select the one you desire. The variety extends not only to the state of ripeness, but also to the brand. At least at FOCO, Dartmouth alternates between Dole and Chiquita bananas, offering one brand on some days and the other on the next.

Dartmouth’s connections to these fruits extend beyond their availability within dining locations. Victor Cutter, one of the college's beloved Trustees and Alumni, was president of the United Fruit Company, the corporation that became Chiquita. Cutter, a Dartmouth ‘03 and Tuck ‘04, took a job as a timekeeper for the United Fruit Company in Costa Rica shortly after graduating. He quickly began to rise within the ranks of the Company, landing a promotion that placed him as the superintendent of the Costa Rican Zent division, located in the Province of Limón.

The United Fruit Company is notoriously known for its monopolistic and exploitative operations in Latin America. The company left behind a legacy of environmental degradation, labor abuses, and political interference in the region, as the United States profited at the expense of local workers and governments. Cutter’s personal collection, housed at Rauner, is firsthand evidence of such.

One compelling artifact is a leather-bound collection of maps of the UFCO’s properties in Costa Rica, which Cutter saved from his time as superintendent in Costa Rica, carefully preserved for around a century. These maps are detailed cartographic records of United Fruit’s landholdings in the country, with delineations of the different farms, existing railroad crossings, and even projected railroad lines, as the company sought to tighten its grip on Central American transportation networks.

Strikingly, individual farms are labeled New York, Boston, and Chicago—names of U.S. cities imposed onto a foreign land. This naming was not merely administrative. It reflects a deeper form of colonial capitalist thinking: that Costa Rica could be transformed into an extension of U.S. commercial and cultural space. The land was not only used, but renamed, repurposed, and reimagined to serve corporate interests.

The railroad system, in particular, was a key tool of United Fruit’s monopoly. In Costa Rica, as in other countries where it operated, the company owned and controlled the very infrastructure that allowed bananas to be exported, often to the detriment of national sovereignty. Railways were designed not to connect Costa Rican communities, but to move bananas efficiently from the plantation to the port.

To this day, that legacy of corporate colonialism remains visible. Incredibly, some locations in Costa Rica still bear the names given to UFC-owned farms. Boston and New York remain identifiable on modern maps of the Limón region, corresponding precisely to locations recorded in United Fruit’s internal documents. The names that once served as internal waypoints for corporate logistics have, in some cases, become permanent fixtures of local geography—reminders of a time when a U.S. company could redraw the map of a sovereign nation to mirror its own.

Cutter's maps of Boston Farm and New York farm overlaid onto the modern Google Maps satellite image. The corresponding areas are still labeled "Boston" and "Nueva York."

To take a look at these maps, come to Rauner and request MS-63, Box 2, Folder 7, or see what else is in Victor Cutter's papers.

Posted for Alejandra Sequeira Argüello '27, recipient of a Historical Accountability Student Research Fellowship for the 2025 summer term. The Historical Accountability Student Research Program provides funding for Dartmouth students to conduct research with primary sources on a topic related to issues of inclusivity and diversity in the college's past. For more information, visit the program's website.

Summer Exhibit: Let the Old Traditions Fail

Rauner's current exhibit, "Let the Old Traditions Fail: Persistence of Feminist and Queer Life At Dartmouth in the Twentieth Century" was designed by the students in Professor Matthew Ritger’s ENGL 61.03/WGSS 66.20 class, "Early Modern Literature and the History of Sexuality." Throughout the quarter, the students explored academic debates over the history of sex and gender, the relationship between identity formation and sexual orientation, and the difference between representations of these issues in literary/dramatic texts and legal/institutional archives. The course was focused on early modern England - the age of writers such as William Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe, Margaret Cavendish, and Katherine Philips. In their exhibit, the students dove into Dartmouth's own archives to see how these dynamics and debates manifested in a different time and place, and in a unique institutional archive.

As the student curators explored the history of feminist campus publications such as Spare Rib and Inner Bitch, or Dartmouth's history of cross-dressed performance before coeducation, or the institutional panic in the face of a growing community of queer students at Dartmouth in the 1920s, they found striking continuities, stark differences, and many fascinating stories. Throughout the records of twentieth century Dartmouth, there remains evidence of the close relationship between literature, drama, and daring acts of self-expression that challenged the "old traditions" of gender and sexuality and defied the narrow definition of "the Dartmouth man" still retained by many aspects of campus culture. Despite facing expulsion and violent threats of repression from so many directions, queer and feminist life has persisted on campus in unexpected ways.

This exhibit is on display from July 9th through September during the Summer 2025 term.