Flypaper

One day in France in 1905, a tiny tragedy occurred. A small fly, attracted to a delicious pool of water, got too close to the surface, fell in, and drowned. Like the proverbial tree in the forest, the death of this insect made no sound and would have likely escaped all human attention if not for one thing: this was no ordinary pool of water. This was a papermaker's vat. Following its untimely death, the fly's body was mixed into the slurry of water and paper fibers in the vat, a thin layer of which was then left to dry on a wire screen, becoming a piece of handmade paper.

We discovered this poor creature on the title page of a book of printer's ornaments, titled Flosculi Sententiarum: Printers Flowers Moralised. At first, it wasn't clear how it met its demise. Did it get squished during the printing process? Did a reader close the book on it? Or was it part of the paper? Using a cheap pocket microscope and phone camera attachment, we examined the page and were able to see paper fibers clearly lying over the corpse of the fly, indicating that it had fallen in during the paper-making process. A second fly appears to have met the same fate later in the book.

According to the colophon, Flosculi Sententiarum was produced in 1967 by the Gehenna Press, a well-known fine press, using paper made in 1905 and bought by a dealer in 1959. Fine press bookmakers like Leonard Baskin at Gehenna are known for their fastidiousness and high aesthetic standards, so it is somewhat of a mystery why they would have used paper with a dead bug in it, and on the title page no less. Perhaps they felt it added character.

                                    

To view the book, bugs and all, request Presses G274basf online and then come to our reading room.

Crossing Lines

John Martin Mecklin, Class of 1939, traveled a lot. A few years after graduating from Dartmouth, he became a correspondent for the Chicago Sun in Europe, sending regular eyewitness accounts of developments in the war. After World War II, he continued as a reporter in Italy. Later he would have posts in Paris and in Saigon but today we're looking at one very specific achievement in world travel. On May 31st 1955, while flying from Singapore to Jakarta, Mecklin crossed the equator.

We know Mecklin did this because there's a certificate in his papers to that effect, reading "KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS THAT John Martin Mecklin borne on the wings of the PH-LDG, a Flying Dutchman of KLM, Royal Dutch Airlines, has had the distinction of crossing the Equator." The certificate is illustrated with Aeolus, the ruler of winds in Greek mythology, sending an airplane and a ship on their way.

Documented as early as the 17th century, line-crossing ceremonies are a variety of folk practice surrounding the first time someone, typically a sailor, crosses the equator. They can range from entirely anodyne to outright hazing and assault. This is a funny commercial example from the '50s -- one imagines there couldn't have been much of a ceremony onboard the plane itself, but the airline clearly found it worthwhile to produce and distribute personalized certificates for its eligible passengers.

To see this and other travel souvenirs, request ML-28 Box 2 Folder 10.

16 Pages of Revolution

Well, we just managed to acquire something we always thought would be out of reach, but here it is, joining the collections, shaming everything around it for being too weak and mealy-mouthed. Despite its humble printing and ephemeral appearance, this is a document of revolution--a document not afraid to call out the oppressors and fight for rights. It is the 1848 Report of the Woman's Rights Convention held at Seneca Falls, N.Y., July 19th and 20th, 1848 printed by the local printer in Rochester. Who knew how important this little pamphlet would become?

We have a great edition of the first American printing of Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. It lays out the principles, but it was Seneca Falls that turned women's rights in American into a political movement with structure and purpose. We can't wait to set them side by side in a classroom and see what happens! Added bonus, it appears to be a presentation copy from Elizabeth Cady Stanton!

You don't have to have a big fancy book to change the world--come see by asking for Rare JK1885 1848d no. 1.

 

Anti-Japanese Discrimination in the Dartmouth Broadcasting System

December 7, 1941 changed a lot for many in the United States, especially students of the draft age, but perhaps none experienced uncertainty and fear quite like Takanobu Mitsui '43, a Dartmouth student from Japan. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the College was transformed into a training site for the U.S. Navy, and for many Mitsui represented an enemy on home soil. His nationality and race impacted him throughout the rest of his Dartmouth career.

On July 3, 1942, President Ernest Martin Hopkins received a letter from a Dartmouth community member informing him of Mitsui's involvement with the Dartmouth Broadcasting System (DBS). John H. Shaw wrote, “While none of us who know Nobu would be inclined to have any question about the matter, the coming of a Naval unit to Hanover would almost inevitably cause doubt and criticism and in all probability protest if Nobu was associated with the DBS in any way. Consequently, I think it highly expedient for him to have anything to do with broadcasting or even to be around the offices of the DBS.”

Mitsui was a physics major and had joined the club to get practice working with the technical side of the DBS. He took a class on the subject with Professor Willis Rayton, and in his own words was appreciated by the other members of the organization for his work installing a new transmitter. But that didn't matter in wartime. Mitsui was Japanese and came from a prominent Japanese zaibatsu family. Working in radio—which was especially susceptible to espionage and tampering—was not allowed.

Mitsui wrote to President Hopkins regrettably but willingly accepting the request to abandon the DBS. He wrote on July 6, “I fully realize the situation, and have decided to withdraw from the organization at least officially.”

Mitsui, who was the target of race-based judgements himself, was forced to apologize for pursuing extracurricular interests. He wrote, “I should have been wise enough to keep myself out of DBS; in fact I have always been conscious of the fact that I was taking a rather heavy risk.” Other Dartmouth students could easily work in radio; for him, because of his race and nationality, it was a risk.

Mitsui expressed his desire to work with the DBS in an unofficial capacity. “It may not be helped,” he wrote, “if they come to me for advices and assistance on technical matters.” DBS clearly meant something to him: “I have been getting acquainted with some of the nicest fellows there at DBS, and it has been a very good practical experience for me to work with them. I have seen the most interesting part of the growth of this young and promising organization, in fact, I have had my own little share of it.” He didn't want to leave, but his own respect for President Hopkins, the College, and DBS led him to give up a passion.

President Hopkins was sympathetic to Mitsui, and certainly didn't suspect him of nefarious motives. He was sure that Mitsui had “not intended to do anything that would in any way be detrimental to the College or that would lead to misjudgement of the relationship between the College and yourself.” College leadership supported Mitsui throughout his time in Hanover. They helped him deal with immigration authorities and provided him with funds while he was cut off from his family in Japan.

Still, public sentiment and government suspicion broke through Hopkins's trust. Hopkins wrote that it was “very wise that [Mitsui] should have decided to withdraw from the organization of DBS.” Hanover was the homefront, and as a training site Dartmouth was effectively a place of war. Mitsui faced relentless suspicion, both from federal authorities and the students and community members whom he called neighbors.

Mitsui's exclusion from the Dartmouth Broadcasting System is a reminder that racist and xenophobic suspicion during the Second World War extended beyond obvious sources. He wasn't allowed to participate in a student club, despite there being no evidence of any wrongdoing. For Mitsui, participation in an innocent hobby turned into a perceived threat to national security.

To read these correspondences from Mitsui and Hopkins, request DP-11 Box 7046, Folder 17.

Posted for Dalton Swenson '26, recipient of a Historical Accountability Student Research Fellowship for the 2025 winter 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.

The Family that Reads Together

It has long been known that reading aloud confers numerous benefits upon not only the reader but the listeners. Doing so can expand the vocabulary of the reader and the listeners as well as strengthen the bond between them and spark creativity and imagination. In young children, reading aloud can help them lengthen their attention spans, improve their listening skills, and stimulate cognitive development. Reading aloud, especially within the context of a family, allows children and adults who aren't literate the chance to hear stories and gain knowledge that they otherwise would not be able to access.

In our society today, we are fortunate to have access to any number of texts, whether because of the ubiquity of digital content online or local public libraries. But several hundred years ago a book was a precious commodity whose cost was beyond the means of most working-class people, and texts were regularly passed down as heirlooms from one generation to the next. If a family in19th-century America was fortunate enough to own even one book, it was probably a Bible. And so if the members of a family in 19th-century America read aloud to each other, it was probably from the family Bible.

However, this could potentially pose a problem. Christian parents may have wanted their young children to read aloud from the word of God, but they didn't necessarily want them to read every word aloud. Sex and violence abound in the Old Testament, in particular, and it is hard to think of anything worse than having to explain to little Timmy what "loins" are during a family read-a-thon. Thankfully, in 1809 Mark Coffin wrote and distributed his Index to the Bible, an indispensable tool for parents seeking to avoid "considerable embarrassment" from the inadvertent reading aloud of "expressions rather improper to be read in mixed company". Coffin bravely spent months combing through the Bible in order to identify and document every unseemly word. His resulting index flagged every questionable chapter so that parents could relax during their children's nightly reading from the Holy Scripture. As you might have guessed, the entire Song of Solomon is a no-go.

To reverse-engineer an exhaustive list of naughty Bible verses, come to Rauner and ask to see Chapbook 51A.

The World's Fair and the (Display) Case of the Missing Manuscript

1876 was a critical juncture in the country’s history. 100 years after the Declaration of Independence and a mere eleven years after the Civil War, racial and regional tensions ran deep, shaping the celebrations and the future of the nation’s identity. Philadelphia’s Centennial International Exhibition of 1876, the first official world’s fair held in the United States, was at the center of these disputes. Attended by nearly one-fifth of the U.S. population, the exposition served as a stage for collective memory, pride, and underlying discord.

While my research was initially intended to look at the centennial year as a whole, I eventually chose to focus on Dartmouth’s unique connection to the Centennial International Exhibition. The Rauner Library’s incredible collection provided me with a unique link to this historic event. Using Dartmouth as a focal point allowed me to explore the broader tensions of the centennial on a more personal, localized level, while also giving me insight into the administrative effort required to organize such a monumental fair.

Pictured here is the title page and index to an otherwise missing historical sketch of Dartmouth College, commissioned by the Bureau of Education for an exhibit at the fair. It was prepared by John King Lord, Dartmouth class of 1868 and faculty member. Similar sketches were requested from a variety of educational institutions and many of them still exist in full today. However, despite letters discussing plans to print 300 copies of Dartmouth’s sketch, a complete copy of Lord’s work does not exist.

If the index is presumed to be accurate there were over 150 pages of text. This, in conjunction with the College’s thorough communication with the Bureau of Education and the existence of sketches from other schools, hint at the massive effort required to prepare for the exposition — both public officials and private individuals like Lord worked to make the Centennial International Exhibition shine.

My favorite part of this project was definitely my time in the Rauner Library. Trying to read 19th-century cursive and combing through old editions of The Dartmouth gave me a new appreciation for the intricacies of archival research — it’s an amazing experience to conduct research on such a tangible level. If you’re curious about Dartmouth’s connection to the centennial, please stop by Rauner and check out the exhibit "Dartmouth at the Nation's Centennial"!

Posted for Madeline Fisher ‘27

P. S. If you miss the exhibit, you can always come in and ask to see the John King Lord papers (MS-562).

"Pretty Thoroughly Browned Off"

We've posted in the past about the 1945 controversy over Dartmouth President Ernest Hopkins' comments regarding Jewish quotas in college admissions. This week we ran into the thoughts of one alum in particular. John Martin Mecklin, Class of 1939, became a war correspondent in Europe in the last years of World War II, and his letters make for some pretty stupendous reading. Not one to mince words, Mecklin says that Hopkins' words have him "pretty thoroughly browned off":

"I had been aware, of course, that there was such a policy, but to say so for publication showed incredibly bad taste. In thinking about the thing it has occurred to me that Dartmouth never has made its position very clear on exactly what it represents. I'm tempted to reply to the next appeal for donations to the alumni fund simply by mailing them a clipping of the president's remarks. As a matter of fact this clinches something I've been considering for a long time---that if I ever have a son I won't send him to Dartmouth. 

There's no place in the world today for an educational institution unwilling to face the fact that an entire new philosophy of life has been born in this war. I don't know what Dartmouth is doing about the war and revisions in its curriculum---nothing has been said about that in any of the alumni communications I've seen---but I'm skeptical that it will be big enough to face the challenge. This war and its terrible climax in the atomic bomb has put before us the simple choice of making the values we say we represent stand up or of suicide. I didn't learn about values in Dartmouth, not the ones that count and I'm beginning to suspect the learning simply wasn't available there.

I didn't understand freedom of speech, for instance, until I came over here and saw what happens when it doesn't exist. I learned about equality of opportunity in Germany, not in Dartmouth. I learned about economics in starving Berlin, not in Hanover. Perhaps it's impossible to understand such things as a student, but I don't think you have to be as dismally ignorant as I was. Of this I'm certain: the war caught Dartmouth 100% unprepared either for it or its repercussions. Will Dartmouth be caught unprepared for the peace in the same way? Hopkins' latest pronouncement certainly indicates that the answer is yes."

This is in a letter to his parents, by the way. The updates Mecklin sends home during his time as a war correspondent are filled with thoughts along these lines, a combination of sharp observations about other people alongside seemingly unaware references to his own prejudices. After all, to him the quotas weren't an issue until acknowledged publicly.

To read this and other letters, ask for ML-28 Box 2 Folder 24.