To Those Who See

We're all terrifically glad that spring is here for real, and so we would like to share a lovely book that celebrates the signs of the season. Michigan artist Gwen Frostic's To Those Who See (1965) is our pick this week, a little volume of poetry and linocut prints highlighting scenes familiar in the Upper Valley like uncurling fiddleheads and red-winged blackbirds.

Frostic (1906-2001) is known for her nature-inspired printing, but she worked primarily in the metal arts during the early part of her career, running her own shop. That changed with the onset of World War II as metal became too precious to manufacturing to be used for art. With the closure of her shop, she joined the war effort by working in a factory that produced military aircrafts. But in search of a new medium, she landed on linoleum.

In addition to creating block prints on linoleum, Frostic bought and learned to operate a letterpress. Her own shop, Presscraft Papers, was born. It's the same press that produced our copy of To Those Who See some twenty years later. If you're as excited about the spring as we are, we recommend coming in to look at this little piece of a decades-long artistic career.

To see To Those Who See (ha), request Presses P925fto online and then pay us a visit.

Mitten: It's a Verb Too!

One of the great joys of working at Rauner is the pleasure of unexpected discoveries. You're looking into a person or event when you stumble across something entirely unrelated that proves fascinating in its own right. That's what happened not long ago as our staff researched Thomas Flint, Jr., Dartmouth Class of 1880, whose notebook Rauner recently added to our collections. Our archivist, intending to learn more about Flint, instead found herself delving into an entirely unfamiliar practice: "mittening."

Wait, how'd that happen? Well, Rauner maintains a collection of the class reports, class histories, and reunion books of each graduating class. It was while thumbing through the "Freshman History" of Flint's Class of 1880 that our intrepid archivist came across the following: "A certain young lady of Hanover was heard to remark, 'I have mittened Service, Jake, the Quarter, and in fact I have mittened nearly half the Freshman class.' That is hard on Balaam, for they do say that next to studying he hates women above all things. She didn't mitten Jake the night he walked her home away from the Senior." 

Having never seen "mitten" used as a verb, our archivist was intrigued. "Mittening" seemed to relate to courting practices, but its exact meaning remained unclear. Luckily, another source at Rauner provided a useful clue. In the poem "To Phyllis" (from the volume Echoes from the Sabine Farm), Eugene Field wrote the following:

"Hoc docet (as you must agree)
‘Tis meet that Phyllis should discover
A wisdom in preferring me,
And mittening every other lover."

Mittening, then, meant the opposite of desiring a lover–it meant rejecting them. So the "certain young lady of Hanover" who bragged about mittening half the freshmen in the Class of 1880 was trumpeting the number of men whose overtures she had denied.

But why did mittens, of all things, signify rejection? The Century Dictionary and Cyclopedia (1897) enlightens us: "To get the mitten, to receive only the mitten, instead of the hand; be refused as a lover" (p. 3805).

Thoroughly delighted by this unexpected etymological excursion, our archivist returned to the original subject of her research.

If you're interested in Thomas Flint's notebook, which has rules relating to senior societies at Dartmouth, request Codex 003539 online and then stop by!

Oh, the Glory of it All!

When the second edition of The American Gazetteer came out in London in 1762, it was a pretty quiet event. There was nothing really new, just a three-volume compendium of statistics, descriptions of fortifications, notes on natural and political history, some nice maps, and other factual tidbits concerning the new world. But somehow it inspired an Italian printer who decided it was worth translating and embellishing. Suddenly it was a lavish production perfect for the arm-chair colonialist. From the comfort of a nice Italian villa, a gentleman could tour the Americas in all of their glory.

It is worth your time to stop by and take a look--and then think about how the Italians were thinking about the English thinking about the Americas! Ask for Il Gazzettiere Americano, Rare E14 .A54 1763. 

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.