"The Inside Story of the Nobile Tragedy"

"It is too soon to state anything definite as regards imperialistic Italy's undertaking to acquire a halo of scientific ardor and exploring enterprise by sending a crowd of southerners, accustomed to sun and heat, up to the cold, ethereal tracts of storm, ice, fog, and snow." This is how Swedish journalist Knut Stubbendorff begins his "Inside Story" on the 1928 crash of the airship Italia as it returned south from the North Pole. Stubbendorff may say that it's too soon, but the disdain in his opener is clear. His is only one of many pieces on the disaster found in Umberto Nobile's papers here at Rauner Library.

Nobile (1885-1978) was an enthusiast of semi-rigid airships, which he both designed and piloted. In 1926, he flew the airship Norge, along with expedition leader Roald Amundsen and a small crew, successfully over the North Pole, possibly the first to do so. His next ship, Italia, was a different story.

Italia made three trips, with Nobile acting as expedition leader and pilot, exploring different parts of the Arctic in May of 1928. The third flight reached the Pole as planned early on May 24th, circled for a time, and then started back. Over the next several hours, bad weather and ensuing equipment problems made the ship's situation increasingly dire until a crash into the ice became inevitable. The impact killed one crew member instantly and tore the ship's gondola from its envelope. The envelope began to rise again at the loss of weight, carrying away six men who would never be found. The remaining nine, many injured, were trapped on the ice.

The rescue of the Italia survivors involved many efforts by multiple countries and there were more deaths to come, including that of one of the crash survivors and those of Roald Amundsen and a crew of five others trying to reach the stranded men by plane. It took until July 13th for all survivors to be retrieved, including various would-be rescuers who became stuck during their own missions. As Stubbeddorff's article may suggest, there was significant controversy over assigning blame for the tragedy and you can read all about it here.

If you're interested in trying to sort out the various accounts yourself, ask for the Umberto Nobile papers,Stef Mss-113.

Awe-some Bibles

This week the New York Times published an article about how experiencing awe might be good for your mental and physical health. Well, we just acquired a few awe-inspiring books if you want to get a dose of this wonder drug: a first printing of the King James Bible from 1611; and a copy of the “Aitken Bible,” from 1782, the first English Language bible printed in America. It is hard to overstate the importance of the King James Bible to the religious lives of the English-speaking world, but also to its literary and cultural realms. Setting this book next to our copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio from 1623, you can see the sources for so many of the common idioms of the English language, as well as understand the literary significance of this translation. Similarly, when it's placed next to our first printings of the Geneva Bible and the Great Bible, you can see the development of the Protestant Reformation in England. It is a truly monumental work.

The Aitken Bible, so much smaller in stature, has a great story behind it. Great Britain had a monopoly on English-language Bibles in its colonies, but the Revolutionary War cut off the supply and the warring colonies found themselves with a shortage of Bibles. So, in 1781, Robert Aitken petitioned the Continental Congress to allow him to print a Bible. The book, issued as a defiant act of independence, helps us better understand the publishing world in colonial America, but also helps situate our copy of the earlier Eliot Bible (the first Bible printed in the new world, notable because it is a translation into an Indigenous language and was printed nearly 120 years before the Aitken Bible) as the unique artifact that it is. 

To be awed ask for the King James Bible at Rare BS185 1611 and the Aitken Bible at Rare BS185 1782 .P5.

Friends and Fellow-Culprits

"Cheer up folks, here we are again, with the prow of Good Ship Earth in darkest shadow." So begins a small card from Benton MacKaye celebrating the 1939 Winter Solstice. The MacKaye Family papers include a set of four such cards, dated from 1937 to 1940. In each, Benton writes a brief but florid missive to his "friends and fellow-culprits," half description of the Old Sol's movements and half update on the goings-on of his life. 

Today is the shortest day of the year and so we'll be quick as well. If you want to read Benton's funny little cards, ask for Box 192 of the MacKaye Family papers (ML-5). Until next time, Happy Solstice and we'll see you in the New Year!

Hanukkah Hijinks

This Sunday marks the first night of Hanukkah, a Jewish festival that lasts for eight nights and days. The festival celebrates the Jewish people's liberation of Jerusalem from the Seleucid Empire of Syria and the rededication of the Temple in 164 BCE. Upon regaining the Temple, the Maccabees discovered that all of the ritual olive oil had been profaned except for one sealed jar. Although that jar contained only enough oil to keep the menorah lit for a single day, the flames miraculously burned for eight continuous days, long enough to prepare more oil. Using a shamash, or "helper candle," one candle is lit on each night of the eight-day festival until all nine candles glow brightly on the last evening. The menorah is usually placed in a window or other location of high visibility, because its light is meant to remind those who see it of the miracle of Hanukkah.

Here at Rauner, we are preemptively celebrating Hanukkah by reading through our copy of Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins, a wonderfully illustrated children's book written by Eric Kimmel and illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman of Lyme, New Hampshire. This charming rendition of an old Jewish folktale received the distinction of being a Caldecott Honor Book in 1990; it recounts how Herschel of Ostropol outwitted a motley pack of goblins who were preventing a small village from celebrating Hanukkah. The titular character, who appears in several Yiddish folktales, is believed to be based on an actual person who lived in western Ukraine in the 1800s. To look through this beautiful edition of an enduring tale, come to Rauner and ask to see Illus H997kih.

Maxfield Parrish's Palette

Earlier this week, or perhaps it was last week, we had the good fortune to witness a beautiful sunset while walking out onto the Green. The radiant pink and purple clouds were stunning with the blue sky behind them, and it brought to mind the color palette of a certain painter and illustrator who lived and died in Plainfield, New Hampshire, only a dozen miles or so from the Dartmouth campus. Maxfield Parrish was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in 1870; he was raised in a Quaker society and attended Haverford College, like any good Pennsylvania Quaker should. He then attended the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts and studied under Howard Pyle at the Drexel Institute of Art, Science, & Industry.

In 1898, Parrish and his wife moved to Plainfield, where he became an
important member of the Cornish Art Colony. Famous sculptor Augustus Saint-Gaudens was at the center of this gathering of artists and other creatives, which at times swelled to nearly one hundred people in size. After Saint-Gaudens died in 1907, the colony slowly dissolved. However, the Upper Valley had clearly made an impression on Parrish. He continued on in New Hampshire until 1966 when he died here at the ripe old age of 95.

 

Parrish was a wildly successful illustrator for over fifty years and the Upper Valley was his muse. Whenever we step outside and behold the glory of another New Hampshire/Vermont sunset, we always feel a kinship with him and, perhaps, that same sense of awe that he first felt upon settling here. Come to Rauner if you want to stumble upon even more stunning vistas within the Maxfield Parrish papers (ML-62).

Predicting the Plague (and curing it!)

In 1652, one of London's most successful and esteemed physicians turned his attentions to the heavens to ponder the total eclipse of the sun that occurred on March 29. Nicholas Culpeper was one of those "gentlemen scientists" of the day. He dabbled in everything, because in his worldview, everything was connected and part of God's plan. So the blocking out of the sun, even though he could offer a clear scientific explanation, was still cause for concern--especially in London in the mid 1600s.

Just three years earlier, Charles the I was executed. Everything was turned on its head, and something big was afoot. Culpeper deduced that the eclipse heralded the second coming, so he wrote a pamphlet explaining the eclipse and issuing his dire warnings. Among his many predictions were a great plague and a fire. He got that right, but he was a little quick on the trigger. In 1665 London was hit by the Black Plague, and the following year, ravaged by the Great Fire.

As a physician, Culpeper was ready to help. He died in 1654, but he left behind a truly bizarre cure for the plague that you can read about here.

To read about the eclipse and its threats, ask for Nicholas Culpeper's Catastrophe magnatum: or, The Fall of the Monarchie. A Caveat to Magistrates, Deduced from the Eclipse of the Sunne, March 29 1652 (London: T. Vere and Nathe, 1652).

Thankful, But Not Sentimental

Of all of the many amazing collections that we are fortunate to have here in Special Collections, I think that my favorite is the treasure trove of numerous student letters written to home from Dartmouth. Today, while hunting about for a Thanksgiving-related item to blog about, I found a charming little collection of letters written by Richard "Dick" Campen, member of the class of 1934. Campen was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio, and so going home for Thanksgiving every year wasn't really an option.

Luckily, Campen had an Aunt Lil and Uncle Abe who lived in Hartford, Connecticut, and so one year he went down to stay with them for the holiday. In a letter written to his parents November 27, 1930, Campen says that he had piled into a Chrysler sedan with "six other fellows going to New York." On the drive down, the students passed numerous other cars "packed to the rumble seat" with Dartmouth students also headed home for Thanksgiving.

Campen's description of his time at his relatives' home is charming, and he clearly valued many of the same sorts of creature comforts that students today celebrate upon returning to their families for a break from school. He raves about the food, whether a "tasty plate" of lamb chops, a glass of "precious" orange juice, or "scarce" boiled eggs. In particular, Thanksgiving dinner was delicious: turkey, cranberries, and "all the rest." Over dinner, he chatted with a guest who was a student at Williams College about the similarities and differences at their respective educational institutions. Ultimately, he decided that the Williams student was a "nice fellow."

In closing, Campen says, "I'm very thankful for everything, but I don't want to bore you with a lot of sentiment." Like him, we're thankful for so many things about Dartmouth, mostly the students, faculty, and staff who all strive to make it an even better place in the future while not getting overly sentimental about its past.

To read Campen's letters, come to Special Collections and ask to see MS-685.