Oldest Living Graduate
Zeeb Gilman '63, of Redlands, California, Greeting His One Hundredth Year This Month
FOR A HECTIC few days, it looked as though Dartmouth's oldest living alumnus would graduate from Brown.
In the spring of 1863 the Confederate Army was fighting its way uncomfortably close to Washington. Zeeb Gilman, then a senior at Hanover, and several of his classmates volunteered for service. For some forgotten reason New Hampshire refused to accept them, but the Governor of Rhode Island looked at matters differently, and this Dartmouth group served out the war under Rhode Island colors.
In June these young men were given leave and returned for Commencement. But Dartmouth refused to grant their degrees, perhaps in the granite academic tradition of those days that such an action would extend a false guarantee of learning. A Captain Burr took up their fight and built it into something of a cause celfebre, with the result that Brown invited the whole group to accept degrees from her. Fortunately for all concerned, Dartmouth reconsidered, and Zeeb Gilman is therefore our oldest living graduate in name as well as in fact. He will be 99 on May 13.
He is also the oldest living member of Tri Kap, and the oldest living graduate of Columbia Physicians and Surgeons College, distinctions which he wears without perceptible weight. Rounding the turn into his one hundredth year, calling him a "typical Dartmouth man" compliments the College as much as it does Mr. Gilman himself.
An affable, alert old gentleman, he is of average height and rather stocky build. He stands quite erect and dresses trimly in the old school manner; his skin is a healthy pink and white, his white mustache is clipped close, and altogether he gives an impression much more of the contemporary than the patriarch.
Zeeb Gilman is a living reassurance to those who fear the inroads of age. He laughs heartily and often. His mind is rapid and crisp; in fact, he peels names, dates and places from his excellent memory with such concise facility as to confound the pencils of his interviewers. Mellow and phlegmatic on the whole, he is nevertheless given to pungent flashes of dry humor, his comments usually delivered with a wry smile indicative of some hidden depth to which the listener is not admitted.
His general health is good, his hearing is very fair, and though his eyesight isn't as good as it was he refuses to be upset about it. In fact, his family has a right to resent him on one count. A man of that venerable age ought to have to take pretty good care of himself, but at Christmas time when the family tops off the evening with mince pie and coffee, everybody tosses in penance all night but Mr. Gilman, who sleeps like a top.
All of which becomes quite natural upon the disclosure that a double dose of New Hampshire granite runs in his veins. He was born 23 miles up the Lyme road from Hanover, in Piermont. The town used to have 26 houses, 2 stores and a blacksmith shop. He says it hasn't changed much except that two houses have fallen down.
He prepared at Kimball Union Academy—which seems to have been Dartmouth's school in those days—and entered college in 1859 at the age of 18. There were then five fraternities: Tri Kap, Zeta Psi, Delta Kappa, Alpha Delt, and Psi U. Around the campus, to which he refers as "the Commons," were grouped Dartmouth, Reed, Thornton and Webster Halls; also the Gates house where Mr. Gilman lived.
This last would probably now be taken up by the picture magazines as an experiment in communal collegiate living, for a group of undergraduates clubbed together to rent the place and hire a housekeeper to do the work and cooking. They lived quite comfortably on as little as $1.25 a week, which is something to think about.
Tri Kap occupied a small box-like structure, which was used only for meetings. The Goat was then more than a symbol; a wooden affair built on the lines of a sawhorse and placed on greased runners. The blindfolded young Gilman mounted it for his initiation, subsequently being rushed into the wall with great force and even greater surprise.
The curriculum consisted principally of Greek, Latin, Moral Philosophy, Mathematics and Physics. Very little stress was laid on the modern languages, not excluding English, in the conviction that facility in them would come readily to any student who had been well grounded in Latin and Greek. Mr. Gilman doesn't worry particularly about it, but he does feel that today's curriculum relaxes a little too much on the classics. He was delighted to hear that close contact is still maintained between faculty and students.
The town barber in those days had a wife who was exceptionally adept at cooking chicken, and there developed a local custom that the young gentlemen would steal chickens from the coops of the faculty, place the loot in a barrel outside the barber's residence, and turn up the next day for dinner. One dark night two undergraduates who were conducting the necessary preliminaries in the coop belonging to President Lord, fell into a dispute as to which of the expropriated fowl should bear the Lord family names of William and Betsey.
A third party, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, and whose very presence was up to that moment unsuspected, attempted to join the discussion and settle the controversy. The young men were surprised to find that it was President Lord himself. They thrust the recently deceased chickens into his hands and fled without ceremony.
Next day both received invitations to the President's house. Entering in fear and trembling, they were asked to sit with the family at dinner. The atmosphere was definitely strained until President Lord proffered a second helping of the main dish, with the comment, "Do have a little more of Betsey!" Mr. Gilman refuses to admit that he was one of the young gentlthe incident very, very well.
Of his group of 55 men who saw service in the war between the States there were 5 captains, 2 majors and a colonels. It is his recollection that this was the largest delegation percentage-wise to enter the war from any one college. He himself was discharged at the end of hostilities with the rank of Quartermaster Sergeant. His early service was in the office of the Provost Marshal General's office at Washington, and he consequently saw a good deal of and had some dealings with Generals Sherman, Sheridan, Halleck, Custer, Meade and Grant. Later he transferred to the Cavalry on active service.
A highlight is his memory of standing guard one day outside Lincoln's office. The great man passed him for the first time. Mr. Gilman became so flustered that he juggled his gun, and ended by saluting with the piece backward. The understanding Lincoln was sufficiently amused to give him a smile and a personal word. In connection with his later duties he saw Lincoln often, with the far-reaching result that his daughter, Miss Eunice Gilman, with whom he lives, is constantly approached by parents who want their children to shake the hand that shook Lincoln's.
Following his discharge he went to Columbia and took his M.D. there in '67. Incidentally, this required only two semesters of medical training, at the completion of which he was certified as ready to go out and wield the knife. Settling in Ackley, lowa, he worked in a drug store and practiced his profession on the side. His proficiency with obstetrical cases resulted in too intimate an acquaintance with lowa winter traveling conditions, so he moved to nearby Remsen and entered the lumber and coal business.* He sold that out some years later, apparently having done, well, and came to California in 1890, settling in Redlands, a quiet city in the citrus-growing valley which stretches inland from Los Angeles. He still lives there with his daughter; and his sister, Mrs. M. W. Hill, lives nearby.
He has lived rather an easy-going life in California, not engaging in any particular line of business. He does, however, remember one deal with wry clarity. He and some friends set up a concession with the Mexican government for fishing in Magdalena
* Accounting for the change, at that time, from "Dr." to "Mr." Gilman.
Bay. They lined up the equipment, got everything set, and accumulated a boatload of fish, only to discover that nobody seem to want them very much. He doesn't remember what became of the fish.
Of course, no interview with the oldest living alumnus could be complete without the old question, "To what do you attribute your longevity?" Unfortunately for aspirants to his title, Mr. Gilman doesn't attribute it to anything in particular. He doesn't drink or smoke and never has, but he has no strong feelings about these habits; simply feels they do no good and may do harm. Undoubtedly the justly publicized Southland climate can claim part of the credit, for his garden is pleasant and warm and quiet the year round, and he sits there in the sun a lot.
But just as a speculation, his longevity might be attributed to his temperament. For he is phlegmatic and calm and always has been, with an easy-going disposition and a worry-free mind, never fussing over spilt milk and always taking things as they come.
And that is Zeeb Gilman '63, Dartmouth's oldest living alumnus, enjoying a mellow old age and the satisfactions which come from a job of living well done. Perhaps we should title him the "most envied alumnus" as well.
ZEEB GILMAN '63 His 99th birthday is May 13.
