by Charly Mann

Edwin W. Fuller was a student at UNC from 1864 to 1867, and in his great, but largely forgotten, autobiographical novel the Sea-Gift (published in 1873) provides the first literary description about student life at the University of North Carolina. He was from Louisburg, a small town about 70 miles northeast of Chapel Hill, and was only 16 when he started at Carolina.

The 1873 original cover of the first edition of Edwin W. Fuller's Sea-Gift novel

What follows is a slightly edited excerpt from the novel that describes what it was like to be a UNC freshman at Chapel Hill in 1864. I think you will see that male UNC students have not changed much in 150 years. It is also interesting to see that owning a particular type of horse then had the equivalent status that a sports cars might have today.

We all talked pleasantly together during the few minutes it took the train to reach Durham. Getting off there we found a number of hacks waiting to convey us to Chapel Hill. There were many others going there, so we hastened to secure the best hack, and were soon jogging over that worst of roads. My friend Carrover secured a seat in another vehicle, but gave it up to a lady and child, and took a place with us.

We stopped only once to cool our horses under some large trees by a well, when Carrover opened his travelling case, and taking out a silver flask offered it first to Ned and myself. We both declined, but I found that, in this my first temptation, it was difficult to refuse, so afraid was I of seeming boyish. The other three all complimented its contents and became fully inebriated.

We finally reined up at a hotel in Chapel Hill and found the steps thronged with the Sophomores waiting for the hacks to bring in their victims. As soon as we got out we were surrounded by a score of them, all leering in our faces and yelling "Fresh! Fresh!" as if they had the article to sell.
With most impudent effrontery they gathered around us, each viewing with the others in casting ridicule upon us; nor were witty sallies alone the extent of their teasing; many of the coarsest personalities were indulged in. No one seemed to enjoy it much, and only an absurd sense of what was due a foolish college custom urged them on.

"Look what a big trunk," said one, striking my solitary piece of baggage with his cane hard enough to nearly blister the leather; "I'll bet he has homespun cake in there. Fresh, let me sleep with you," he continued, taking my arm, with every appearance of friendship, "but no, you are too dirty," releasing me with a gesture of disgust.

"Hoopee! what a foot!" said another, stooping down to take an exaggerated measurement of my foot. "Fresh, how do you get your boots on without a crane to lift your feet?"

"Well, Fresh," said a pert little fellow to Ned, "what is the price of tallow where you live? It ought to be very cheap if that is a sample in your face." As Ned was really very sallow this remark called forth a general laugh, during which we walked up the steps into the office, the crowd opening before and closing behind us in a continuous yell of ridicule and shame, heaped on us in every conceivable way.

Frank's friends all seemed glad to see him, but, even amid the storm of persecution that surrounded us, I could not help noticing that they all wore flash clothes, and had inflamed eyes and a profane swagger. Frank told us that it was out of his power to shield us from devilment in such a crowd, but that he would get us rooms for the night and we would be safe in them. He went in to see the proprietor and we were left standing in the midst of a deriding throng. I never felt so much like a culprit in my life. Nowhere could I look and find a single glance of sympathy. On every side were hoots, hisses and vulgar witticisms; and the attempt to utter a word was only the signal for such a roar as would drown every syllable. While standing thus, a tall, languid youth, with drooping side whiskers and a pair of gold eye-glasses, pushed his way through the crowd and asked, "What Fresh are these you have here? Introduce me." Someone shouted: "That is Mr. Danvers, Fresh; speak to him."

"How do you do, gentlemen? I am most happy to see you with us," said Danvers, offering his hand in the most cordial manner. Eager to touch somebody's hand that would sympathize, I extended mine gladly, but ere I touched his he drew it back with the sneer, "Oh, no, Fresh, you must wash yours first; you've been travelling, you know."

"Shame! shame! Danvers. A Junior devilling Fresh!" exclaimed several voices.

"I confess," said Danvers, turning off, laughing; "but it was such a good thing. They are greener than verdure itself, and will swallow anything you offer!"

We had scarcely bathed and gotten rid of the dust of travel when the gong sounded for supper. We went down and found the tables occupied entirely by the students, as there was little or no travel to such a retired village, from the outside world. A bevy of Sophomores rose on our appearance and escorted us to the table, and, drawing back our chairs, held them for us. Bewildered by their strange attentions, we attempted to seat ourselves, but, of course, found the chairs non sub nobis. I recovered myself, but Ned plumped heavily down upon the floor, to the boisterous merriment of the whole room.

At last seated, and served by the regular attendants, we attempted to eat, but every mouthful was declared enormous by those watching us, every action said to be ill mannered, and our whole demeanor so criticized that our appetites departed and we felt no desire for food. If we had, there would have been little opportunity for its gratification. If I chanced to turn my head, a teaspoonful of salt went into my tea. If I asked the waiter for a biscuit, my tormentor across the table would pour a dozen into my plate. Silver forks and napkin rings were dropped into my pockets, and the proprietor called to identify his property. When we rose we were escorted from the room by the same guard of honor, even to the door of our room, where they left us for the night.

OUR second day was spent in the ordeal of examination, in the selection and arrangement of our room, and engaging board at the most eligible place. Our room, at the suggestion of Mr. Carrover, was chosen in the South Building, and after innumerable expenditures, and Ned's taste for arrangement, it really looked comfortable and home like. We passed the different departments of study without any serious difficulty, and the bell for evening prayers found us ready for the session's work.

The cover of this later edition of Sea-Gift shows the Peter Dromgoole duel that has become part of the Gimghoul Castle legend

We took a little stroll after tea, and were fortunate in meeting no one. Returning to our room and lighting up, we got our books and commenced to prepare, with all the interest of novelty, our lessons for the morrow. We had not been thus engaged more than half an hour when there arose in a distant part of the campus the most diabolical din conceivable: a fiendish combination of all the disagreeable noises produceable. Tin horns, tin pan drums, bells, whistles, paper trumpets, and the vox humana in its loudest, harshest notes, all roared forth their terrible discord on the still night air.

We leaned out of our window and listened to this caravan of horrid sounds approaching, till it entered the South Building. Even then we did not suspect its destination, and not till we heard the procession tramping noisily up the stairs leading to our room did the truth flash upon us that we were the intended victims. It was too late to fasten the door. In a moment the room was full of our tormentors, each one trying to drown the other's clamor by extra exertion on his own part. They formed a circle around us and beat, and blew, and shouted till we were deafened and stupefied with the noise.

Suddenly it ceased--everything was ominously still, and with sober face every one commenced active preparation for the more serious business of the evening. The door was closed and locked, the bed was stripped and the sheets hung up at the windows, with their edges stuffed in the cracks. Each then drew forth from his pocket an enormous pipe, and putting tobacco in it, began to smoke. Not the ordinary puffs of a pleasure whiff, but lighting about half a pipe full they would put more tobacco in on the fire, and instead of drawing, blow with all their might, ejecting from the bowl of the pipe a stream as large, and almost as solid as a man's wrist. As soon as I divined their object I got up and lay down across the bed, taking the pillow in my hand, that I might lay my face in it if it became very bad.

The great volumes of smoke, rolling up to the ceiling, now began to spread into a thickening vapor that filled the room, growing denser and denser every second, and I found myself constantly coughing. Another minute and the moving forms of the smokers could scarcely be seen, while the lamp standing on the mantel was only a dim halo in the white fog. The smokers now had to relieve each other, placing a guard at the door to prevent our exit. Thicker and thicker grew the cloud, till the lungs, wearied with incessant coughing, almost refused to inhale the bitter, sickening air. My eyes streaming with water closed themselves in spite of me, and my eyeballs were crossed with the nausea. I pressed my face down into the pillow for relief, but even that seemed a bag of tobacco, that was driving its dust into my throat. Every particle of air had its concomitant particle of smoke, and with every wretched gasp I gulped down a wad of poison. 

A ton of weight seemed pressing on my chest, and my eyeballs almost started from my head in my intense efforts to feed my famished lungs, and to prevent the suffocation I was enduring. A few more gasps and a death-like sickness seized me; the smoke closed around my head like the band of the Inquisition, and pressed all consciousness and sensation out. With a blinding rush of darkness over my brain I fainted.

The first thing I knew as a fact of consciousness was a vague perception of the odor of camphor and brandy; then I knew that my hands were being violently chafed, and that something cold and wet lay on my forehead. My temples ached with a dull, unrelievable pain, and a deadly nausea seemed to pervade the very atmosphere. I opened my eyes and found that I was in a strange room, on a strange bed, around which were grouped half a dozen forms with anxious, fear-whitened faces. Some were holding bottles, some basins of water, and all intently watching my face for signs of returning consciousness. I swallowed a little of the brandy they held to my lips, and as it burnt its way through my system I found strength to speak. Sitting upon the side of the bed, with the support of two of those attending, I asked, in an idiotic way: 

"What--are--you all doing here? Where--am--I?" 

At last we were fairly inducted into college life, and commenced a regular routine of daily duties. Our room was pleasantly situated, and all our neighbors agreeable. As new victims continued to arrive we were forsaken by the Sophs, much to our delight, and were permitted to enjoy a good meal at the table unmolested. 

Ned and I had formed as yet no circle of acquaintance. We were together nearly all the time, and having made up our minds, according to the invariable rule, to study harder than anybody ever did, we did not care much for the society of others. We both studied hard, and our progress in the various branches of instruction was, we thought, satisfactory. There was this difference between us, however--Ned studied uniformly, while I studied by impulse. The was that while many of my daily lessons exceeded Ned's in preparation and recitation, yet his average was far greater than mine. Ned studied to learn all his lesson--to know every part of it; while I often picked over those points on which I thought I should most likely be examined. He studied to master the subject--to become acquainted with a language or to understand a problem; I studied to make a good recitation. He stored up for the future; I looked no farther ahead than the next morning's lecture. 

I remember well, when we got to reading Homer, Ned would worry a whole morning over an idiom; and passages that I found no difficulty at all in rendering would afford him an hour's work with lexicon and grammar. I had a shorter way of doing things. I would take my Anthon's Edition--great friend of the student!--and, with the aid of its voluminous references, and the notes in Kühner, I would easily cram all that it was probable the professor would touch upon. Simple, easy parts, that I was sure he would not notice, had to take care of themselves. When we went in to recite, all the portions I had prepared so carefully were given to others to render or construe, while I would be taken up on some part I had thought too simple for my attention, and would be found woefully ignorant. So, about twice a month I would make a brilliant recitation, the balance of the time failures.

I suffered, too, from that great cheat of life, the self-promise to "turn over a new leaf." Regularly every Monday morning, in accordance with the previous week's resolve, I would start afresh, and, after tremendous application and intense mental effort, would go to the section room and pass the hour without being noticed. Leaving it without having had an opportunity to manifest my diligence, I would feel a little less careful about Tuesday's preparation. After another day of silence I would merely glance at Wednesday's lessons; and Thursday, with just a peep between the pages, I would be called to recite, and fail signally. The mortification would then evoke the firm resolve to "turn over a new leaf," but, inasmuch as the next day was Friday, I would conclude to wait till Monday. So Friday would go without study, and the next week would come and join the retreating line of its predecessors, and nothing would be accomplished but a slowly increasing indifference to failure, and a growing inability to reform. And in all my life since then there has still predominated that fault, turning over new leaves, and letting the very first breeze of difficulty flutter them lightly back again!

Accordingly, when the bell for lecture rung, instead of going with Ned to the section room, I strolled through the campus and gave myself up to sweet thoughts of Lillian. It was one of my autumn days. The sun was shining with a still, mellow light through a golden haze, which seemed to have fallen on all Nature, so yellow were the leaves on the trees and the stubble in the fields. The air was still and dreamy, and the campus, usually so full of noise and life, empty and deserted. I tried to think of Lillian as the only one in the world besides myself; of the universe as being made for us two, and of how sweetly we would live for each other. But somehow my soul would not fall into the delicious reverie her name usually inspired. For the first time since I had met her I could not think constantly of her, but my mind was ever and anon recurring to father's letter and his admonitions. There was an aching at my heart, a restless unhappiness I could not understand. I wandered about for half an hour, then sought out the negro who rang the bell, obtained the belfry keys from him, and went up in the cupola of the South Building. Taking my seat on the window ledge, I gazed on the beautiful scene around. A large extent of country spread out before me, gently undulating, and specked here and there with lonely white houses or groups of negro quarters. The haze of the zenith softened down to a deep shaded violet as it met the horizon, and long lines of smoke stood stiffly around the verge, like gray sentinels guarding the Great Beyond. A little way off a herd of cows were grazing, and the hoarse monotones of their copper bells were just audible enough to be drowsy; while along the red line of the road that wound out of sight by the cemetery, a white top wagon, with sluggish horses, was slowly crawling on to Raleigh.

Patting down my conscience with these good resolutions, I chanced to look out on the scene again, and saw, coming down the road from Raleigh, a horse and rider. The horse was blanketed, but I knew by the lordly bearing and arching neck that it was Phlegon, and I clambered down from the belfry, and ran down to the hotel to meet him. The bell rang for the close of lectures at the same time, and the students were thronging from the various lecture rooms, and many shouted at me as I hurried through the campus. I reached the hotel just as Reuben rode up. I had hardly gotten through making inquiries about them all at home when the students, in large numbers, came down to the hotel, and commenced making comments on myself and my horse. Some of my friends, however, coming to me and desiring to see him, I made Reuben take off his blankets and move him up and down the street, to show his action. As Reuben stripped the cloth from his glossy hide, and the splendid form stood revealed in its matchless grace, a murmur of approbation ran through the crowd. And Phlegon was in every respect worthy.

An English thoroughbred, he possessed the marks of an aristocratic ancestry, lords of the turf for many generations. The sharp pointed ears, the mild dark eye, and the tapering mouse colored muzzle, with its red open nostrils, were a coat of arms as perfect as argent fields and unicorns rampant.

His color was a beautiful claret, and his coat as glossy as if just washed in the ruby wine. His limbs tapered delicately, but the muscles were round and full of strength. He had evidently been the pet at home since I had left, and it was with no little pride that I ordered Reuben to take him round to the stables I had engaged for him. I went back to my room, feeling a good.

Sadly Edwin Fuller died at the age of 28 in 1876. The novel this is excerpted from, the Sea-Gift, did not become popular until several years after his death. It soon was referred to as the "Freshman Bible" throughout the United States. The novel was largely responsible for popularizing the Dromgoole legend as it includes the story of the duel that took place on what is now the grounds of Gimghoul Castle. The book was also highly influential to the writing of Margaret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind and Thomas Wolfe's Look Homeward Angel which both borrowed key plot elements from it.

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