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The close of the War Never before hast thou shone So beautifully upon the Thebans; O, eye of golden day Antigone of Sophocles. One bright morning in April, 1865, Hawthorne's son and the writer were coming forth together from the further door-way of Stoughton Hall at Harvard College, when, as the last reverberations of the prayer-bell were sounding, a classmate called to us across the yard: General Lee has surrendered! There was a busy hum of voices where the three converging lines of
Longworth would as soon have hired a sedan chair as a horse and buggy, when he might have gone on foot.
Good pedestrianism was the pride of the Harvard student; and an honest, wholesome pride it was. There was also some good running.
Both Julian Hawthorne and Thomas W. Ward ran to Concord, a distance of sixteen miles, without stopping, I believe, by the way. William Blaikie, the stroke of the University crew, walked to New York during the Thanksgiving recess-six days in all.