Had I made a god of a poor piece of clay?
No, it was not true. I knew him, I believed in him. He was the clearest
voice in all this rising absurdity of American life. But Abigail had
given me one idea that I wished to act upon.
I went the next day to see Stoddard and started to learn etching. If I
could only transfer to the copper plate what I had seen of sand hills,
pines, pools of water, the gulls over the lake, the picturesque shacks
of early Chicago of 1833 and 1840; the old wooden drawbridge, which was
over the river in 1834, with the ships beyond it toward the lake and the
lighthouse, and in the forefront canoes on the shore, covered with
rushes and sand grass. After a few days I saw Douglas. He came on an
evening when I was just about to go to him. I had been thinking of him
day by day, but waiting for the effect of his rough experience in front
of the North Market to wear away from his thoughts and mine. He was now
himself again, his eye keen, his voice melodious, his figure pervaded by
animation. I noticed perhaps for the first time how small and graceful
were his hands. The greatness and shapeliness of his head could not be
overlooked. From beneath shaggy and questioning brows his penetrating
eyes looked straight through me. Had his pride been wounded, his spirits
dampened? Not at all.
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