I have thus revealed, step by step, the mental process by which the
picture of which I write came into being. Whether the story bears any
analogy to that by which the works of others have been produced, or the
composition conforms to established rules and precedents in art or not,
is to me a matter of indifference. I was true to my intuitions, and
endeavored to adhere as faithfully as practicable to the facts.
It is not my purpose to follow in detail the progress, thenceforward,
of the work. As the thread upon which are strung my memories of the
late President, allusions to it will be unavoidable throughout these
pages; but hereafter I intend that they shall be subordinate and
incidental to matters of more general interest. It is not too much
to say that the enthusiasm in which the work was conceived, flagged
not to the end. The days were too short for labor upon it. Lighting
at nightfall the great chandelier of the state dining-room, which was
finally assigned me for a studio instead of the library, where the
windows were shaded by the portico, the morning light frequently broke
in upon me still standing pencil or palette in hand, before the immense
canvas, unable to break the spell which bound me to it.