I must have stayed in those rooms for some time, because suddenly I realized it was growing dark and that I was alone. A glass door stood ajar and I stepped through and out upon a little balcony, a tiny balcony where one could sit alone and think. Surely many times on just such spring evenings Douglass had stepped out on his balcony. Looking far over the group of houses clustered at the foot of the hill, he must have caught the gleam of the Potomac as I did, and beyond that all Washington spread out like a bit of magic. Washington Monument was not pointing to the sky in his day, but there was the beautiful rounded dome of the Capitol. He could see that Capitol of which he was so proud—he could contemplate all the intriguing pattern of the city which he loved so much, capital of the nation which he served so faithfully.
Then, all at once, as I stood there on the balcony, I knew why it was that in the evening of his life Frederick Douglass’ eyes were so serene. Not because he was lost in illusions of grandeur, not because he thought the goal attained, not because he thought all the people were marching forward. But as he stood there on his little balcony he could lift his eyes and, looking straight ahead, could see over the dome of the Capitol, steadfastly shedding its rays of hope and guidance, the north star.
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