three of my pictures and it looks as though the rest would go too.
“I am glad you admired my ‘Idyl’ and especially so that you should have thought to write me about it. It is always pleasant to receive such letters, although unpleasant to think that you are obliged to send such horrible scrawls in return. But I believe you are good at ‘puzzles’ even if it is a 13.15.14. But you slipped up in your overhauling of that barn with its fence-posts leaning against an apple-tree, and an ‘apple-tree in a barn-yard’! Know, my friend, that that apple-tree and barn, with all their ‘improbabilities’ in the way of posts and apple-trees, etc., were direct from a photograph which I made from nature with my little camera, and all these things were there. The old mill with its ‘pond-side trees’ was also from nature, and if you will take another look at it, consider these questions meanwhile: What does the mill stand on? Could not a tree grow from the ground at its other indefinite end and spread toward you?”
He was a man of many and warm friendships. It was natural for him to like and to love his fellow-men. He opened his heart and his lips readily to all who came to him in sincerity and in friendliness. But he had special places in his life and thoughts for those who stood nearest to him in sympathy and affinity. The “old boys” of the “Gunnery” were accorded a high place in his heart, and so were those who later became his neighbors in Washington. His affection for Mr. and Mrs. Gunn was almost a sacred passion with him, and never waned but rather grew throughout his life. Very tender and beautiful were the expressions of this affection which passed between himself and his old teacher.
No less genuine and tender was his devotion to Henry Ward Beecher, his pastor as a boy in Plymouth, his friend and sympathizer always. His frank and open nature was one to which the warm heart of the great preacher would naturally be drawn; and Beecher’s fervid, enthusiastic personality would as inevitably attract and hold the appreciative, impulsive heart of the young artist. There was little danger of misunderstanding between these two. Through all the great sorrow of Mr. Beecher’s life, young Gibson was his enthusiastic champion, his loyal friend. His own heart was heavy and hot by turns, over the hounding of Mr. Beecher. He wrote at the close of a letter to his wife:
“Mr. D. worked me up into a red-hot rage this evening, by his insufferable and insulting remarks against Mr. Beecher. If he were a gentleman he would at least have manners enough not to insult Mr. Beecher to my face, knowing him to be my pastor and personal friend.”
In a later letter of the same year, he excuses himself for not writing oftener, by saying:
“My mind has been full of this trouble, not through anxiety about Mr. Beecher’s innocence or guilt, but more through my belief in his innocence and consequent pity and sorrow for him. I love him almost as a father. He has done more than I can tell for my spiritual good, and his kindness and interest in me have drawn me close to him.”
He poured his whole heart into a letter which he sent with the volume which he had dedicated to Mr. Beecher:
Authors Club
“19 West 24th Street, New York,
“Dec 23, ’86.
“Dear Mr. Beecher:—