“Since last writing you I have enjoyed a week (or more I fear) of rare incident and experience, my days being so full and my evenings so tired that I have failed again in my good intentions as to frequency of letters.
“I hurried your last letter into the mail and am somewhat in doubt whether it reached the Queenstown post in time. Since that writing we (which means a party of Van Ingen, Willis, Roberts, McGrath, Dunthorne and myself) have visited successively Flushing, Rotterdam, The Hague, Dordrecht, Scheveningen, Amsterdam and Brussels. Of course our visit has been brief as the period of time represented has been but four days. The picture galleries have received most of our attention at these places, but at Dordrecht and Scheveningen we found the living pictures unmatched by any in the respective art exhibitions. Dort is a perfect treasure of a place, pictorially considered, and I shall live in hopes of revisiting it in the future more at my leisure and with an eye to ‘material.’ You would have been charmed with the quaintness of this old Dutch village with its Venice-like canals, its queer inhabitants, its hundreds of wind-mills and picturesque old boats. We hired a boat and guide and rowed for hours upon one of these meandering waterways—under arched bridges beneath which we had to stoop; beneath overhanging balconies bright with flowering plants and with an occasional saucy or coquettish face half disclosed between the Venetian blinds at the windows, occasionally with a giggle accompaniment or a handkerchief manœuvered in a manner which would have done credit to a French or Spanish coquette. The little Dutch ‘yongen’ or Deutscher ‘pups’ saluted us with questionable slang or with stones or what-not, at every private quay or alley-way opening on the canal and altogether our turnout with its noisy exclamatory cargo was a great center of attraction to contiguous neighborhoods whose windows were usually filled with curious spectators mostly on a broad grin of Dutch proportions and typical comeliness, and ’tis true occasionally relieved by a disclosure which our Scotch friend Roberts assured us was ‘bonny’ and which commentary I was pleased to verify, and which moreover was the signal of a chorus of ‘ah’s’ from our bateau that would have done credit to a West Brighton populace at the ‘busting’ of a rocket. Our trip was occasionally varied by a landing at some quaint quay or alley, and a rummaging visit to some musty old bric-a-brac den or junk shop. The streets were of the queerest in architecture and life—queer old women with brass headgear and huge sabots or wooden shoes, and voices like a fog-horn, peddling their green goods, their eggs, milk or whatever, their treasures suspended from yokes, and borne with apparent pleasure. I have bought one of their huge brass milk cans and a few other of their distinguishing paraphernalia for our front parlor over the mantel—(a part of the foregoing was penned late last night but I was so utterly tired that I had to quit in the midst of a sentence which I presume you can detect by examination). I am in the same condition to-night (Friday, May 25th), having spent seven mortal hours on my feet in the ‘Louvre’ to say nothing of the exhaustion which the visit has brought to the other end of my person. Yesterday I was seven hours at the Salon, viewing the miles of pictures and occasionally imagining myself in a harem or in a feminine quarter of a Turkish bath by mistake. I shall go again to-morrow, as I did not see one half of the bathers yesterday and besides there are a few landscapes that I want to get a peep at, if the fleshly charmers will only give a fellow half a chance. 5000 pictures!!! to say nothing of about three acres of statuary!
“I shall spend a week here at Paris and shall then leave for Switzerland, including Chamounix, Interlaken, Rigi, Lucerne, &c., returning after about a week’s trip direct to London there to spend the few days prior to my return. I shall sail with Van Ingen on the ‘Adriatic’ June 13th and shall be most happy to be with my loved ones again. How truly do we measure time by voluminousness of incident. Our Holland trip of 4 days seemed like a month and it seems a half year since I left you in New York. In my hours—say rather moments—of repose I am homesick and my tired feeling adds to the nostalgia. Mr. Van Ingen and McGrath left me in my tracks to-day, and the way I am dispensing my hybrid French to the natives hereabouts is a case of wilful persecution. But I get along better than I would have supposed. I have raked up my old vocabulary and with a reinforcement of grins, gesticulations and shrugs, it is surprising how quickly my victim succumbs. Once in a while it is true I chance upon an ass who don’t catch on, but as a rule I manage to make my patient comprehend my intentions. Everything thus goes well until he starts in, and the average Frenchman can pronounce three words at once with most facile ease and evident delight. I generally wait until he has run through his dictionary from Alfred to Omaha and then inform him that I haven’t understood a word that he has been saying and beg of him to begin again and go slow. When he comprehends that he is to be remunerated by time, and not by the job, and turns out words instead of mush, his lingo is not half so overpowering or so enigmatical. I had the honor to compliment a waiter to-day upon his excellent French when indulged in moderation, bringing a touching parable to my rescue, likening his ‘escargot’ speech to my dish of small isolated boiled potatoes and his ‘chemin du fer’ French to my ‘haricot’ much to his delight and comprehension.”
In 1888 his second son was born, and the happy father writes of the new baby to Colonel Gibson, excusing himself for not having made him a visit: “I have found that we cannot always bend circumstances to our wills, especially when those aforesaid circumstances are materialized in the shape of bills payable, taxes, insurance, houses, wives (I beg pardon, wife), and babies! Yes, babies! For Hamilton Jr. no longer runs this establishment; I enclose the counterfeit presentment of a successor of his who makes us all toe the mark, and bosses the entire household. Is it possible that his fame has not reached your latitude? He has his own way hereabouts, and we imagined that the limits of New England had at least been brought within earshot of his lungs. But he is a darling, if he does take after his daddy. His name is Dana Gibson; (not Charles A.) but old Judge Dana, Richard Dana, his ancestor.”
The year 1889 found him busy with the erection of a new story to his Brooklyn house and his instalment there in a studio which became a favorite theme for newspaper gossip and description. In Washington, too, he acquired another studio for his summer days, in the shape of a little old schoolhouse which was familiar to him in his boyhood. In the autumn of this year he recorded the idea of a “prospective work ‘Eyes to the Blind’ to be prepared with a view to book publication. Made proposition to Harpers who requested me to run the same through the year in ‘Young People,’ one page each, with about 200 drawings.” This, is of course, that favorite work which finally took the name of “Sharp Eyes” and attained such wide popularity. Writing of this new scheme to his friend Colonel Gibson, in Fryeburg, Maine, he opens his mind and heart in his own direct and exuberant way. The letter was written in August, 1890.
“This series will run through the year, and you may like to know how it all came about. Know then that my head gradually got so big with the muchness of learning that I had to rig up a safety valve of some sort, or bust! This would have been an unpleasant denouement for myself and especially tough on the immediate surroundings, human or otherwise, and so I hit upon a plan to put all my goods in the show window and get credit for a big reinforcement behind the counter! Great scheme! eh! (that is if they only won’t try to get a look inside!) My note-books, visible and intangible, have been multiplying from year to year with no available opportunities of keeping pace with them in my accustomed magazine facilities. So I concluded to materialize my material in the form of a dainty book, comprising the more interesting incidents of my journal, arranging the incidents or episodes chronologically—a timely item or two for each week in the year, so that the book might serve as a sort of pictorial reference calendar for the saunterer, affording him at least some few hints of the rich store of wonders which surround him unheeded in every field and by every path. I believe there is real true missionary possibility in such a book as that. My plan completed and a little material duly prepared I broached the matter to the Harpers. They jumped at it at once, and much to my astonishment made me the offer to run it for the entire year of 52 weeks in the ‘Young People,’ an unheard of thing! and something which I had never dreamed of. By this arrangement I not only received much more liberal compensation for the large number of designs than would have been financially possible on the first basis, but in addition realized generously upon the letter press which in the original plan would have been furnished gratis on the customary plan of books paying royalty. In addition to this, inasmuch as the cost of the entire series would of course be charged to the ‘Y. P.’ it gave me a bigger margin both in number and scope of the designs, so that the book as now shaped will be more generously illustrated than as first planned. The series will end with the Xmas number and will then begin to take its book form with numerous fresh additions of tail-pieces and other morceaux, comprising some 300 illustrations. It will not be issued however until the Christmas of 1891 as I have already on the press a volume for the coming season.
“The title of this—my fifth book—is ‘Strolls by Starlight and Sunshine.’ My two midnight articles taking the lead, and followed by my other magazine papers published during the last two years. ‘Bird-Notes,’ (Harper’s), ‘Bird-Cradles,’ (Scribner’s), ‘Prehistoric Botanists,’ (Century), and ‘Wild Garden,’ (Harper’s), this September (now due).
“You shall see the volume as soon as you are likely to desire it, and whether you take any stock in it or not you will, I hope, give me credit of being a well meaning fellow anyhow.
“There! that’s about as big a dose as even your friendship can stand, and so I’ll come around to my autograph and give you a rest—No—not yet either! I wonder if you can’t do me a little favor, just for the sake of old times and in spite of my sins. In addition to all my other work I have been for years preparing a botany on a new plan, and nearly all the bloomin’ things that grow in these parts have been victimized in my enthusiasm.
“There is one plant, perhaps two, which I remember to have seen and gathered on the sand at Lovell’s pond, but which I never identified, which perhaps you could now help me to secure. A little low thing with a few yellow (or pink) blossoms growing on its extremity, and which I saw in profusion the last time I visited the spot with you. I am afraid that the season is too late, or will be when I could receive them from you, but if you can, after about twelve days, or rather about the date of the third of September gather the plants for me, enclose them in a tin spice box, no water, and mail them to me here at Washington, Conn., you will earn my thanks anew. Plants enclosed in tin boxes, with air-tight covers, will keep fresh for days—indeed for many days longer than the same plant would keep in a vase of water.