William Hamilton Gibson: artist—naturalist—author

by John Coleman Adams

Dr. J. G. Holland was another friend to whom he looked for a word of approval. He was not quite so sure of his own mind, and wrote in a much more guarded way. His humane heart was a little troubled about the effect of the book. In truth, Gibson himself became, in later years, quite uneasy about it. His own sympathy with animals increased, and his love for them, as little brothers and sisters of the wood; and he grew more and more averse to whatever gave them pain. But he rested in the intent of his book as he describes it explicitly in the preface: “If the poor victims are to serve no use after their capture, either as food, or in the furnishing of their plumage or skins for useful purposes, the sport becomes heartless cruelty, and we do not wish to be understood as encouraging it under any circumstances.” He would probably have strengthened that utterance at a later day, and possibly have written another preface. Dr. Holland’s letter runs thus:

“New York, Nov. 7, 1878.

“Dear Mr. Gibson:

“I have been looking over your book with an interest mingled of dread and delight. It is so easy to pervert all these traps of yours into instruments of cruelty that the book seems almost a dangerous one. But, after all, what good thing is there that is not liable to be perverted? The capture of animals for food is entirely legitimate. The capture of the fur-bearing animals is quite as proper, while the destruction of those that are dangerous to the life of men and domestic animals cannot be objected to on any ground.

“These purposes cover your field, or nearly cover it, and you certainly have met them with a book which, so far as I know, has no equal. It is a good book to put in the hands of every boy who is not so cruel as to deserve to be caught in a trap himself.

“Yours truly,

“J. G. Holland.”

It should not be supposed that Gibson was so confident of himself and his own resources that he disdained the work and experience and knowledge of others. He was a good reader and a hard student. The pages of his books are crowded with passages out of his favorite poets, and his note-books show the careful husbanding of the fruits of his reading on all the themes nearest to his heart. Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Browning, in all that they have seen and sung of nature, were his authorities often cited, and annotated, and winnowed into his note-books. The New England poets he knew and loved, and shared all their honest preference for those home products which so many count homely and call commonplace because they happen to be common. Thoreau he knew thoroughly and loved as a master in the great profession of nature-study; and his references to him are always those of a modest disciple, his bearing and attitude that of deference and respect. Hawthorne, too, was one whose subtle and spiritual genius found a sympathetic and ready interpreter in his own imagination. Darwin he knew, and all his works which bore upon cross-fertilization had mastered. When he gave the wonderful talks on flowers and their insect allies to the townspeople and farmers of Washington, an old “native” came to him, and in the dialect of old New England said: “Mr. Gibson, do you mean to tell me thet thet’s whut Darwin’s been tellin’ ’baout?” “Yes,” was the reply, “that is one of the things he has been talking about.” “Wal,” was the rejoinder, “I never took no stock in Darwin afore, but I sh’ll think a heap on him naow.” Indeed, there was, in all his lectures, the frankest acknowledgment of his indebtedness—of the common debt of all of us—to those pioneers in this fallow field of knowledge. He stinted no praise, no honor to their names, and used their work with hearty acknowledgment. He knew Sprengel, Darwin, Müller, well and, following their lead into the enchanted and enchanting country of new knowledge, soon made himself a student at first hand of the things he had been taught by these great masters.

Gibson was by no means an “easy” writer. His page, as it stands, revised and corrected, hardly gives a sign of the pains taken to bring it into smooth and fluent shape. It seems to be a natural, spontaneous running-on of a mind as sure of its expressions as it is of its impressions. But the effect was purchased only by the hardest and most conscientious labor. His “first drafts” show all the experiments he made in words, phrases, expressions, and construction. Many times the text is hardly legible, it is so crossed, recrossed, cut, interlined, and rewritten altogether. If Sheridan’s judgment is to be accepted, that “easy writing’s curst hard reading,” Gibson comes honestly by his pleasing style. The patient work of the author has smoothed the way for the reader. He had both the qualifications which Pope declares constitute the secret of good writing,—“to know thoroughly what one writes about, and not to be affected.” And to these he added a third; he took pains.