William Hamilton Gibson: Illustrator, Naturalist, and Savior of Prospect Park’s Wild Garden

October 5, 1850

Dearest reader,

On this day, the natural world welcomed William Hamilton Gibson, a soul destined to paint the wonders of nature with more than ink alone.

Born in Sandy Hook, Connecticut, William’s earliest years were spent in the gentle company of birds, beetles, and blooming flowers, cultivating a devotion that never waned.

At ten, his parents sent him to the Gunn school for advanced training—a fortuitous move, as Frederick Gunn himself was a champion of nature, weaving its study directly into everyday lessons. Imagine such luck: arithmetic and botany, hand in leafy hand.

Young William was not content simply to observe—he wrote home about discoveries as if sharing treasure.

“I have just found an Imperial moth worm on a maple tree.

Will you please look on one of the small apple trees in the orchard near the place where the arbor used to be…

There is a tree on which I put a Cecropia worm for myself… I think a great deal of it, or I wouldn’t write about it.

The boys are leaving from here very fast, and we all will leave in 13 days more…

P. S. That worm that I told you about on the apple tree, if very large, must be taken off and put into a box with fresh apple leaves every day; if small, do the same.”

One can’t help but admire such precise instruction—a true naturalist in miniature, nurturing every creature under his care.

His affection kept blossoming.

In another note, William offered,

“In a garden up here, there is a kind of Columbine, very large, of two kinds, purple and white and very large.

I am welcome to all the seed that I want.

I don’t know whether you want any or not, but nevertheless, I’ll get you a lot.

I remain

Your aff. son Willie.”

Seed collecting as an act of love, and signature composed with the gentlest touch—such was the boy before the illustrator emerged.

Immersed at Gunn, William discovered that even a fallen tree could reveal a “field for botanic investigation.”

He mused,

“There is often an almost inexhaustible field for botanic investigation even on a single fallen tree.

My scientific friend... recently informed me... that he had spent two days most delightfully and profitably in the study of... a single dead tree, and [was surprised to learn that] a hundred distinct species of plants congregated upon it.

Plumy dicentra clustered along its length, graceful sprays of the frost-flower with its little spire of snow crystals rose up here and there, scarlet berries of the Indian turnip glowed among the leaves, and, with the... lycopodiums and mosses, ...ferns and lichens, and [a] host of fungous growths,

it [was] easy… to extend the list of species into the second hundred.

It is something worth remembering the next time we go into the woods.”

What a remarkable invitation to see abundance in decay—surely, a lesson for all who wander beneath umbrellas of leaves.

In adulthood, William’s journey to artistry had a few detours, including the soul-numbing world of insurance. His fortunes changed the day he tried to sell a policy to a draftsman and instead surrendered himself to the captivating process of drawing.

He soon traded policies for peacock plumes, his illustrations dazzling the editors at Harper Brothers magazine. The thriving pen soon danced into prose, and William became celebrated as a nature writer as well. His favorite haunt for inspiration was a wild pocket in Prospect Park—a place so lush and untamed it could soften even a hardened city dweller.

When municipal zeal threatened to erase this oasis by clearing trees and plants, William took up his greatest crusade, penning articles and persuading leaders to reconsider what they might lose.

It worked: the city relented, and Gibson became known as the savior of Prospect Park.

Let this day forever recall the boy who wrote of worms and columbines, and the man whose words—and pen—protected green spaces for generations yet to come.