pupil, to let him model in his studio, he would be eternally
grateful. Canova was one of the most noble and lovable of men. He
acceded at once to Gibson's request, and Gibson never forgot his
kind and fatherly assistance. "Dear generous master," the Welsh
sculptor wrote many years after, when Canova had long passed away,
"I see you before me now. I hear your soft Venetian dialect, and
your kindly words inspiring my efforts and gently correcting my
defects. My heart still swells with grateful recollection of you."

Canova told his new pupil to devote a few days first to seeing the
sights of Rome; but Gibson was impatient to begin at once. "I
shall be at your studio to-morrow morning," the ardent Welshman
said; and he kept his word. Canova, pleased with so much
earnestness and promptitude, set him to work forthwith upon a clay
model from his own statue of the Pugilist. Gibson went to the task
with a will, moulding the clay as best he could into shape; but he
still knew so little of the technical ways of regular sculptors
that he tried to model this work from the clay alone, though its
pose was such that it could not possibly hold together without an
iron framework. Canova saw his error and smiled, but let him go on
so that he might learn his business by experience. In a day or two
the whole thing, of course, collapsed by its own weight; and then
Canova called in a blacksmith and showed the eager beginner how the
mechanical skeleton was formed with iron bars, and interlacing
crosses of wood and wire. This was quite a new idea to Gibson, who
had modelled hitherto only in his own self-taught fashion with
moist clay, letting it support its own weight as best it might.
Another pupil then fleshed out the iron skeleton with clay, and
roughly shaped it to the required figure, so that it stood as firm
as a rock for Gibson to work upon. The new hand turned to