criticism went on everywhere about all new works completed or in
progress. He was fortunate, too, in the exact moment of his
residence: Rome then contained at once, besides himself, the two
truest sculptors of the present century, Canova the Venetian, and
Thorwaldsen the Dane. Both these great masters were singularly
free from jealousy, rivalry, or vanity. In their perfect
disinterestedness and simplicity of character they closely
resembled Gibson himself. The ardent and pure-minded young
Welshman, who kept himself so unspotted from the world in his utter
devotion to his chosen art, could not fail to derive an elevated
happiness from his daily intercourse with these two noble and
sympathetic souls.

After Gibson had been for some time in Canova's studio, his
illustrious master told him that the sooner he took to modelling a
life-size figure of his own invention, the better. So Gibson hired
a studio (with what means he does not tell us in his short sketch
of his own life) close to Canova's, so that the great Venetian was
able to drop in from time to time and assist him with his criticism
and judgment. How delightful is the friendly communion of work
implied in all this graceful artistic Roman life! How different
from the keen competition and jealous rivalry which too often
distinguishes our busy money-getting English existence! In 1819,
two years after Gibson's arrival at Rome, he began to model his
Mars and Cupid, a more than life-size group, on which he worked
patiently and lovingly for many months. When it was nearly
finished, one day a knock came at the studio door. After the
knock, a handsome young man entered, and announced himself
brusquely as the Duke of Devonshire. "Canova sent me," he said,
"to see what you were doing." Gibson wasn't much accustomed to