the young stone-cutter started off gaily on his continental tour, from
which he was not to return for twenty-seven years. He drove from Paris
to Rome, sharing a carriage with a Scotch gentleman; and when he arrived
in the Pope's city (as it then was) he knew absolutely not a single word
of Italian, or of any other language on earth save Welsh and English. In
those days, Canova, the great Venetian sculptor, was the head of
artistic society in Rome; and as _all_ society in Rome is more or
less artistic, he might almost be said to have led the whole life of the
great and lively city. Indeed, the position of such a man in Italy
resembles far more that of a duke in England than of an artist as we
here are accustomed to think of him. Gibson had letters of introduction
to this prince of sculptors from his London friends; and when he went to
present them, he found Canova in his studio, surrounded by his numerous
scholars and admirers. The Liverpool stone-cutter had brought a few of
his drawings with him, and Canova examined them with great attention.
Instinctively he recognized the touch of genius. When he had looked at
them keenly for a few minutes, he turned kindly to the trembling young
man, and said at once, "Come to me alone next week, for I want to have a
talk with you."

On the appointed day, Gibson, quivering with excitement, presented
himself once more at the great master's studio. Canova was surrounded as
before by artists and visitors; but in a short time he took Gibson into
a room by himself, and began to speak with him in his very broken
English. Many artists came to Rome, he said, with very small means, and
that perhaps might be Gibson's case. "Let me have the gratification,
then," he went on, "of assisting you to prosecute your studies. I am
rich. I am anxious to be of use to you. Let me forward you in your art
as long as you stay in Rome."