paces backward and forward in disagreeable meditation. 'I wish to
Heaven,' thought I to myself, 'that I was on my way back to Rome with a
postboy.' Then I observed a policeman darting his eyes upon me, as if he
would look me through. Said I to the fellow, 'Where is that cursed train
gone to? It's off with my luggage and here am I.' The man asked me the
name of the place where I took my ticket. 'I don't remember,' said I.
'How should I know the name of any of these places?--it's as long as my
arm. I've got it written down somewhere.' 'Pray, sir,' said the man,
after a little pause, 'are you a foreigner?' 'No,' I replied, 'I am not
a foreigner; I'm a sculptor.'"

The consequence of this almost childish carelessness was that Gibson had
always to be accompanied on his long journeys either by a friend or a
courier. While Mr. Ben lived, he usually took his brother in charge to
some extent; and the relation between them was mutual, for while John
Gibson found the sculpture, Mr. Ben found the learning, so that Gibson
used often to call him "my classical dictionary." In 1847, however, Mr.
Ben was taken ill. He got a bad cold, and would have no doctor, take no
medicine. "I consider Mr. Ben," his brother writes, "as one of the most
amiable of human beings--too good for this world--but he will take no
care against colds, and when ill he is a stubborn animal." That summer
Gibson went again to England, and when he came back found Mr. Ben no
better. For four years the younger brother lingered on, and in 1851 died
suddenly from the effects of a fall in walking. Gibson was thus left
quite alone, but for his pupil Miss Hosmer, who became to him more than
a daughter.

During his later years Gibson took largely to tinting his statues--
colouring them faintly with flesh-tones and other hues like nature; and
this practice he advocated with all the strength of his single-minded