in marble.  The sculptor had never yet sold a statue, and didn’t know how much he ought to ask; but after a few minutes’ consideration he said, “Five hundred pounds.  But, perhaps,” he added timidly, “I have said too much.”  “Oh no,” the duke answered, “not at all too much;” and he forthwith ordered (or, as sculptors prefer to say, commissioned) the statue to be executed for him in marble.  Gibson was delighted, and ran over at once to tell Canova, thinking he had done a splendid stroke of business.  Canova shared his pleasure, till the young man came to the price; then the older sculptor’s face fell ominously.  “Five hundred pounds!” he cried in dismay; “why, it won’t cover the cost of marble and workmanship.”  And so indeed it turned out; for when the work was finished, it had stood Gibson in 520 pounds for marble and expenses, and left him twenty pounds out of pocket in the end.  So he got less than nothing after all for his many months of thought and labour over clay and marble alike.

Discouraging as this beginning must have proved, it was nevertheless in reality the first important step in a splendid and successful career.  It is something to have sold your first statue, even if you sell it at a disadvantage.  In 1821 Gibson modelled a group of Pysche and the Zephyrs.  That winter Sir George Beaumont, himself a distinguished amateur artist, and a great patron of art, came to Rome; and Canova sent him to see the young Welshman’s new composition.  Sir George asked the price, and Gibson, this time more cautious, asked for time to prepare an estimate, and finally named 700 pounds.  To his joy, Sir George immediately ordered it, and also introduced many wealthy connoisseurs to the rising sculptor’s studio.  That same winter, also, the Duke of Devonshire came again, and commissioned a bas-relief in marble (which is now at Chatsworth House, with many other of Gibson’s works), at a paying price, too, which was a great point for the young man’s scanty exchequer.

Unfortunately, Gibson has not left us any notice of how he managed to make both ends meet during this long adult student period at Rome.  Information on that point would indeed be very interesting; but so absorbed was the eager Welshman always in his art, that he seldom tells us anything at all about such mere practical every-day matters as bread and butter.  To say the truth, he cared but little about them.  Probably he had lived in a very simple penurious style during his whole studenthood, taking his meals at a cafe or eating-house, and centering all his affection and ideas upon his beloved studio.  But now wealth and fame began to crowd in upon him, almost without the seeking.  Visitors to Rome began to frequent the Welshman’s rooms, and the death of “the great and good Canova,” which occurred in 1822, while depriving Gibson of a dearly loved friend, left him, as it were, that great master’s successor.  Towards him and Thorwaldsen, indeed, Gibson always