The threshold crossed, the visitor finds himself at once in the midst of this artist’s numerous works. In a large barn-like shed, with a floor of earth, on pedestals of various materials, shapes, and sizes, stand the beautiful Cupid and Butterfly, the wounded Amazon, Paris and Proserpine gathering flowers, the charming groups of Psyche borne by the Zephyrs, of Hylas and the Water Nymphs, and the noble basso-relievo of Phaeton and the Hours leading forth the horses of the Sun, with, perhaps, a bust or figure in progress by the workman whose duty it is to keep the studio and attend to the numerous visitors. Facing the door of entry just described is its counterpart, opening into a fairy-like square plot of garden, filled with orange and lemon trees and roses, and, in the spring, fragrant with violets blue and white, Cape jasmine, and lilies of the valley; while, in a shady recess, and fern-grown nook trickles a perpetual fountain of crystal-clear water. The sun floods this tiny garden with his golden light, flecking the trellised walks with broken shadows, and wooing his way, royal and irresistible lover as he is, to the humbler floral divinities of the place, sheltered beneath their own green leaves, or in the superb shade of the acanthus. Lovely is the effect of this rich glow of sunlight as one stands in the shade of the studio, perfumed with the sweet blossoms of the South; lovely the aspect both of nature and of art, into the presence of which we are so suddenly and unexpectedly ushered from the ugly, dirty street without. Having gazed our fill here, we step into the garden, and, turning to the right, if we be favored visitors, friends, or the friends of friends, we are next ushered into the sanctum of the master himself, whom we shall probably find engaged in modeling, and from whom we shall certainly receive a kind and genial welcome, granting always that we have some claim for our intrusion upon his privacy. This room, long and narrow, is boarded, and has some pretensions to comfort; but throughout the whole range of studios the absence of care and attention will strike the eye, more especially as it is the present fashion in Rome to render the studios both of painter and sculptor as comfortable and habitable as possible. From Mr. Gibson’s own room we are taken into another rough shed, where the process of transformation from plaster to marble is carried on, and where frequent visitors can not fail to discover the vast difference which exists in skill and natural aptitude among the numerous workmen employed.