“I do not think,” he said, “that the previous training of a student who begins studying illustrating has much to do with his career. It seems to me that his actual previous education matters very little. If he wants to learn, he will learn. If he does not, he will not. If he does not want to learn, his attempt at an education will profit him very little. His gift for illustrating, if he has it, is a thing not more dependent upon his education than upon his surroundings. While there are instances in which an education forced upon a pupil has been acknowledged by him afterward to mean much to him, there are also cases in all arts of which we say that contact with the schoolmen would not have been an advantage.” Mr. Gibson said this quite tranquilly, as if it were not an idea at odds with all other accepted statements that the thorough education of an artist is the best foundation for anything he may undertake. “That leaves a good deal of work for the pupil’s master,” I suggested. “Master!” exclaimed Mr. Gibson, with almost a frown; “what is a master? Have we any masters now? It seems to me that the word has lost its old meaning, and that there is no longer such a thing as a ‘master.’ Suppose we say ‘teacher’ instead! And then let me add this: I do not believe the teacher matters in the least.” “Don’t you think,” I demanded, “that a pupil would make better progress with you for a teacher than he would with somebody whose work had no value?” IF YOU DO NOT SEE YOUR MISTAKES, NO ONE ELSE CAN. “Not a bit,” he said, promptly. “To tell the truth, I think the teaching of drawing is an over-estimated profession. It doesn’t seem to me as if I could teach,—as if I would feel it would be exactly honest to teach. Why, see for yourself,—what can a teacher do?” Mr. Gibson laid down his pencil, but he continued thus:— “I was for a year at the Art League, and two years in Paris. In Paris we used to sit in rows at canvases, like this. We saw our teacher for half an hour, twice a day. He would come and spend less than two minutes beside the chair of each of us, and what would he do? Point out a mistake, or a defect, or, rarely, an excellence, which, if we had any talent at all, we could see perfectly well for ourselves. This last is the important point. “If you are a born illustrator, you will know your own mistakes better than anyone can tell you about them. If you do not see your mistakes, nobody can ever help you to be anything. All the teachers in all the art schools cannot help you if you cannot see your mistakes. I said I could help a pupil to know his own limitations. Well, that is the way. If your own work looks quite finished and perfect to you, or if it looks wrong but you cannot tell exactly what is the inaccuracy or lack, you may depend upon it that you were not born to be an illustrator.