I told him all about my hopes, and he said that one of his few personal friends was Mr. Wilson Barrett, of the Princess’s Theatre in Oxford Street. “That great genius, Mr. Booth, from America, has been acting Shakespeare there lately,” I said. “He has,” answered Mr. Tupper; “his ‘Lear’ is stupendous. I know him well, for he often recites my poems at benefit matinees. But Wilson” (in this amazingly familiar way he referred to the great Mr. Wilson Barrett) “is always on the lookout for promising young fellows to join his company, and walk on with the crowds, and so learn the rudiments of stage education and become familiar with the boards. He is anxious to get a superior set of young fellows on to the stage, and he often comes to me, because he knows that in the circles wherein I move the young men are intellectual and have high opinions about the honour of the actor’s calling.” “It would be a glorious beginning for a young man,” I said, “but, of course, such good things are not for me.” Mr. Tupper appeared to be buried in his own thoughts for a time. When he spoke again, he had changed the subject. “Will you have another plate of steak-and-kidney pie?” he asked, and I consented with many thanks. Then he returned to the great subject of the stage. “Only yesterday,” he said, “I was spending half an hour in dear old Wilson’s private room at the Princess’s Theatre. He likes me to drop in between the acts. He is a man who would always rather listen than talk; and, if he has to talk, he chooses any subject rather than himself and his histrionic powers. All the greatest actors are the same. They are almost morbid about mentioning their personal talents, or the parts they have played. But the subjects that always interest Wilson are the younger men and the future of the drama. ‘Martin,’ he said to me, ‘I would throw up the lead in my own theatre to-night, if I could by so doing reveal a new and great genius to the world! I would gladly play subordinate parts, if I could find a young man to play my parts better than I do myself.’ I tell you this, Mr. Corkey, to show you that one supreme artist, at least, is always on the lookout for talent, always ready to stretch a helping hand to the tyro.” “Perhaps some day,” I said, “years hence, of course, when I have learned elocution and stage deportment and got the general hang of the thing, you would be so very generous and kind as to give me a letter of introduction to Mr. Barrett?” Mr. Tupper filled my glass with more beer and sank his voice to a confidential whisper.