_The Corsican Brothers_ was, so far as my knowledge goes, the first play—under Irving’s management—which Mr. Gladstone came to see. The occasion was January 3, 1881—the first night when _The Cup_ was played. He sat with his family in the box which we called in the familiar slang of the theatre “The Governor’s Box”—the manager of a theatre is always the Governor to his colleagues of all kinds and grades. This box was the stage box on the stall level, next to the proscenium. It was shut off by a special door which opened with a pass key and thus, as it was approachable from the stage through the iron door and from the auditorium by the box door, it was easy of access and quite private. After _The Cup_ Mr. Gladstone wished to come on the stage and tell Irving and Ellen Terry how delighted he was with the performance. Irving fixed as the most convenient time the scene of the masked ball, as during it he had perhaps the only “wait” of the evening—a double part does not leave much margin to an actor. Mr. Gladstone was exceedingly interested in everything and went all round the vast scene. Seeing during the progress of the scene that people in costume were going in and out of queer little alcoves at the back of the scene he asked Irving what these were. He explained that they were the private boxes of the imitation theatre; he added that if the Premier would care to sit in one he could see the movement of the scene at close hand, and if he was careful to keep behind the little silk curtain he could not be seen. The statesman took his seat and seemed for a while to enjoy the life and movement going on in front of him. He could hear now and again the applause of the audience, and by peeping out through the chink behind the curtain, see them. At last in the excitement of the scene he forgot his situation and, hearing a more than usually vigorous burst of applause, leaned out to get a better view of the audience. The instant he did so he was recognised—there was no mistaking that eagle face—and then came a quick and sudden roar that seemed to shake the building. We could hear the “Bravo, Gladstone!” coming through the detonation of hand-claps. VII One night, Wednesday, November 17, 1880, the sixty-first performance of the play, Lord Beaconsfield came to a box with some friends. I saw him coming up the stairs to the vestibule of the theatre. This was the only time I ever saw him, except on the floor of the House of Commons. He was then a good deal bent and walked feebly, leaning on the arm of his friend. He stayed to the end of the play and I believe expressed himself very pleased with it. His friend, “Monty” Corry—afterwards Lord Rowton— who was with him, told Irving that it seemed to revive old memories. As an instance, when he was coming away he asked: “Do you think we could have supper somewhere, and ask some of the _coryphées_ to join us, as we used to do in Paris in the fifties?”