A few years before this time Wagner’s weird opera, ‘The Flying Dutchman,’ had been performed in London, and the idea had occurred to many, and not unnaturally, that here was a character exactly suited to Irving’s methods. He was, it was often repeated, the “ideal” Vanderdecken. He himself much favoured the suggestion, and after a time the “Colonel” entrusted me and my friend Wills with the task of preparing a piece on the subject. For various reasons the plan was laid aside, and the death of the manager and the adoption of other projects interfered. It was, however, never lost sight of, and after an interval I got ready the first act, which so satisfied Irving that the scheme was once more taken up. After many attempts and shapings and re-shapings, the piece was at last ready—Wills having undertaken the bulk of the work, I myself contributing, as before, the first act. The actor himself furnished some effective situations, notably the strange and original suggestion of the Dutchman’s being cast up on the shore and restored to life by the waves. I recall all the pleasant incidents of this venture, the journeys to Liverpool and Birmingham to consult on the plot and read the piece; above all, the company of the always agreeable Irving himself, and his placid, unaffected gaiety. Indeed, to him apply forcibly the melodious lines— “A merrier man, Within the limits of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour withal.” ‘Vanderdecken,’ as it was called, was produced on July 8, 1878, but was found of too sombre a cast to attract. It was all, as Johnson once said, “inspissated gloom,” but there was abundant praise for the picturesque figure of the actor. Nothing could be more effective than his first appearance, when he was revealed standing in a shadowy way beside the sailors, who had been unconscious of his presence. This was his own subtle suggestion. A fatal blemish was the unveiling of the picture, on the due impressiveness of which much depended, and which proved to be a sort of grotesque daub, greeted with much tittering—a fatal piece of economy on the part of the worthy manageress. An unusually sultry spell of summer that set in caused “the booking to go all to pieces”—the box-keeper’s consolatory expression. Our actor, however, has not lost faith in the subject to this hour, and a year or two later he encouraged me to make another attempt; while Miss Terry has been always eager to attempt the heroine, in which she is confident of producing a deep impression.