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THE first play I ever saw was " Richard the Third," with Edwin Adams as the crook-backed tyrant. Young, graceful, handsome, an ideal actor in romantic characters, he was hardly fitted for so sombre and tragic a part. Yet the force of his personal magnetism stamped his every word, look, and gesture indelibly upon my memory. The music and lights; the actors and actresses, whose painted faces seemed far more perfect to me then —I was but twelve years old—than anything in nature; luckless Anne; Henry the Sixth, who, though he is an interloper in the play, makes, through Gibber's daring, a splendidly effective acting scene; the royal army, consisting of six "scrawny," knock-kneed supers, with a very un-military look about them—all are as clear before me now as though I had seen them yesterday. How we always remember the first dip into a new sensation after impressions of things a hundredfold greater are blotted from our minds !mned/'