ntist. And in the present case the poet will dwell on the tiny
trumpets of ivory into which the white flower breaks, and leave to the
man of science horrid allusions to its supposed lumpiness and indiscreet
revelations of its private life below ground. In fact, 'tuber' as a
derivation is disgraceful. On the roots of verbs Philology may be
allowed to speak, but on the roots of flowers she must keep silence. We
cannot allow her to dig up Parnassus. And, as regards the word being a
trisyllable, I am reminded by a great living poet that another correctly
wrote:

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,
The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime
Grew in that garden in perfect prime.

In justice to Shelley, whose lines I quote, your readers will admit that
I have good authority for making a dissyllable of tuberose.--I am, Sir,
your obedient servant,

THE CRITIC,
WHO HAD TO READ FOUR VOLUMES OF MODERN POETRY.
March 30.

HAMLET AT THE LYCEUM

(Dramatic Review, May 9, 1885.)

It sometimes happens that at a premiere in London the least enjoyable
part of the performance is the play. I have seen many audiences more
interesting than the actors, and have often heard better dialogue in the
foyer than I have on the stage. At the Lyceum, however, this is rarely
the case, and when the play is a play of Shakespeare's, and among its
exponents are Mr. Irving and Miss Ellen Terry, we turn from the gods in
the gallery and from the goddesses in the stalls, to enjoy the charm of
the production, and to take delight in the art. The lions are behind the
footlights and not in front of them when we have a noble tragedy nobly
acted. And I have rarely witnessed such enthusiasm as that which greeted
on last Saturday night the two artists I have mentioned. I would like,
in fact, to use the word ovation, but a pedantic professor has recently
informed us, with the Batavian buoyancy of misapplied learning, that this
expression is not to be employed except when a sheep has been sacrificed.
At the Lyceum last week I need hardly say nothing so dreadful occurred.
The only inartistic incident of the evening was the hurling of a bouquet
from a box at Mr. Irving while he was engaged in pourtraying the agony of
Hamlet's death, and the pathos of his parting with Horatio. The Dramatic
College might take up the education of spectators as well as that of
players, and teach people tha