The title-page of Tiff informs us that it was written by the author of Lucy; or, a Great Mistake, which seems to us a form of anonymity, as we have never heard of the novel in question.  We hope, however, that it was better than Tiff, for Tiff is undeniably tedious.  It is the story of a beautiful girl who has many lovers and loses them, and of an ugly girl who has one lover and keeps him.  It is a rather confused tale, and there are far too many love-scenes in it.  If this ‘Favourite Fiction’ Series, in which Tiff appears, is to be continued, we would entreat the publisher to alter the type and the binding.  The former is far too small:  while, as for the cover, it is of sham crocodile leather adorned with a blue spider and a vulgar illustration of the heroine in the arms of a young man in evening dress.  Dull as Tiff is—­and its dulness is quite remarkable—­it does not deserve so detestable a binding.

(1) Her Son.  Translated from the German of E. Werner by Christina Tyrrell. (Richard Bentley and Son.)

(2) Scamp.  By J. Sale Lloyd. (White and Co.)

(3) James Hepburn.  By Sophie Veitch. (Alexander Gardner.)

(4) Tiff.  By the Author of Lucy; or, A Great Mistake.  ’Favourite Fiction’ Series. (William Stevens.)

TWO BIOGRAPHIES OF KEATS

(Pall Mall Gazette, September 27, 1887.)

A poet, said Keats once, ‘is the most unpoetical of all God’s creatures,’ and whether the aphorism be universally true or not, this is certainly the impression produced by the two last biographies that have appeared of Keats himself.  It cannot be said that either Mr. Colvin or Mr. William Rossetti makes us love Keats more or understand him better.  In both these books there is much that is like ‘chaff in the mouth,’ and in Mr. Rossetti’s there is not a little that is like ‘brass on the palate.’  To a certain degree this is, no doubt, inevitable nowadays.  Everybody pays a penalty for peeping through keyholes, and the keyhole and the backstairs are essential parts of the method of the modern biographers.  It is only fair, however, to state at the outset that Mr. Colvin has done his work much better than Mr. Rossetti.  The account Mr. Colvin gives of Keats’s boyhood, for instance, is very pleasing, and so is the sketch of Keats’s circle of friends, both Leigh Hunt and Haydon being admirably drawn.  Here and there, trivial family details are introduced without much regard to proportion, and the posthumous panegyrics of devoted friends are not really of so much value, in helping us to form any true estimate of Keats’s actual character, as Mr. Colvin seems to imagine.  We have no doubt that when Bailey wrote to Lord Houghton that common-sense and gentleness were Keats’s two special characteristics the worthy Archdeacon meant extremely well, but we prefer the real Keats, with his passionate wilfulness, his fantastic moods and his fine inconsistence.  Part