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 r