From The Critic: “The Lounger”

The Yellow Book is shorn of its yellowness: it is nothing
now but book. Some of the old writers are to be found in its
seventh number, but they are not their old selves, except Miss
Ella D’Arcy, but then, she never was yellow. She depends for
her effects upon legitimate work, and has won an audience that
will stand by her when The Yellow Book is forgotten. There is
a little effort made to revive the color of this quarterly by one
who signs herself “The Yellow Dwarf.” I say “herself,” be-
cause the “poor dears” and “my dears” that scintillate through
its pages are distincly feminine exclamations. Not that only,
but the whole tone of the paper is that of pose. It is the most
labored attempt at smartness that I have read in many a long
day. Really, the sophomoric naughtiness of the earlier volumes
of The Yellow Book were brilliant compared with this. The Sat-
urday Review attributes the article to the editor, Mr. Harry Har-
land. (See London Letter.)