From Saturday Review: Review of The Yellow Book

Some people dislike journalistic condemnation of
themselves of their works, other are indifferent to it,
and yet others enjoy it. We belong to that last class.
Of course, if the mark is hit, if shaft after shaft goes in
the clout, every one enjoys the game; dextereity is
admirable even when malevolent. But mere malevo-
lence itself, clumsy, uncouth, and pretentious malevo-
lence, interests us; every human passion has a stimu-
lating effect. Much, too, might be written in defence of
hatred: it stirs the stagnant waters of life, it is the
complement and correlative of love; the deepest
capable of being what Johnson called “good haters,”
may yet, in their degree, dislike one and sky snow-
balls at one from behind, and so aff interest to life.
Fot this reason we mention the latest “Yellow Book,”
and for this reason alone. There is a contributor in it,
who signs himself a “Yellow Dwarf,” who is as peevish,
amlicious, and sickly as any dwarf of romance. He
dislikes the SATURDAY REVIEW and its present editor,
and he has had particular good reason to dislike them.
Did not the SATURDAY reviewer poke fun at “Grey
Roses”? The “Yellow Dwarf” is Mr. Henry Harland.
The jargon he writes, a sort of Frenchified English that
shows ignorance of both languages, is as characteristic
of him as the parti-coloured hose was of Malvolio. We
have had Mr. Harland’s praise in the past, over his
signature; we not have his blame from behind a
mask; we prefer the balem, and Mr. Harland need not
conceal his identity.