The New Yorker

In Dubuque, Iowa, there lives, doubtless, an old lady. Her existence is recognized only because certain middle-aged people in Manhattan began some weeks ago to think about her. She came frequently into their conversation and, at each allusion, a leer passed round the company—all spoke in derisive terms of her taste, though the kinder-hearted merely pitied her for being the victim of an unfortunate environment.

These people, the agile Pulcinellas of Manhattan's Grub Street,* were outlining the policy of a magazine they had decided to publish— The New Yorker. "The purpose," they said, "of The New Yorker will be to reflect New York life through its treatment of the lives and personalities of the day. It will not be what is called radical or highbrow. It will be what is called sophisticated . . . will publish facts which it will have to go behind the scenes to get . . . hopes to reflect metropolitan life." Then said someone: "It will not be edited for the old lady in Dubuque."

That old lady—did she know the chitchat, the gibble-gabble, the pussy-words of Manhattan sophisticates, the wisecracks sprung in the hashhouses of 44th Street, the nicknames of semi-celebrities? That poor old lady. It will not be for the old lady in Dubuque. That was a good sentence. The editors put it in their circular. They put it in letters to possible subscribers, they wrote it large on cards which they tacked up about the town.

Last week, Manhattanites found the first issue of The New Yorker on their club tables, their hotel stands, their back-alley kiosks; they ruffled its pages, found it to contain one extremely funny original joke, tagged, unfortunately, with a poor illustration; several pages of skits upon such subjects as after-dinner speaking, radio, the "life of a popular song," the New York Graphic. Columbus's arrival in Manhattan, a column called "Talk of the Town" signed Van Bibber III; an article on Giulio Gatti-Casazza, Director of the Metropolitan Opera Company, by one Golly-Wogg; "The Theatre," by Last Night; "Art," by Froid; "Moving Pictures," by Will Hays Jr.; Wall Street Notes, by Well Known Broker. These Manhattanites chuckled at several jokes which they had chuckled at before, glared at several which they had never before encountered. They wondered whether subtlety or myopia were responsible for "The Optimist."

POP: A man who thinks he can make it in par.

JOHNNY: What is an optimist, Pop?

They turned to an editorial signed by The New Yorker himself, who realized "certain shortcomings" and recognized "that it is impossible for a magazine fully to establish its character in one number," further stating that the magazine "is not edited for the old lady in Dubuque."

Dubuque, population 39,141, produces wagons, coffins, clothing, boots, river steamboats, barges, torpedo boats, was once rated the fourth important manufacturing centre in the U. S. It has a notable public library, an insane asylum, a business college. To an old lady in Dubuque there was sent a copy of The New Yorker. She was asked by telegram for an opinion. Replied she: