Page:The New Yorker 0001 1925-02-21.pdf/5

THE NEW YORKER

NTERNATIONAL Millennium Week saw stiff competition for interest between Mr. Reidt of Patchogue and Mrs. Rowan of Hollywood. Now that the former has probably abandoned his idea that he would rather, as the old saying almost goes, be himself than resident, the west can resume its almost exclusive ownership of the calendared doomsday idea. Robert E. Sherwood, the Editor of Life, tells me there is a hill near San Diego which has provided a pretty profit for its owners during the last decade because of its advantages as a celestial ascension ground. Every week some sect rents it for millennium use. Frequently previous bookings cause a readjustment of astrological computations. Should the Sons and Daughters of the Advent try to rent the hill for a private wafting upward on a privately calculated date, so popular has become the spirit of first-come-first-served, that the Sons and Daughters are usually gracious enough to re-examine the Book of Revelations so that the Reformed Disciples of the King may keep a previously scheduled tryst with heaven.

The Millerites of 1843 gave America its best world-destruction show. The whole country was affected by Prophet Miller’s promise of salvation and chaos. Two or three hundred thousand of our great-grandparents bought white ascension robes for the event. When the great day was succeeded by a normal one Miller didn’t lose hope. Instead he confessed a mere mechanical mistake in reckonings and proclaimed the big day would occur in October, ’44. A Millerite Temple went up in Boston. Another was acquired in Philadelphia. Crowds jammed the streets about the New York headquarters. Muslin for ascension robes could be bought by the bolt or in the latest Parisian models. Miller found staunch supporters by thousands to replace back-sliders.

Up in Springwater, N. Y., the house is still standing where Captain Pierce entertained the faithful on the great day. Hundreds stood on the lawn waiting to be lifted as the sun went down. They still tell the story of a local farmer who sat on a hay stack waiting for the end. Some boys crept up unseen and set fire to it as the old fellow dozed. The smoke wakened him.

“In hell!” he cried. “Just as I expected!”

As it grows throughout the rest of the country crossword puzzling wanes in New York, At least it wanes in the small group that helped make it fashionable when it was revived a year or two ago. Not that Simon & Shuster, whose green, yellow, red, mauve, ochre and blue puzzle books flood the country, are worrying. This week they are publishing a new volume of the series. According to the advertisements “celebrities” contributed all the puzzles contained in it, and (business of blushing furiously) they tell me (oh, how my cheeks are burning) mine is one of the best in it. At least I think it is.

Broadway has no end of actors out of work. But as a rule they refuse to admit the truth of their unemployment. Possibly it is because he is so well-known and liked a comedian that he doesn’t mind admitting a disastrous season now and then, that Denman Maley was prompted to make the confession below, an engraved copy of which cheered my breakfast one day last week:

DORIS RICHMOND MALEY Announces the idleness of her husband DENMAN In New York City, Commencing February first, nineteen hundred and twenty five

At Home Receiving—offers 130 West 44th Street New York City



When speaking of cross-word puzzles I intended to tell you about the gradual indentificationidentification? [sic] of the Simon & Shuster firm. When their first puzzle book came out the two young men were timid.

“Suppose,” said Simon, “it’s a flop. They'll never stop laughing at us.” His partner agreed with him. So they called themselves the Plaza Publishing Company and netted themselves something like $60,000 on the first venture. Have you noticed the subsequent volumes?

By the way, there are several good new games, new at least to me, being played at parties this winter. Have you played “Who Am I?” yet? Some one begins describing various personalia of a well known man or woman without mentioning the subject’s name, until a bright listener (usually the one in the party you would be inclined to regard as the stupidest present) asks a question of the leader, the innuendo of which shows the leader, that the subject has been identified, but is so veiled that all the other guessers are thrown off the track.

Suppose Arthur Conan Doyle is the person to be guessed. The leader might venture the following—all of which, by the way, is correct.

“I am a person of middle age, now living, who has practiced two recognized professions and recently has shown great interest in what scoffers call still another profession. In my efforts in my newest field I have travelled extensively about the United States during the last two years. I was educated in the northern part of my country and began practicing my second profession, which brought me international fame, on the west coast of Africa. In practicing this second profession I brought someone to the attention of the world whose surname begins with an H. He, too, has become internationally known. I have been recognized as a leader in my country’s national sport and was invited to be the referee of the Johnson–Jeffries fight at Reno.”

Here is a description given at a party last week, which may make you guess a little, You certainly have heard of the person described.

“I am a gray haired man, now living, who first acquired national