It is now the middle of February and by this time most magazines have got their Fourth of July issue behind them and are relaxing before the strenuous work on the Big Christmas Number. By nature THE NEW YORKER cannot be so forehanded. Most of its contents must be speedily prepared by a dozen persons and the magazine must be speedily put together. Because of the necessity for this haste THE NEW YORKER asks consideration for its first number. It recognizes certain shortcomings and realizes that it is impossible for a magazine fully to establish its character in one number. At the same time it feels a great deal of pride in many of its features and heart-felt gratitude for the support it already has received. THE NEW YORKER starts with a declaration of serious purpose but with a concomitant declaration that it will not be too serious in executing it. It hopes to reflect metropolitan life, to keep up with events and affairs of the day, to be gay, humorous, satirical but to be more than a jester. It will publish facts that it will have to go behind the scenes to get, but it will not deal in scandal for the sake of scandal nor sensation for the sake of sensation. It will try conscientiously to keep its readers informed of what is going on in the fields in which they are most interested. It has announced that it is not edited for the old lady in Dubuque. By this it means that it is not of that group of publications engaged in tapping the Great Buying Power of the North American steppe region by trading mirrors and colored beads in the form of our best brands of hokum. THE TALK OF THE TOWN INTERNATIONAL 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 Octobcr, '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!”