Tilley's Farewell

For most of ten years the best of many columns in Manhattan, on Manhattan, for Manhattan has been "Notes and Comment," which leads off The New Yorker's "Talk of the Town" section. Last week's column, best & saddest of them all, was devoted to Manhattan's most popular mythical character, the top-hatted dandy (portrayed, in the full pride of youth, by Artist Rea Irvin) who on the first cover of The New Yorker, and every year on its anniversary issue in mid-February stares through his monocle at a butterfly.

"We looked up Mr. Eustace Tilley this week, on the eve of his departure from the city--his 'maiden' departure, as he pointed out. The elegant old gentleman was found in his suite at the Plaza, his portmanteau packed, his mourning doves wrapped in clotted swiss, his head in a sitz bath for a last shampoo. Everywhere, scattered about the place, were grim reminders of his genteel background: a cold bottle of Tavel on the lowboy, a spray of pinks in a cut-glass bowl, an album held with a silver clasp, and his social-security card copied in needlepoint and framed on the wall. We begged the privilege of an interview. . . . Mr. Tilley let the comb drop into his lap, and turned half around, his magnincent profile etched in light from the window.

" 'We live in a new world,' he said. 'St. Bernards are killing little girls. Books, or what pass for books, are being photographed on microfilm. There is a cemetery I want to see,' he continued, 'a grove where ancient trees shelter the graves and throw their umbrage on the imponderable dead. The branches of these trees, my dear young man, are alive with loudspeakers. I believe Upper Montclair is the place. That is one reason for my departure--I have certain macabre pilgrimages to make, while the lustiness is still in my bones. . . .'

"The elderly eccentric rose, phoned for a bellboy, and gathered his last-minute personal effects into the pocket of his waistcoat. We accompanied him down to the street, where a victoria was drawn up at the curb, the driver waiting by the head of his old cob. Cameras clicked as Tilley stepped into the carriage and sat down. He held his brassie at his side, stiffly, like a sword. By his side sat a pretty girl, who welcomed him to the carriage and made him comfortable.

" 'You are wondering, of course, who this young female might be,' growled Tilley. We nodded.

" 'A hostess,' said Tilley, coldly. 'Provided by the livery stable. Another dubious wonder of the modern world. In the event of emergency, she will be the one to walk to the nearest farmhouse, give the alarm, and be photographed.* Well, au revoir!' The coachman whipped up his cob, and the little party rumbled off along Fifty-ninth Street, Tilley brandishing his brassie with great ferocity at a horsefly. As we turned, we discovered to our surprise that the sidewalk, where he had paused a moment, was a pool of tears."

This "Notes and Comment," like nearly all of its predecessors was written by Elwyn Brooks ("Andy") White, not elderly (38), not eccentric, but melancholy and increasingly troubled about the world. It was his curtain speech in The New Yorker. He was going away on a year's leave-of-absence, maybe a dozen years, to give himself time to think about progress & politics, whether to get out of their jumpy wake or try to catch up with them. He will probably consult with his melancholy colleague, James Grover Thurber, who is now in Europe sending back an occasional piece to The New Yorker.

With Mr. White gone, and until Mr. Thurber's return next spring, the guiding minds of The New Yorker will be Editor Harold Ross, St. Clair McKelway, Wolcott Gibbs and Mrs. White (Katharine Sergeant Angell), who remains in Manhattan as managing editor. But "Notes and Comment" will be written by a newcomer to the metropolitan scene, Romeyn ("Rym") Berry, longtime (1919-36) graduate manager of athletics at Cornell University. Rym Berry is about as much like Andy White as a polar bear is like an amoeba. Shy, smallish Mr. White first met big Mr. Berry, who is the equal of Editor Ross in sudden irascibility, at Cornell where both were members of Book & Bowl, beer-drinking literary society.

Rym Berry was editor of the Cornell Widow in the time of George Jean Nathan, then practiced law in Manhattan, returned to Ithaca to direct athletics and establish himself as a campus character, famed for his brown tweed hat with grouse feather. What little writing he did was for local, college or farm papers. The New Yorker tried him out for two weeks in May, with instant success. Sensing in his work some of the curious detachment that marked Andy White's "Notes and Comment," The New Yorker persuaded Rym Berry to leave campus & farm, to come to town.

* For a further account of this modern institution, see p. 48.

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