Even More NEW YORKER Ads

 

Four New Yorker covers, 1928

Hello there, fans of The New Yorker and Tudor City. Time for another installment of the magazine's ads for the colony; these all ran in 1928, Tudor City's first year of operation. The artwork for this ad campaign had absolutely nothing to do with Tudor City, and as for the copy, it exists for New Yorker readers to enjoy it.  

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Beware Traffic Cops

This speed was simply dizzying. It was bad enough, thought Mr. Bloomfield, when you didn't have to go downhill. Why, in any of these towns, he might get a summons. He feared that the traffic cops were learning to watch for him lately. Mike had been quite cold to him going through Flushing the other morning.

And then. . . disgrace. He could hear Patch, the general manager. . . "We regret, Mr. Bloomfield, that the circumstances. . . an old conservative firm such as ours. . . I am sure you will understand."

Bertha had been against this bicycling from the beginning. How right she was. He could still hear her plaintive words, "Oh Ned, if we only lived where you could walk."

And why not? From Tudor City you can walk wherever you want to go. High, quiet and airy on the East River Front, Tudor City is just four minutes from Grand Central. An independent community with its own shops, restaurant, garage, parks, even a miniature golf course. A variety of apartments at reasonable rentals.

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Clattering Caravans

Rocking along on stilts ‒ clinging desperately to his mount as the hard, slippery seat careens beneath him. . . swaying to the rough, uneasy motion. . . Mr. Buntling rides the "L."

Perhaps the novelty, the adventure that drew him to the outlandish means of travel has worn off. Perhaps the "L" wasn't so bad when he was younger. But whatever the cause, Mr. Buntling is not a happy man. Traffic below crawls, snail-like; mournfully he views the years ahead.

Still, it is not too late. There is a haven for the Mr. Buntlings, where they can march afoot to storm the citadels of finance. No overland journey, no storms at sea. Tudor City ‒ an independent community on the East River Front, just four minutes' walk from Grand Central. High, quiet and airy, with shops, restaurant, park, miniature golf course, everything ingenuity could devise to make life pleasanter. And assorted apartments at reasonable rentals.     

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Heavy Going. . .

The trail was in horrible condition. Stumbling, panting, his rickshaw boys ran on. Tooting to warn the local fauna, they swung at dizzying speed around the tangled roots of subway excavation. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. Down a long, clear stretch, rocking and creaking. And then. . . snagged on a traffic light, while the sahib blistered the already tropical air.

No way to treat nerves. . . specially those of a high powered executive. Taxi-ing to work might be quick, but it certainly was the equivalent of a full day's work in nervous strain. He would make the office in time to phone his broker, but Zounds! What good would it do him. . . in this condition. Poor Mr. Spitkin.

He's cured now. The doctor prescribed air and exercise. And quiet. He lives in Tudor City and walks to the office, sedately, with contemplative eyes. He sits in the park, or putts about the miniature golf course. A quiet, independent community on the East River Front, with its own parks, restaurants, shops and reasonable rentals.    

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Paul and Virginia Took the 5:17

It was the last time. Not the first, but the last. For it seems that Virginia liked her new clothes. While Paul had never liked the 5:17. They always seemed to reach Moorland-by-the-Fells just in time to meet Jupiter Phoenix. There were five taxis in Moorland-by-the-Fells. And 500 inhabitants who commuted.

The rest of the story is brief and simple. Virginia said no tree was worth it. Paul knew where there was a tree in New York. Several, in fact, with lawns, fountains, rustic seats, even a miniature golf course. So they live in Tudor City, forever free of the 5:17. Just four minutes from Grand Central, within walking distance of almost everything. An independent community with restaurants and coffee house, laundry, valet and maid service, garage, medical nursing bureau and a supervised playground for the children. A variety of apartments at reasonable rentals.

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For those interested, some earlier posts about The New Yorker, here and here and here.