On This Day in 1925: “There would be no New Yorker today if it were not for her.”

One hundred years ago today, February 17, 1925, the premiere issue of The New Yorker magazine appeared on newsstands in New York City. The 15,000-copy print run, dated February 21, cost 15 cents, the equivalent of about $2.70 today.

The publication was the culmination of nearly five years of planning by Jane Grant and Harold Ross, two journalists (and husband and wife) determined to create a magazine unlike any other.  

(Jane Grant and Harold Ross in the mid-1920s. Jane Grant papers, University of Oregon)

As Jane later explained, “Our magazine would fill the metropolitan gap. It would be so attractive, gay and informative, that it would be an asset on any library table. It could be read for the entire week, or more, for there would be articles for leisurely reading in addition to those of timely interest. It would be a new medium for local advertisers. The ads would be individual, sophisticated and lively—a new departure in that field.”

The first issue contained several paragraphs of “Of All Things,” many of which referenced The New Yorker, some fiction, short pieces on current books, plays, and movies, and a profile of Giulio Gatti-Casazza, manager of the Metropolitan Opera. Despite Harold Ross’s preference for anonymous articles, some were attributed—or as Jane put it, some writers were “brave enough to sign their names”—including Franklin P. Adams, Corey Ford, and Fairfax Downey.

Overall, however, the premiere lacked the coherent vision that Ross and Jane had so carefully crafted. The only thing Ross liked about the February 21st issue was its cover. Designed by The New Yorker’s art editor, Rea Irving, it depicted a fashionable, cavalier socialite (later named Eustace Tilley) inspecting a butterfly through his monocle. It complemented the magazine’s title, reflected its content and style, and was eye-catching enough to entice newsstand browsers—exactly what Ross had in mind.

Despite advanced publicity, some of it orchestrated by the public relations giant Edward Bernays, including two articles in the New York Times (Jane, one of its reporters, may have also played a role in their placement), The New Yorker fell flat.

 During the first week of the launch, as Jane moved about the city for her Times reporting duties, she checked hotel newsstands to see how many New Yorkers she could find. There they sat. Ross joined her at night to investigate other locations, and they found the same. “The piles of unsold The New Yorkers were staggering,” she later remembered. “We had hoped it would be an immediate triumph as well as a literary one. Failure hung all about us.”

That fear of failure involved more than their careers. Jane and Ross sunk their personal savings into the magazine. Failure would mean a double ruin for them.

But The New Yorker survived and has been publishing now for one hundred years. It is a remarkable achievement. And as Harold Ross admitted of Jane Grant’s role, “There would be no New Yorker today if it were not for her.”

(Jane Grant and Harold Ross, NYPL Digital Collections)

What’s in a Name?

Since I’ve been thinking of 2025 as the year of Jane Grant, I’ve been finding reminders of her in unexpected places.

Including episode 6, “Meet Michael Vanderkellen,” which originally aired on November 13, 1989 in the eighth and final season of the 1980s sitcom Newhart.*

The episode centers on newlyweds Michael Harris (Peter Scolari) and his wife Stephanie Vanderkellen (Julia Duffy) who are expecting their first child. Michael is unemployed. Stephanie, heiress to a huge fortune but, unable to independently access any of those funds, has been working as a maid at Dick (Bob Newhart) and Joanna (Mary Frann) Loudon’s Stratford Inn in Vermont. Now her room at the inn is not big enough for her growing family.

So Stephanie asks her mother to buy them a mansion in town. Mrs. Vanderkellen (Priscilla Morrill) agrees, but only if Michael changes his last name to Vanderkellen. Because Stephanie is an only child—and a woman—the elder Vanderkellens want insurance that their family name will go on.

Michael, the epitome of a materialistic Yuppie, asks for clarification. “You want me to sell my name, my legacy, my very being, for a house?” Then he immediately agrees.

No one suggests that Stephanie simply continue using her birth name and have the child use it, too.

Instead, Dick points out to Michael, “You sold your soul for a lot of closet space. Don’t you get it? When you give away your name, you’re giving away your identity, your integrity.”

Joanna interjects.

“Of course not,” he replies.

“Why is that?”

[You all know what’s coming.]

“You’re a woman.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’re not a man.”

“So?”

“So it’s different.”

“What do you mean, it’s different?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Dick, I know what different means.”

“Good. I’m glad we cleared that up.”

Nothing is in fact cleared up. Dick is perfectly happy with the logic of his explanation, Joanna doesn’t buy it, and Stephanie simply doesn’t care.

Jane Grant faced the same range of responses more than sixty years earlier when she decided that marriage should not require her to give away her identity.

She married Harold Ross in New York City in March of 1920, not long after they both returned from France, where she had worked for the YMCA and he had been serving in the U.S. army. It was a quick, no-frills wedding at the Church of the Transfiguration. After the ceremony, the church secretary startled Jane with, “Congratulations, Mrs. Ross.”

“Never for a moment had I considered the possibility of losing my name,” Jane later wrote. The secretary’s comment “jolted me into the realization that my very own name might have been dissolved when the minister finished the ceremony.” She decided to remain Jane Grant.

In terms of legalities, this was not a simple thing to do, so in 1921, Jane and her friend Ruth Hale launched the Lucy Stone League, an organization that helped married women retain their birth names. (The State Department, for instance, would not allow a married woman to use her birth name on her passport.) The league’s goal attracted the attention of the National Woman’s Party, led by the charismatic suffragist Alice Paul, who would soon begin the long battle to secure the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment.

The two organizations joined forces on some projects, and many women belonged to both groups. The Lucy Stone League attracted much media attention, and soon any married woman who was known by her birth name was described as a Lucy Stoner.

The league operated as an official organization through the mid-1920s. Jane Grant revived it in 1950, along with Doris Fleischman, expanding its purpose to include pursuing “all civil and social rights of women” and serving as a center for research and information about the status of women. As such, the Lucy Stone League became a foundation for the so-called second wave of feminism that surfaced in the 1960s.

Yet in terms of the league’s original goal, appeals to equal rights proved no match for tradition. Over the next decades, only a small percentage of married women opted to retain their birth names. The 1989 airing date of that Newhart episode marked a kind of high point in a slight uptick of women doing so.

In “Making a Name: Women’s Surnames at Marriage and Beyond,” published in the spring 2004 issue of the Journal of Economic Perspectives, Claudia Goldin and Maria Shim speculated that by the 1990s, “Perhaps surname-keeping seems less salient as a way of publicly supporting equality for women than it did in the late 1970s and 1980s. Perhaps a general drift to more conservative social values has made surname-keeping less attractive.”

Nearly twenty years later, a 2023 study by the Pew Research Center found, “Most women in opposite-sex marriages (79%) say they took their spouse’s last name when they got married. Another 14% kept their last name, and 5% hyphenated both their name and their spouse’s name.”

“Women’s rights” has always been capacious. Jane Grant’s interest began with a small slice that quickly allowed her to see larger connections. Her commitment to gender equality issues likely played a big part in her divorce from Harold Ross. It also likely enriched and strengthened her relationship with William Harris, her second husband. Jane remained Jane Grant after their marriage, too. She never wavered.

* During season 8, Newhart spun out of control as it headed for its now famous finale.

[**spoiler alert**]

The whole thing—all eight seasons—had been the dream of Chicago psychologist Bob Hartley, the main character of Bob Newhart’s eponymous (and much better) 1970s sitcom.