At 21 years of age, the New Yorker was feeling grown-up and responsible. Until last week, it had generally managed to confine its twinges of social conscience to an occasional sententious One-World outburst on a page usually devoted to more urbane or supercilious matter. It seemed to believe that no one should talk in a loud voice about anything. But last week Eustace Tilley, the New Yorker's butterfly-watching dandy, was a man with a message.
Out went all the usual cartoons, quips, verse, chichi shopping notes and critical departments. The entire issue, except for entertainment guides up front, was...
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