What we found was more Poe than we’d expected, including some surprises and a few mysteries—which would have pleased Mr. Poe.

One of the surprises was a short story—“A Succession of Sundays”—about a young man who is refused permission to marry his fiancé until, as her guardian puts it, “three Sundays come together in a week.” (This is eventually accomplished, as you might have figured, with some business with the International Date Line.)

The Post also printed one of Poe early poems, “To Helen.” (“Helen, thy beauty is to me/ Like those Nicean barks of yore…”) When it appeared on May 21, 1831, Poe was so little known that the editors felt obliged to give him an introduction:

We extract the following poetry from a small 18mo [octodecimo, i.e., 4” by 6”—ed.] volume of poems, by Edgar A. Poe, a part of which was published in a former edition. The author is, we believe, a member of the U.S. Corps of Cadets, as the volume is dedicated to that body.

Poe had dedicated his book to the cadets of West Point because many of them had loaned him money to have the book printed. By the time of it appeared, Poe was long gone from the Academy.

There’s also mystery of unsigned pieces that might be the work of Poe. One is a short story entitled “A Dream” from 1831. The Post gives no more identification of the author than the letter “P.”

The narrator of the story tells of his dream, in which he imagined he was a Pharisee who has just helped to crucify Christ.

I turned away, and wandered listlessly on, till I came to the centre of Jerusalem…… A feeling of conscious pride stole over me, as I looked over the broad fields and lofty mountains which surrounded this pride of the eastern world. On my right rose Mount Olivet, covered with shrubbery and vineyards; beyond that, and bounding the skirts of mortal vision, appeared mountains piled on mountains; on the left were the lovely plains of Judea; and I thought it was a bright picture of human existence

A perfect loveliness had thrown itself over animated nature.

But…… I felt a sudden coldness creeping over me. I instinctively turned towards the sun, and saw a hand slowly drawing a mantle of crepe over it……

I heard a muttered groan, as the spirit of darkness spread his pinions over an astonished world.

Unutterable despair now seized me. I could feel the flood of life slowly rolling back to its fountain, as the fearful thought stole over me, that the day of retribution had come…

I saw a light stream from a distant window, and made my way towards it… A widow was preparing the last morsel she could glean, for her dying babe. She had kindled a little fire; and I saw with what utter hopelessness of heart she beheld the flame sink away, like her own dying hopes.

Darkness covered the universe………

It’s a short work complete with unutterable dread, gloom, and a corpse rising from a grave. If Poe didn’t write this, he would have wanted to meet the author who did.

There are also the mysterious “Edgar poems,” which appeared in 1824-25, when Poe was living in Richmond, VA. The Post gives no clue to the poet’s identity other than what happens to be Poe’s first name.

Why  bury thy charms, lovely maid,

So long in a lone rural glen?

Ah! fly from obscurity’ shade,

And shine to advantage again.

How charming the Empress of Night

Appears from a cloud as she breaks,

And rolling so splendidly bright,

All the soul to wild ecstasy wakes……… etc.

[To Miss M. C. S. of Darby]

The use of “Edgar” might be simply the choice of some poet. (Someone with a better ear for poetry will have to tell us if Poe might have any of these pieces.) But there’s another piece of coincidence connected with a poem that begins

I will bend o’er the tomb of the virtuous and brave;

His deeds of the past I will silently number,

And think, while I pensively view his one grave,

How blest is his couch, and how peaceful his slumber…… etc.

Barnaby Rudge and his pet raven, Grip

This “Edgar” poem is entitled “La Fayette At the Tomb of Washington“ and it appeared in 1824, shortly after young Edgar Allan Poe was lieutenant of the youth honor guard that was reviewed by Lafayette when he visited Richmond.

The Post also printed Poe’s 1841 review of a novel by Charles Dickens. “Barnaby Rudge” was then appearing, by installments, in American magazines. In the review, Poe praised Dicken’s ability to convey “horror” and “terror”—literary matters he could appreciate. He was particularly impressed by the character of “Grip,” a talking pet raven that belongs to the title character.

[His] croakings are to be frequently, appropriately, and prophetically heard in the coarse of the narrative and [his] whole character will perform, in regard to that of the [protagonist], much the same part as does, in music, the accompaniment in respect to the air. Each is distinct. Each differs remarkably from the other. Yet between them there is a strong analogical resemblance; and, although each may exist apart, they form together a whole, which would be imperfect, wanting either.

This is clearly the design of Mr. Dickens — although he himself may not at present perceive it. In fact, beautiful as it is, and strikingly original with him, it cannot be questioned that he has been led to it less by artistical knowledge and reflection, than by that intuitive feeling for the forcible and the true, which is the sixth sense of the man of genius.

If Dickens didn’t know what a great literary device he’d stumbled on with his talking raven, Poe could certainly appreciate its potential: just three years later, it became the heart of his most famous poem.

To read “A Dream” and judge for yourself if it’s by Poe, go here.

Undiscovered Poe? Early Works Before ‘The Black Cat’ The Saturday Evening Post

Classic Art: Dog Wanted The Saturday Evening Post

In our March/April 2012 issue, Frederick E. Allen explores the history of America’s two-party system — an issue that The Saturday Evening Post was talking about more than a hundred years ago. In the following poem from the December 23, 1911 Post, J.W. Foley rhapsodizes about straight-ticket voting.

 
 

I am the Upright Citizen —Taxpayer is my name;
I’m one of the City’s Solid Men and I’m everywhere the same;
I’ve built the sewers and paved the streets, and paid for the parks, you see,
and all the Contractors, Bosses, Beats and Leeches feed on me—
you see, I’m a Regular Party Man—it’s bred in my flesh and bone.
I’ve voted for every Republican since the party has been known
I always vote my ticket straight, though at times it’s a bitter pill;
but I never split it, and I may state that I hope I never will.

Now Smith, next door, is a Democrat, and another Solid Man,
who always knows right where he’s at— and he votes by the selfsame plan ;
and Smith is an Upright Citizen, and his name’s Taxpayer too ;
and as one of the City’s Solid Men he’s down on the Grafting Crew ;
and so am I—so we go to the polls and vote straight down the line :
two square and quite well-meaning men —and his vote offsets mine!

NOW I’ve talked with Smith and he’s talked with me, and we’ve talked quite plainly too;
and I’ve said to him : “Now, Smith, you see, I’m down on this Grafting Crew ;
our man is the man to win the fight—he’s a clean and able man.”
And Smith says: “Yes, I guess that’s right ; but he’s a Republican.
And I always vote my ticket straight from A to Z—that’s how
I’ve always done and it’s getting late to change my methods now.
Our man isn’t what he ought to be—I quite agree in that;
but he’s the party nominee, and you know I’m a Democrat.
So I guess I’ll stick to the good old ship and vote right down the line.”
And Smith makes one cross on his ballot slip—and so his vote kills mine!

SMITH talks with me in the selfsame way, and he says: “This paving job
is a downright steal, I’m free to say ; and our man’s pledged to play hob
with the deal they’ve made and we ought to stand behind him to a man.”
And I know our man has made a trade—but he’s a Republican.
So I say to Smith: “I’d like to vote for your candidate, that’s flat;
but somehow it sticks fast in my throat, for he is a Democrat.

And you know I belong to the G.O.P.—the party of Lincoln and Blaine—
and it ought to be good enough for me; so I’ll vote her straight again.”
And so we go to the polls and vote for the Gods of the Faith That Is—
it’s not just good; but what’s the odds ?—and so my vote kills his!
NOW Smith and I, we mean all right and we want things on the square;
but when there’s a Regular Party Fight, a man must do his share.

My faith comes down from Fremont’s time and his from Jefferson;
and to cling to an old-time faith’s sublime—no odds how the paving’s done!
Sometimes I think his man’s the best—sometimes he thinks mine is;
but I vote straight, north, south, east, west, and he votes straight for his.
We quite agree on little things, like the taxrolls and the streets,
the city schools, police, white wings, and the health of milk and meats;
but when it comes to matters big, like a Regular Party Plank,
why, Smith is stubborn as a pig and I’m somewhat of a crank.
And we’d like to vote alike—and then we could down the Grafting Crew ;
but we’re both Regular Party Men—so what are we going to do?

The Regular Party Man The Saturday Evening Post

This edition of Famous Contributors to The Saturday Evening Post focuses on the renowned Poet Laureate of Harlem, Langston Hughes.

Hughes’ life crisscrossed with other famous African-Americans—he went to Lincoln University along with famed civil rights attorney and Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall; his uncle was John Mercer Langston, the first African-American elected to the US Congress; and he worked alongside important figures such as W.E.B. DuBois during the Harlem Renaissance to foster creativity and expression in the black community. Hughes won the Harman Gold Medal for Literature, was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship, and received the NAACP’s yearly Spingam Medal for outstanding achievement.

His work focused on the exploitation and oppression of fellow African-Americans and, during the 1920s and 30s, much of it showed a nod to Marxism. In 1932 he visited the Soviet Union, an experience that moved the young writer deeply.

However, his controversial viewpoints would come back to haunt him later in life.  He was called in front of Joseph McCarthy’s Subcommittee on Investigations in 1953, and, although he was not charged as a “card-carrying” Communist, he was unable to make a decent living afterward. Even so, he is remembered as one of the greatest poets—of any color—in American history.

Hughes’ relationship with the Post could be described as “love-hate.” In his younger years, he described the publication as a “magazine whose columns, like the doors of many of our churches, has been until recently entirely closed to Negroes,” and criticized the magazine in his poetry. However, the relationship became more amicable as Hughes got older and he eventually submitted poetry to the magazine. Below are two poems from Hughes as they originally appeared in the Post.

Famous Contributors: Langston Hughes The Saturday Evening Post

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The Sep/Oct 2010 Limerick Laughs winner will be announced in the Jan/Feb 2011 issue. Entries must be postmarked by October 6, 2010.

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Limerick Laughs The Saturday Evening Post

Henry David Thoreau is an unusual hero among the millions of freedom seekers in American history. His sought freedom not from government or capital, but from human nature.

He took his search for personal freedom to the wilderness in 1845, on July 4th — the significance wasn’t lost on him. That day, he moved away from home to live in the woods around Walden Pond, near Concord, Massachusetts. For the next two years, Thoreau tried to liberate himself from a life of distractions, comforts, and routine. As he put it:  ”I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

He declared an independence from society to pursue a life of simplicity and honesty. “Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind.” He gardened. He wrote. He visited friends (he was living only 1.5 miles outside Concord). But he continued to reside in the tiny house for over two years. The account he wrote of his time there has changed many an American’s life.

In 1849, the Post reprinted a New York review of Thoreau’s lectures about his experiences.

A Young Philosopher Henry D. Thoreau, of Concord, Mass., has recently been lecturing on “Life in the Woods,” in Portland and elsewhere. There is not a young man in the land — and very few old ones — who would not profit by an attentive hearing of that lecture. Mr. Thoreau is a young student, who has imbibed (or rather refused to stifle) the idea that man’s soul is better worth living for than his body. Accordingly, he had built himself a house ten by fifteen feet in a piece of unfrequented woods by the side of a pleasant little lakelet, where he devotes his days to study and reflection, cultivating a small plot of ground, living frugally on vegetables, and working for the neighboring farmers whenever he is in need of money or additional exercise. It thus costs him some six to eight week’s rugged labor per year to earn his food and clothes, and perhaps an hour or two per day extra to prepare his food and fuel, keep his house in order, &c. He has lived in this way four years, and his total expenses for last year were $41.25, and his surplus earning at the close were $31.21, which he considers a better result than almost any of the farmers of Concord could show, though they have worked all the time. By this course, Mr. Thoreau lives free from pecuniary obligation or dependence on others, except that he borrows some books, which is an equal pleasure to lender and borrower. The man on whose land his is a squater is no wise injured or inconvenienced thereby. If all our young men would but hear this lecture, we think some among them would feel strongly impelled either to come to New York or go to California.

It wasn’t easy being Henry David Thoreau. He was a loner, a lifelong bachelor, an eccentric, and, at times, a contrarian who opposed the Mexican-American war and, with greater fervor, slavery. He who died young (at age 44, from tuberculosis.) His life was rough and irregular, but the rough passage is inevitable when you have to clear your own roads.

Thoreau would been quickly forgotten if he had not been championed by Ralph Waldo Emerson and his students. “Walden” was printed in small editions over the years. Scholars recognized it as a work of great talent, but not for 40 years after Thoreau’s death. Its renown among American letters is only partly due to the endorsement of English professors. His lasting fame rests on his ability to address that American hunger for independence, as in “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”

My Life.*

by H. D. Thoreau

My life is like a stroll upon the beach,

As near the ocean’s edge as I can go;

My tardy steps its waves sometimes o’erreach,

Sometimes I stay to let them overflow.

My sole employment is, and scrupulous care,

To place my gains beyond the reach of tides;

Each smoother pebble, and each shell more rare,

Which Ocean kindly to my hand confides.

I have but few companions on the shore—

They scorn the strand who sail upon the sea;

Yet oft I think the ocean they’ve sailed o’er

Is deeper known upon the strand to me.

The middle sea contains no crimson dulse**,

Its deeper waves cast up no pearls to view;

Along the shore my hand is on its pulse,

And I converse with many a shipwrecked crew.

* This poem, taken from Thoreau’s A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, appears with the title “The Fisher’s Boy” in modern collections.

** “dulse”: a red seaweed that lives attached to rocks in deep water.

An Unlikely Hero in the Fight for Personal Liberty The Saturday Evening Post

Wayne Tryhuk

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Deja Blue The Saturday Evening Post

I confess to a certain pride
That I won’t attempt to hide.
I’ll admit that it delighted me to hear
That the Father’s Day Committee,
Which is based in New York City,
Has named me one of the Fathers of the Year.

No, it’s not the least bit bad
To be honored as a dad.
Although, you may wonder what I did to win it.
If you ask how I do it,
I will say there’s nothing to it.
To explain it now will only take a minute.

It is absolutely true
That there’s nothing that I do
To make the Father’s Day Committee name me.
It all has to do with Jean
And five kids named Kathleen,
Winston, Annie, Emily, and Jamie.

Three lasses and two laddies,
I’m the luckiest of daddies.
They are wonderful as any kids could be.
And though often I’m not there,
They can hear me on the air
And also see me there on the TV.

I’m sure Jean was pleased to hear
That I’m Father of the Year.
It must thrill her as she goes about her life
To be informed that I am such a splendid guy—
And she’s the Father of the Year’s wife.

Every morning she gets up
To a day that never lets up
To pack lunches for the kids to take to school.
She does that every day,
Although I am far away.
I’m long gone to work by that time,
As a rule.

Yes, it must seem really keen.
I’m sure it must to Jean.
It must fill her with satisfying cheer
To hear that in the city
The Father’s Day Committee
Has picked me as a father of the year.

When she drives them all to school,
Trying hard to keep her cool,
As the rush hour traffic slowly moves along,
She must give a little smile
At this little daily trial
And wonder if she’s doing something wrong.

She tends to them when they’re sick;
When they’re hurt comes running quick.
It is she who helps them with the violin.
I would do it if I could,
I am certain that I would,
Were it not that I am very seldom in.

It is Jean who drives them places,
And makes sure they wash their faces,
And finds their missing jackets and their shoes.
It is she who does it all,
While yours truly has the gall
To be off somewhere gathering some news.

Jean breaks up each fight,
Reads stories every night,
And when they have troubles, takes time to hear.
She does that, truth to tell,
And she does it all so well.
That’s why they named me Father of the Year.

I eagerly await, any day now, a call from the National Grandfather’s Day Committee. Jean will be so pleased.

“Father of the Year” The Saturday Evening Post

Thanks, Steve.
It’s e-mails like this that archivists live for.
And thanks for bringing this bit of humorous nonsense to our attention. We thought we’d share it with other Post readers.

“Burden-bearing Beastie,” by Fred G. Cooper The Saturday Evening Post

This last piece doesn’t enjoy the popularity that “Casey” and “Christmas” still enjoy, but in its time it was enormously popular. Its yearning for mother and a less troubled life resonated strongly in Americans in the years following the Civil War.

It was first published by The Saturday Evening Post in 1860.

Rock Me to Sleep

by Elizabeth Akers Allen

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;—
Rock me to sleep, mother – rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Mother, Come Back from the Echoless Shore The Saturday Evening Post

It’s one thing to be careful to avoid a nasty fall,

But apart from that, I must say, I’m not risk averse at all.

Taking risks is part of life, or so it seems to me.

And nothing that’s worth doing is entirely risk free.

We cannot read the future. It’s behind a heavy curtain.

So how things will turn out is never absolutely certain.

And yet we must make choices and through our lives proceed

To either change direction or go where our choices lead.

To fall in love with someone is always to take a chance,

But to be afraid to do so would deprive life of romance.

To pick a field of study or set out on a career

Is to gamble, yet we do it, moved by passion and not fear.

We do not know what will happen or what lies around the bend.

What tomorrow has in store, much less how it will end.

Every time we choose a place to live or work or play,

Or meet someone who may become a good old friend some day.

When we take a job or hire someone, invest or make a plan,

We can’t be sure it won’t go wrong because we know it can.

There is the possibility our choices may be wrong,

But we’re all creating our own futures as we go along.

Risk does carry danger, and that cannot be ignored,

Yet risk will often carry a commensurate reward.

Though there’s wisdom in restraint and trying not to be too frisky,

If you want to really live, remember life itself is risky.

Some say better safe than sorry, but it still can be maintained

That it’s just as true to argue nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Risk (A Verse) The Saturday Evening Post

So writes Michael Schmidt in his Lives of the Poets (Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1999, pp. 436-438.)

“For him the language of verse was an aloud language, and sound counted as much as — or more than — sense. In the toils of sound he sails near to nonsense — too near, perhaps.

“Yet also in the toils of sound he will… break the rules of his chosen prosodies… when his ear tells him to. He privileges his ear over the form, and some of his finest prosodic effects are in the unexpected variations that possess an inexplicable rightness.”

Hymn To The Night

I heard the trailing garments of the Night
Sweep through her marble halls!
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light
From celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might
Stop over me from above:
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,
The manifold, soft chimes,
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night
Like some old poet’s rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,
From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care
And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breath this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair,
The best-beloved Night!

The Evening Star

The night is come, but not too soon;
And sinking silently —
All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.

There is no light in earth or heaven
But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.

Is it the tender star of love?
The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above,
A hero’s armor gleams.

And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.

O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
And I am strong again.

Within my breast there is no light
But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.

The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe’er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.

O fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know erelong,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.

Autumn

With what a glory comes and goes the year!
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life’s newness, and earth’s garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling bluebird sings,
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks
On duties well performed, and days well spent!
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves,
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings.
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go
To his long resting-place without a tear.

The Arrow And the Song

I shot the arrow in the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Longfellow in the Post The Saturday Evening Post

Voices of Love The Saturday Evening Post

Dorothy Parker? She of the caustic wit, the rapier tongue, the put-down from-which-there-is-no-comeback? Indeed, reader, it was she. Her poetry appeared in our magazine long before she had established herself as one of the country’s sharpest and funniest critics.

To say that she was a woman ahead of her time is an understatement.  Half-Scottish and half-Jewish, Ms. Parker was born in 1893 into a tumultuous childhood. Her mother died while Dorothy was still young, and she came to despise her father and step-mother.

She left for New York where she began a promising career at Vanity Fair. She also co-founded the inner circle of America’s literary talent: the Round Table at New York’s Algonquin hotel. There she gained immense respect from the leading writers of the day, and could summon maximum laughter with minimal words, though everyone was wary of her cyical wit. Another member of the Round Table described her as “a blend of Little Nell and Lady Macbeth.”

Her critical reviews for Vanity Fair were as funny as they were devastating. Writing of actress Marion Davies, Dorothy said she had “only two expressions, joy and indigestion.” She said of Katherine Hepburn that her performance ran the gamut of emotions “from A to B.” In one book review, she wrote, “This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.”

She became friends with other Vanity Fair writers: Robert Benchley and Robert Sherwood. These three, according to a 1939 Post article, “brought to Vanity Fair a new wit and alertness, but Condé Nast, its publisher, found himself wondering if, perhaps, these qualities were not being achieved at the sacrifice of others more valuable — office discipline, for instance.

There was the time Nast posted a notice forbidding employees to speculate about one another’s salaries. Immediately, Benchley, Parker & Sherwood splashed “$27.50 per” on huge placards and wore them about their necks.”

When Parker proved too critical in their review, Vanity Fair fired her. She and Benchley rented an office from where they could launch their free-lance writing careers.

“They took an office in the Metropolitan Opera House — a triangular room with space enough for a table, two chairs and two typewriters. The only other furniture was a gigantic mirror.

Since the room seemed to lack the personal touch, they soaped on the mirror, “Today’s Special; Yankee Pot Roast, 45¢,” hung up a pennant with the word “Spain,” and had a sign painter letter their door:

UTICA DROP FORGE & TOOL CO.

ROBERT BENCHLEY, PRESIDENT

DOROTHY PARKER, PRESIDENT

Their last preparation was to obtain a cable address: “Park-bench.” The firm of Benchley & Parker was ready for business.”

Dorothy’s personal life was a roller-coaster.  She was married three times, twice to the same man.  (“I require three things of a man,” she said. “He must be handsome, ruthless, and stupid.”)

She moved to Hollywood with her second (and third) husband Alan Campbell in 1933 and worked in the movie industry.  She was nominated for an Academy Award for her work with “A Star Is Born.”

Politically, her views made her a target of the government during the Cold War era.  She was active in left-wing politics and was red-listed by the studios she had worked for in the anti-communism sentiment that seized Hollywood after World War II.

The poems below are among the scores that were published by the Post.

To A Lady (10/14/22)

Lady, pretty lady, delicate and sweet,
Timorous as April, frolicsome as May,

Many are the hearts that lie beneath your feet
As they go a-dancing down the sunlit way.

Lady, pretty lady, blithe as trilling birds,
Shy as early sunbeams play your sudden smile.

How you quaintly prattle lilting baby words,
Fluttering your helpless little hands the while!

Lady, pretty lady, bright your eyes and blue,
Who could be a-counting all the hearts they broke?

Not a man you meet that doesn’t fall for you;
Lady, pretty lady, how I hope you choke!

Song of the Conventions (2/24/23)

We’d dance, with grapes in our wind-tossed hair,
And garments of swirling smoke;

We’d fling wild song to the amorous air,
Till the long-dead gods awoke.

Our quivering bodies, young and white,
Poised light by the brooklet’s brink,

We’d whirl and leap through the moon-mad night-
But what would the neighbors think?

We’d bid the workaday world go hang,
And idle the seasons through;

We’d pay no tribute of thought or pang
To the world that we once knew.

With hearts in ecstasy intertwined,
In languorous, sweet content,

We’d leave all worry and care behind-
But how would we pay the rent?

We’d roam the universe, hand in hand,
Through tropical climes, or cold,

And find each spot was a wonderland,
A country of pearl and gold.

Our hearts as light as the sunlit foam,
We’d voyage the oceans o’er,

With never a thought for those at home-
But wouldn’t our folks be sore?

A Triolet

You’ll be returning one day.
(such premonitions are true ones.)
Treading the dew-spangled way,
You’ll be returning one day.
I’ll have a few things to say—
I’ve learned a whole lot of new ones.
You’ll be returning, one day.
(Such premonitions are true ones.)

Song (3)

When summer used to linger,
Before the daisies died,
You’d but to bend your finger
And I was by your side.
And, oh, my heart was breaking,
And, oh, my life was through;
You had me for the taking;
“Now run along,” said you.

But now the summer’s over,
The birds have flown away,
And all the amorous clover
Has turned to sober hay.
And you’re the one to tarry,
And you’re the one to sigh,
And beg me, will I marry.
“The deuce I will,” say I.

Grandfather Said It

When I was but a little thing of two, or maybe three,
My granddad—on my mother’s side—would lift me on his knee;
He’d take my thumb from out my mouth and say to me: “My dear,
Remember what I tell you when you’re choosing a career:

“Take in laundry work; cart off dust;
Drive a moving van if you must;
Shovel off the pavement when the snow lies white;
But think of your family, and please don’t write.”

When I was two I cannot say his counsel knocked me cold.
But now it all returns—for, darling, I am growing old,
And when I read the writing of the authors of today
I echo all those golden words that grandpa used to say:

“Clean out ferrboats; peddle fish;
Go be chorus men if you wish;
Rob your neighbors’ houses in the dark midnight;
But think of your families, and please don’t write.”

Update: Added correct picture. Thanks to Kevin for pointing out the error.

Poetry by Dorothy Parker The Saturday Evening Post

We offer it as a trivia challenge to historians, who should see how many of the references they understand. Several should be easy, such as President Taft, suffragettes, and the Wright Brothers, and others. But how many will ‘get’ the references to the Spanish revolution, “Mr. Raisuli,” Blériot, “Count Zep,” Payne, Hale, and “Brother Tilman.”

The World, the Flesh, and 1909, by Wallace Irwin, January 1, 1910

We also offer this in homage to “Ima Ryma,” who has regularly provided sonnetized commentary on our Retrospective articles. In the new year, we promise to write on subjects that are easier to rhyme than “Pinchot,” “Nixon,” and “Yuletide.”

Read the original poem, published in January 1, 1910 [PDF].

A Poem for the Passing of 2009 The Saturday Evening Post