Judge, 1919-07-26 · page 5 of 36
Judge — July 26, 1919 — page 5: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "Moderation" by Walt Mason This story-illustration satirizes excessive virtue—specifically when moral righteousness becomes tedious and self-righteous. The narrative describes a man so committed to honesty and propriety that he becomes insufferable: he's endured mockery for being "saintly," has memorized moral platitudes, and constantly lectures others with "chaste and sweet" language. The cartoon's humor lies in the protagonist's complaint that even virtuous people like himself eventually break—he nearly punches someone over a dispute about goats. Mason's point: carried to extremes, even admirable qualities (honesty, moderation, propriety) become character flaws, making the virtuous person as unbearable as the vicious. The message criticizes performative morality and suggests balanced, realistic behavior surpasses extreme righteousness.
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Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
a Twas Two o’Ciock, axp Dark as Tar, axp I Went Grouciinc Down tue Stair.” Moderation By War Mason strated by HOLD that people should be good, and set examples to the D- young, and have, in their own neighborhood, a fair renown, on every tongue. But moderation should prevail in this, as in all other schemes; for even right- cousness scems stale, when it is carried to extremes. & I try to be a saintly man, I hold bad language in disdain; and I believe the moral plan alone is good and safe and sane. But first 1am a human hick, before Tam a shining saint, and when my sore toe hits a brick, | hand out langue rich and quaint. For weeks I tread my moral way, and all my words are chaste and sweet; and then | cuss for half a day when TI break out with prickly heat. And people like me all the more when red- hot sentences I’ve hurled; the snow-white gent who never swore is too blamed good for this old world. ‘The man who cusses all the time will never cut ascemly swath; but sizzling language is sublime when it is born of honest wrath. ‘The winters freeze me to the bone, the June winds fill my eyes with dust; and truly | would blushto own that at such things ’'dnevercussed. I hold that honesty is fine, a virtue that Raven Bartox deserves our praise; the honest man will ever shine and cut much grass throughout his days. But honesty, when overdone, becomes a melancholy bore, inspiring us to get the gun that we have hung behind the door. Last night when I had hit the hay, anc sunk into a sweet repose, to my abode there came a jay who hit the door some vicious blows. was two o'clock, and dark as tar, and I went grouching down the stair, anc threw the priceless door afar, and found the village grocer there. “Last eve,” he said, “you bought a prune, when I was busy as a goat; you handed me a picayune, and then I gave you back a groat. Anc [remembered when in bed two groats would be the proper change; the thought kept runnir in my head with iteration sad and strange. I could not sleep, I could not rest, until you had that other groat; so I got out of bed anc dressed, and journeyed here in my tin boat.” “You've spoiled a night for me,” I said, “vou’ve made of happy dreams a wreck; now Pll proceed to punch your head, and wind your legs around your neck.” And thus it is with all good schemes, with all the virtues men adore; when they are carried to extremes they have the earmarks of a bore. comicbooks.com