Judge, 1920-07-03 · page 9 of 36
Judge — July 3, 1920 — page 9: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# Analysis: "The Place of Rest" This is a humorous short story with illustration rather than a political cartoon. It satirizes the commercialization of American leisure and the inescapability of aggressive salesmanship in early 20th-century life. The narrative follows a man seeking solitude—first at Estes Park, then at the beach—only to be constantly pestered by traveling salesmen hawking cheap goods (kodak cameras, books) and tourists with their own commercial enterprises. The joke culminates when he rescues a drowning woman, only to discover she's a con-artist book agent who deliberately staged the drowning to capture his attention and sell him cheap "Scott" novels. The satire targets two things: the exhausting omnipresence of salesmen and advertising, and the desperation of commercial vendors who will use any deceptive tactic to make a sale. For modern readers, it reflects anxieties about commercialism invading every space—concerns that resonate today with digital advertising and marketing saturation.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“At Last | Gor Her Hanp tx Mine anv Draccep Her to tHe Beacu.’ The Place of Rest By Watt Mason Illustration by Ravpu Barton CANNOT find it, east or west, the place where weary souls may rest, from all annoyance free; I’ve searched for it throughout the land, on mountain peak, on desert sand, and by the sobbing sca._I’d like to find some shel- tered nook where one might sit and read a book, or play the ouija board, and hear no rude, discordant yawps, and hear no man discuss the crops, or brag about his ford. But I have failed to find a haunt to which a weary gent might jaunt, and be secure and safe, from agents with their cheapjohn wares, from tourists with their kodak snares, from bores who grieve and chafe. Last year I went to Estes Park and climbed the mountain, stern and dark, and sat upon its brow; and then I said, “The rubbernecks can’t trail me here, my soul to vex, they can’t sur- round me now. Alone upon this mountain peak, where only bughouse eagles shriek, I cast all care away; remote from cities and their din, from tourists in their cars of tin, I may enjoy my day.” And then I heard a near-by sound, and I beheld, on looking round, an agent, with his bag; he had a six-foot shelf of books, and I collapsed, and cried, “Gadzooks!” and tumbled off a crag. I fell a mile before I lit upon a pile of rocks and grit, hard by the mountain wall; -and all the while the kodak fans, and other snap-shot also-rans took pictures of my fall. This year I said, “I'll seek the shore, and there, where large wet billows roar, find solitude and peace; there by the ocean wild and wide I'll sit and watch the mighty tide, and dream of ancient Greece.” This morn I journeyed to the sea, where all the well-known billows be, and sat me down to dream; but ere I’d dreamed a single word, above the breakers’ din I heard a wild despairing scream. A dame was drowning close at hand! I threw my lid upon the sand, and plunged into the wave; “although I don’t know how to swim,” I muttered, “I will lose a limb, or that peach I will save.” I sloshed around among the brine; at last I got her hand in mine, and dragged her to the beach; and when she'd gagged and gasped a while she turned upon me with a smile, and made this little speech: “I've tried, my friend, to catch your eye, a dozen times, as I passed by, but never could succeed; so I embarked in yonder punt, and played this little drowning stunt, and it has worked, indeed. I’m agent for the works of Scott, the finest line of tommyrot man ever put in type; its humor always makes a hit; ’tis full of pathos and of wit, and wisdom rich and ripe. You only pay a dollar down—a yen, a rouble or a crown—and fifty cents a week; and then these noble tomes are yours, the best they are of mental cures, that jaded men can seek.” comicbooks.com