Judge, 1921-05-28 · page 9 of 32
Judge — May 28, 1921 — page 9: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
# "Consolation" — Analysis This poem by Walt Mason, illustrated by Ralph Barton, expresses working-class resentment toward wealthy people who earned money easily through boxing or oil speculation during the early 20th century. The cartoon depicts two figures: a muscular "Dempsey type" boxer (likely referencing champion Jack Dempsey) who "pulled down a fortune fat and great" from fighting, and an oil-well plutocrat. The poem's narrator—a struggling poet—envies their wealth while performing honest but poorly-paid labor. The satire's point: while the wealthy enjoy undeserved riches, most people who attempt such ventures fail. The consolation offered is that hardship is universal among the poor, and virtue (honest work, art, integrity) sustains the soul better than ill-gotten gains. It's essentially arguing *moral superiority* compensates for financial inferiority—a common anxiety-soothing device during America's Gilded Age wealth disparity.
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
“AP MAKes ME SORE AT Times TO see THE Despsty TYPE OF SKATE PULL DOWN FROM OFF THE CHRISTMAS-TREE A FORTUNE FAT AND GREAT." Consolation By Watt Mason Illustration by HERE'S consolation for our woes if we know where to look, and idle is the tear that flows a-down your face, gadzook! It makes me sore at times to sce the Dempsey type of skate pull down from off the Christmas-tree He meets some other low-brow freak and then it takes him quite a week to a fortune fat and great. and spars a little whil count his bulging pile While I must punch my ancient lyre and take my pay in lard, all men are worthy of their hire, except the panting bard. If I should sing a thousand years, sweet songs serene and nice, I'd still be dodging profiteers because I lacked the price. And when I read how cheap-john pugs clean up a gorgeous wad I think T'll take some deadly drugs, and sleep beneath the sod. And then there comes a soothing thought that comforts my poor soul: A thousand busted pugs have fought where one made a roll. A thousand scrappers toil and train and hope to reach the top, and all their labor is in vain—the coin they cannot cop. And, thinking thus, I take my lyre, and give the strings a shove, and sing, with undiminished fire, a lay of home and love. I see the oil-well plutocrat with passing ladies flirt, and he has diamonds on his hat, and more upon his shirt. He goes around and blows his kale as though it grew on trees, and checks come Raven Barton in by every mail—big checks for royalties. And envy grips me for a time, I walk with weary step, and when I try to write a rhyme, I cannot give it pep. “Oh, is it fair or just,” I sigh, “that [ must sweat for mon while that big fat and greasy guy has roubles by the ton? Why can't I own an oil-well, too, and smoke long rich cigars, and have a private brand to chew, and own nine motor cars?) Why am I thus condemned to toil, and eat the grub of cows, and burn cheap brands of midnight oil when other men carousc? And then to this great truth I wake (it makes my grouch a joke): Where one has made an oil-well stake, a thousand have gone broke. I think about the busted lads who lost their hard-carned rolls, who dropped the dollars of their dads in Oklahoma holes, and then I think it is a sin for poets to complain, and I take up my harp of tin and sing a joyous strain. Tomorrow Dempsey’s flaring wreath may in the dust be thrown, he may have lost a lot of teeth, and have a broken bone. But while I have my health and strength ['ll still be shaping rhymes, and making them of decent length, rake in some honest dimes. Tomorrow yonder gorgeous plute may well be on the bum, for oil-well fortunes often scoot as swiftly as they come. But while my soul possesses fire, and Tam fed on hay, my hand will twang my sounding lyre, and earn a buck a day: comicbooks.com