Yet, when all allowance has been made for inconsistency and extravagance, we cannot deny that a strongly marked vein of discontent and dissatisfaction--often too well-grounded--with the "scheme of things in general" runs through the pages of _Punch_ throughout these years, culminating in a dismal explosion of pessimism in March, 1884, over the decadence, the degeneracy and the vulgarity of the age:-- THE "ZEIT-GEIST" Oh, for the Muse that laughed and stung On _Gulliver's_ indignant tongue! Curt was his speech and fierce and strong, In lofty scorn of Cant and Wrong,-- And small indeed the times that teach Weakness of grip for strength of speech, Craving once more that Muse to fire The chords of Satire's slackened lyre! Oh, little day of little men, What themes invite the mocker's pen! What rush for wealth at any cost, Honour and Health defied and lost; What blatant parodies of Fame (That hardly won and noble name), Dragged in the sickly spectral lee Of sallow Notoriety; Ambition's highest aim to quaff The rinsings of a paragraph, And Life's whole purpose sunk and spent To furnish an advertisement! Oh, for some Juvenalian verse Thy sound and fury to rehearse, While Indignation pours the strain Which Nature may desire in vain.[9] Where'er the stifled spirit fly, What sights and sounds obscure the sky! The Statesman's cut-and-dried abuse, And frothy violence turned to use, Dead Christian hatreds spurred to life, To serve the ends of party strife; The Lawyer's pæans in his fees; The Actor's noisy juggleries, As every little journal tells Where last he shook the cap and bells; The Critic in his newest dress, _Sans_ scholarship or kindliness, With no credentials under Heaven For worthy work or asked or given, And nagging, after Insult's wont, At those who "do," for those who don't; Patriots by bravos hired and sung, For bright sword carrying fish-fag's tongue. The Poetaster's mixture, made Of pitch and darkness for a trade; The Man of Science, self-crowned King Of Learning and of everything, Serenely squatting on his throne, Fogged with conundrums of his own, And probing with his two-foot rod His muddy substitutes for God,-- While tambourines and banjos raise The Hymn of Noise for that of Praise; Our very island's sea-girt rock Risked to be land-bound into "stock"; Ay, even Woman's tarnished crown Hawked through the windows of the town, And all our sires held first and best In pufferies of all sizes dressed, Till England watch, through England's Press, The fall of English manliness!