Utopia, Limited

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Utopia, Limited
by W.S. Gilbert

  OR

  THE FLOWERS OF PROGRESS

  Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan
  Libretto by William S. Gilbert

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  King Paramount, the First (King of Utopia)
  Scaphio and Phantis (Judges of the Utopian Supreme Court)
  Tarara (The Public Exploder)
  Calynx (The Utopian Vice-Chamberlain)

  Imported Flowers of Progress:

  Lord Dramaleigh (a British Lord Chamberlain)
  Captain Fitzbattleaxe (First Life Guards)
  Captain Sir Edward Corcoran, K.C.B. (of the Royal Navy)
  Mr. Goldbury (a company promoter; afterwards Comptroller of the
  Utopian
       Household)
  Sir Bailey Barre, Q.C., M.P.
  Mr. Blushington (of the County Council)

  The Princess Zara (eldest daughter of King Paramount)
  The Princesses Nekaya and Kalyba (her Younger Sisters)
  The Lady Sophy (their English Gouvernante)

  Utopian Maidens:
       Salata
       Melene
       Phylla

                               ACT I

                        A Utopian Palm Grove

                               ACT II

               Throne Room in King Paramount's Palace

      First produced at the Savoy Theatre on October 7, 1893.





ACT I.

                              OPENING CHORUS.

                      In lazy languor—motionless,
                      We lie and dream of nothingness;
                           For visions come
                           From Poppydom
                                Direct at our command:
                      Or, delicate alternative,
                      In open idleness we live,
                           With lyre and lute
                           And silver flute,
                                The life of Lazyland.

                              SOLO - Phylla.

                      The song of birds
                           In ivied towers;
                                The rippling play
                                Of waterway;
                      The lowing herds;
                           The breath of flowers;
                                The languid loves
                                Of turtle doves—
                      These simply joys are all at hand
                      Upon thy shores, O Lazyland!

                           (Enter Calynx)

  Calynx: Good news! Great news! His Majesty's eldest daughter,
            Princess Zara, who left our shores five years since to go
  to
            England—the greatest, the most powerful, the wisest
  country
            in the world—has taken a high degree at Girton, and is
  on
            her way home again, having achieved a complete mastery
  over
            all the elements that have tended to raise that glorious
            country to her present pre-eminent position among
  civilized
            nations!

  Salata: Then in a few months Utopia may hope to be completely
  Angli-
            cized?

  Calynx: Absolutely and without a doubt.

  Melene: (lazily) We are very well as we are. Life without a
            care—every want supplied by a kind and fatherly monarch,
            who, despot though he be, has no other thought than to
  make
            his people happy—what have we to gain by the great
  change
            that is in store for us?

  Salata: What have we to gain? English institutions, English
  tastes,
            and oh, English fashions!

  Calynx: England has made herself what she is because, in that fa-
            vored land, every one has to think for himself. Here we
            have no need to think, because our monarch anticipates
  all
            our wants, and our political opinions are formed for us
  by
            the journals to which we subscribe. Oh, think how much
  more
            brilliant this dialogue would have been, if we had been
            accustomed to exercise our reflective powers! They say
  that
            in England the conversation of the very meanest is a
  corus-
            cation of impromptu epigram!

                   (Enter Tarara in a great rage)

  Tarara: Lalabalele talala! Callabale lalabalica falahle!

  Calynx: (horrified) Stop—stop, I beg! (All the ladies close
  their
            ears.)

  Tarara: Callamalala galalate! Caritalla lalabalee kallalale poo!

  Ladies: Oh, stop him! stop him!

  Calynx: My lord, I'm surprised at you. Are you not aware that
  His
            Majesty, in his despotic acquiescence with the emphatic
  wish
            of his people, has ordered that the Utopian language
  shall
            be banished from his court, and that all communications
            shall henceforward be made in the English tongue?

  Tarara: Yes, I'm perfectly aware of it, although—(suddenly
  present-
            ing an explosive "cracker"). Stop—allow me.

  Calynx: (pulls it). Now, what's that for?

  Tarara: Why, I've recently been appointed Public Exploder to His
            Majesty, and as I'm constitutionally nervous, I must
  accus-
            tom myself by degrees to the startling nature of my
  duties.
            Thank you. I was about to say that although, as Public
            Exploder, I am next in succession to the throne, I
  neverthe-
            less do my best to fall in with the royal decree. But
  when
            I am overmastered by an indignant sense of overwhelming
            wrong, as I am now, I slip into my native tongue without
            knowing it. I am told that in the language of that great
            and pure nation, strong expressions do not exist, conse-
            quently when I want to let off steam I have no
  alternative
            but to say, "Lalabalele molola lililah kallalale poo!"

  Calynx: But what is your grievance?

  Tarara: This—by our Constitution we are governed by a Despot
  who,
            although in theory absolute—is, in practice, nothing of
  the
            kind—being watched day and night by two Wise Men whose
  duty
            it is, on his very first lapse from political or social
            propriety, to denounce him to me, the Public Exploder,
  and
            it then becomes my duty to blow up His Majesty with
            dynamite—allow me. (Presenting a cracker which Calynx
            pulls.) Thank you—and, as some compensation to my
  wounded
            feelings, I reign in his stead.

  Calynx: Yes. After many unhappy experiments in the direction of
  an
            ideal Republic, it was found that what may be described
  as a
            Despotism tempered by Dynamite provides, on the whole,
  the
            most satisfactory description of ruler—an autocrat who
            dares not abuse his autocratic power.

  Tarara: That's the theory—but in practice, how does it act?
  Now,
            do you ever happen to see the Palace Peeper? (producing
  a
            "Society" paper).

  Calynx: Never even heard of the journal.

  Tarara: I'm not surprised, because His Majesty's agents always
  buy
            up the whole edition; but I have an aunt in the
  publishing
            department, and she has supplied me with a copy. Well,
  it
            actually teems with circumstantially convincing details
  of
            the King's abominable immoralities! If this high-class
            journal may be believed, His Majesty is one of the most
            Heliogabalian profligates that ever disgraced an
  autocratic
            throne! And do these Wise Men denounce him to me? Not
  a
            bit of it! They wink at his immoralities! Under the
  cir-
            cumstances I really think I am justified in exclaiming
            "Lalabelele molola lililah kalabalale poo!" (All horri-
            fied.) I don't care—the occasion demands it. (Exit
  Tarara)

  (March. Enter Guard, escorting Scaphio and Phantis.)

                                  CHORUS.

            O make way for the Wise Men!
                      They are the prizemen—
                 Double-first in the world's university!
            For though lovely this island
                      (Which is my land),
                 She has no one to match them in her city.
            They're the pride of Utopia—
                      Cornucopia
                 Is each his mental fertility.
            O they make no blunder,
                      And no wonder,
                 For they're triumphs of infallibility.

                       DUET — Scaphio and Phantis.

            In every mental lore
                 (The statement smacks of vanity)
            We claim to rank before
                 The wisest of humanity.
            As gifts of head and heart
                 We wasted on "utility,"
            We're "cast" to play a part
                 Of great responsibility.

            Our duty is to spy
                 Upon our King's illicites,
            And keep a watchful eye
                 On all his eccentricities.
            If ever a trick he tries
                 That savours of rascality,
            At our decree he dies
                 Without the least formality.

            We fear no rude rebuff,
                 Or newspaper publicity;
            Our word is quite enough,
                 The rest is electricity.
            A pound of dynamite
                 Explodes in his auriculars;
            It's not a pleasant sight—
                 We'll spare you the particulars.

            Its force all men confess,
                 The King needs no admonishing—
            We may say its success
                 Is something quite astonishing.
            Our despot it imbues
                 With virtues quite delectable,
            He minds his P's and Q's,—
                 And keeps himself respectable.

            Of a tyrant polite
            He's paragon quite.
            He's as modest and mild
            In his ways as a child;
            And no one ever met
            With an autocrat yet,
            So delightfully bland
            To the least in the land!

                 So make way for the wise men, etc.

     (Exeunt all but Scaphio and Phantis. Phantis is pensive.)

  Scaphio: Phantis, you are not in your customary exuberant spirits.
            What is wrong?

  Phantis: Scaphio, I think you once told me that you have never
  loved?

  Scaphio: Never! I have often marvelled at the fairy influence
  which
            weaves its rosy web about the faculties of the greatest
  and
            wisest of our race; but I thank Heaven I have never been
            subjected to its singular fascination. For, oh, Phantis!
            there is that within me that tells me that when my time
  does
            come, the convulsion will be tremendous! When I love, it
            will be with the accumulated fervor of sixty-six years!
  But
            I have an ideal—a semi-transparent Being, filled with an
            inorganic pink jelly—and I have never yet seen the woman
            who approaches within measurable distance of it. All are
            opaque—opaque—opaque!

  Phantis: Keep that ideal firmly before you, and love not until you
            find her. Though but fifty-five, I am an old campaigner
  in
            the battle-fields of Love; and, believe me, it is better
  to
            be as you are, heart-free and happy, than as I
  am—eternally
            racked with doubting agonies! Scaphio, the Princess Zara
            returns from England today!

  Scaphio: My poor boy, I see it all.

  Phantis: Oh! Scaphio, she is so beautiful. Ah! you smile, for you
            have never seen her. She sailed for England three months
            before you took office.

  Scaphio: Now tell me, is your affection requited?

  Phantis: I do not know—I am not sure. Sometimes I think it is,
  and
            then come these torturing doubts! I feel sure that she
  does
            not regard me with absolute indifference, for she could
            never look at me without having to go to bed with a sick
            headache.

  Scaphio: That is surely something. Come, take heart, boy! you
  are
            young and beautiful. What more could maiden want?

  Phantis: Ah! Scaphio, remember she returns from a land where every
            youth is as a young Greek god, and where such beauty as
  I
            can boast is seen at every turn.

  Scaphio: Be of good cheer! Marry her, boy, if so your fancy
  wills,
            and be sure that love will come.

  Phantis: (overjoyed) Then you will assist me in this?

  Scaphio: Why, surely! Silly one, what have you to fear? We have
  but
            to say the word, and her father must consent. Is he not
  our
            very slave? Come, take heart. I cannot bear to see you
            sad.

  Phantis: Now I may hope, indeed! Scaphio, you have placed me on
  the
            very pinnacle of human joy!

                       DUET — Scaphio and Phantis.

  Scaphio: Let all your doubts take wing—
                 Our influence is great.
            If Paramount our King
                 Presume to hesitate
                      Put on the screw,
                           And caution him
                      That he will rue
                           Disaster grim
                      That must ensue
                           To life and limb,
                      Should he pooh-pooh
                           This harmless whim.

  Both: This harmless whim—this harmless whim,
            It is as I/you say, a harmless whim.

  Phantis: (dancing) Observe this dance
                           Which I employ
                      When I, by chance
                           Go mad with joy.
                      What sentiment
                           Does this express?

  (Phantis continues his dance while Scaphio vainly endeavors to
  discover
       its meaning)

                      Supreme content
                           And happiness!

  Both: Of course it does! Of course it does!
            Supreme content and happiness.

  Phantis: Your friendly aid conferred,
                 I need no longer pine.
            I've but to speak the word,
                 And lo, the maid is mine!
                      I do not choose
                           To be denied.
                      Or wish to lose
                           A lovely bride—
                      If to refuse
                           The King decide,
                      The royal shoes
                           Then woe betide!

  Both: Then woe betide—then woe betide!
            The Royal shoes then woe betide!

  Scaphio: (Dancing) This step to use
                           I condescend
                      Whene'er I choose
                           To serve a friend.
                      What it implies
                           Now try to guess;

  (Scaphio continues his dance while Phantis is vainly endeavouring
  to
       discover its meaning)

                      It typifies
                           Unselfishness!

  Both: (Dancing) Of course it does! Of course it does!
                           It typifies unselfishness.

                                           (Exeunt Scaphio and
  Phantis.)

  March. Enter King Paramount, attended by guards and nobles, and
  preced-
       ed by girls dancing before him.

                                  CHORUS

                 Quaff the nectar—cull the roses—
                      Gather fruit and flowers in plenty!
                 For our king no longer poses—
                      Sing the songs of far niente!
                 Wake the lute that sets us lilting,
                      Dance a welcome to each comer;
                 Day by day our year is wilting—
                      Sing the sunny songs of summer!
                                               La, la, la, la!

                               SOLO — King.

            A King of autocratic power we—
                 A despot whose tyrannic will is law—
            Whose rule is paramount o'er land and sea,
                 A presence of unutterable awe!
            But though the awe that I inspire
            Must shrivel with imperial fire
                 All foes whom it may chance to touch,
            To judge by what I see and hear,
            It does not seem to interfere
                 With popular enjoyment, much.

  Chorus: No, no—it does not interfere
                      With our enjoyment much.

            Stupendous when we rouse ourselves to strike,
                 Resistless when our tyrant thunder peals,
            We often wonder what obstruction's like,
                 And how a contradicted monarch feels.
            But as it is our Royal whim
            Our Royal sails to set and trim
                 To suit whatever wind may blow—
            What buffets contradiction deals
            And how a thwarted monarch feels
                 We probably will never know.

  Chorus: No, no—what thwarted monarch feels,
                      You'll never, never know.

                        RECITATIVE — King.

            My subjects all, it is your with emphatic
            That all Utopia shall henceforth be modelled
            Upon that glorious country called Great Britain—
            To which some add—but others do not—Ireland.

  Chorus: It is!

  King: That being so, as you insist upon it,
            We have arranged that our two younger daughters
            Who have been "finished" by an English Lady—
  (tenderly) A grave and good and gracious English Lady—
            Shall daily be exhibited in public,
            That all may learn what, from the English standpoint,
            Is looked upon as maidenly perfection!
            Come hither, daughters!

  (Enter Nekaya and Kalyba. They are twins, about fifteen years old;
  they
       are very modest and demure in their appearance, dress and
  manner.
       They stand with their hands folded and their eyes cast down.)

                               CHORUS

            How fair! how modest! how discreet!
                 How bashfully demure!
                      See how they blush, as they've been taught,
                      At this publicity unsought!
                 How English and how pure!

                     DUET — Nekaya and Kalyba.

  Both: Although of native maids the cream,
            We're brought up on the English scheme—
                 The best of all
                 For great and small
                      Who modesty adore.

  Nek: For English girls are good as gold,
            Extremely modest (so we're told)
            Demurely coy—divinely cold—
                 And that we are—and more.

  Kal: To please papa, who argues thus—
            All girls should mould themselves on us
                 Because we are
                 By furlongs far
                      The best of the bunch,
            We show ourselves to loud applause
            From ten to four without a pause—

  Nek: Which is an awkward time because
                 It cuts into our lunch.

  Both: Oh maids of high and low degree,
                 Whose social code is rather free,
                 Please look at us and you will see
                 What good young ladies ought to be!

  Nek: And as we stand, like clockwork toys,
            A lecturer whom papa employs
                 Proceeds to prussia
                 Our modest ways
                      And guileless character—

  Kal: Our well-known blush—our downcast eyes—
            Our famous look of mild surprise.

  Nek: (Which competition still defies)—
                      Our celebrated "Sir!!!"

  Kal: Then all the crowd take down our looks
            In pocket memorandum books.
                 To diagnose
                 Our modest pose
                      The Kodaks do their best:

  Nek: If evidence you would possess
            Of what is maiden bashfulness
            You need only a button press—

  Kal: And we will do the rest.

  Enter Lady Sophy — an English lady of mature years and extreme
  gravity
       of demeanour and dress. She carries a lecturer's wand in her
       hand. She is led on by the King, who expresses great regard
  and
       admiration for her.

                      RECITATIVE — Lady Sophy

                 This morning we propose to illustrate
                 A course of maiden courtship, from the start
                 To the triumphant matrimonial finish.

  (Through the following song the two Princesses illustrate in
  gesture
       the description given by Lady Sophy.)

                            SONG — Lady Sophy

                           Bold-faced ranger
                           (Perfect stranger)
                 Meets two well-behaved young ladies.
                           He's attractive,
                           Young and active—
                 Each a little bit afraid is.
                           Youth advances,
                           At his glances
                 To their danger they awaken;
                           They repel him
                           As they tell him
                 He is very much mistaken.
                 Though they speak to him politely,
                 Please observe they're sneering slightly,
                 Just to show he's acting vainly.
                 This is Virtue saying plainly
                           "Go away, young bachelor,
                           We are not what you take us for!"
                 When addressed impertinently,
                 English ladies answer gently,
                           "Go away, young bachelor,
                           We are not what you take us for!"

                           As he gazes,
                           Hat he raises,
                 Enters into conversation.
                           Makes excuses—
                           This produces
                 Interesting agitation.
                           He, with daring,
                           Undespairing,
                 Give his card—his rank discloses
                           Little heeding
                           This proceeding,
                 They turn up their little noses.
                 Pray observe this lesson vital—
                 When a man of rank and title
                 His position first discloses,
                 Always cock your little noses.
                           When at home, let all the class
                           Try this in the looking glass.
                 English girls of well bred notions,
                 Shun all unrehearsed emotions.
                           English girls of highest class
                           Practice them before the glass.

                           His intentions
                           Then he mentions.
                 Something definite to go on—
                           Makes recitals
                           Of his titles,
                 Hints at settlements, and so on.
                           Smiling sweetly,
                           They, discreetly,
                 Ask for further evidences:
                           Thus invited,
                           He, delighted,
                 Gives the usual references:
                 This is business. Each is fluttered
                 When the offer's fairly uttered.
                 "Which of them has his affection?"
                 He declines to make selection.
                           Do they quarrel for his dross?
                           Not a bit of it—they toss!
                 Please observe this cogent moral—
                 English ladies never quarrel.
                           When a doubt they come across,
                           English ladies always toss.

                      RECITATIVE — Lady Sophy

                 The lecture's ended. In ten minute's space
                 'Twill be repeated in the market-place!

                       (Exit Lady Sophy, followed by Nekaya and
  Kalyba.)

  Chorus: Quaff the nectar—cull the roses—
                      Bashful girls will soon be plenty!
                 Maid who thus at fifteen poses
                      Ought to be divine at twenty!

                                                  (Exeunt all but
  KING.)

  King: I requested Scaphio and Phantis to be so good as to favor
  me
            with an audience this morning. (Enter SCAPHIO and
  PHANTIS.)
            Oh, here they are!

  Scaphio: Your Majesty wished to speak with us, I believe.
  You—you
            needn't keep your crown on, on our account, you know.

  King: I beg your pardon. (Removes it.) I always forget that!
            Odd, the notion of a King not being allowed to wear one
  of
            his own crowns in the presence of two of his own
  subjects.

  Phantis: Yes—bizarre, is it not?

  King: Most quaint. But then it's a quaint world.

  Phantis: Teems with quiet fun. I often think what a lucky thing
  it
            is that you are blessed with such a keen sense of humor!

  King: Do you know, I find it invaluable. Do what I will, I
  cannot
            help looking at the humorous side of things—for,
  properly
            considered, everything has its humorous side—even the
            Palace Peeper (producing it). See here—"Another Royal
            Scandal," by Junius Junior. "How long is this to last?"
  by
            Senex Senior. "Ribald Royalty," by Mercury Major.
  "Where
            is the Public Exploder?" by Mephistopheles Minor. When
  I
            reflect that all these outrageous attacks on my morality
  are
            written by me, at your command—well, it's one of the
  funni-
            est things that have come within the scope of my
  experience.

  Scaphio: Besides, apart from that, they have a quiet humor of
  their
            own which is simply irresistible.

  King: (gratified) Not bad, I think. Biting, trenchant
            sarcasm—the rapier, not the bludgeon—that's my line.
  But
            then it's so easy—I'm such a good subject—a bad King
  but a
            good Subject—ha! ha!—a capital heading for next week's
            leading article! (makes a note) And then the stinging
            little paragraphs about our Royal goings-on with our
  Royal
            Second Housemaid—delicately sub-acid, are they not?

  Scaphio: My dear King, in that kind of thing no one can hold a
  candle
            to you.

  Phantis: But the crowning joke is the Comic Opera you've written
  for
            us—"King Tuppence, or A Good Deal Less than Half a
  Sover-
            eign"—in which the celebrated English tenor, Mr.
  Wilkinson,
            burlesques your personal appearance and gives grotesque
            imitations of your Royal peculiarities. It's immense!

  King: Ye—es—That's what I wanted to speak to you about. Now
            I've not the least doubt but that even that has its
  humorous
            side too—if one could only see it. As a rule I'm pretty
            quick at detecting latent humor—but I confess I do not
            quite see where it comes in, in this particular instance.
            It's so horribly personal!

  Scaphio: Personal? Yes, of course it's personal—but consider the
            antithetical humor of the situation.

  King: Yes. I—I don't think I've quite grasped that.

  Scaphio: No? You surprise me. Why, consider. During the day
  thou-
            sands tremble at your frown, during the night (from 8 to
  11)
            thousands roar at it. During the day your most arbitrary
            pronouncements are received by your subjects with abject
            submission—during the night, they shout with joy at your
            most terrible decrees. It's not every monarch who enjoys
            the privilege of undoing by night all the despotic
  absurdi-
            ties he's committed during the day.

  King: Of course! Now I see it! Thank you very much. I was
  sure
            it had its humorous side, and it was very dull of me not
  to
            have seen it before. But, as I said just now, it's a
  quaint
            world.

  Phantis: Teems with quiet fun.

  King: Yes. Properly considered, what a farce life is, to be
  sure!

                               SONG — King.

            First you're born—and I'll be bound you
            Find a dozen strangers round you.
            "Hallo," cries the new-born baby,
            "Where's my parents? which may they be?"
                 Awkward silence—no reply—
                 Puzzled baby wonders why!
            Father rises, bows politely—
            Mother smiles (but not too brightly)—
            Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing—
            Nurse is busy mixing something.—
                 Every symptom tends to show
                 You're decidedly de trop—

  All: Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
                           Time's teetotum,
                                If you spin it,
                           Gives it quotum
                                Once a minute.
                           I'll go bail
                           You hit the nail,
                           And if you fail,
                                The deuce is in it!

  King: You grow up and you discover
            What it is to be a lover.
            Some young lady is selected—
            Poor, perhaps, but well-connected.
                 Whom you hail (for Love is blind)
                 As the Queen of fairy kind.
            Though she's plain—perhaps unsightly,
            Makes her face up—laces tightly,
            In her form your fancy traces
            All the gifts of all the graces.
                 Rivals none the maiden woo,
                 So you take her and she takes you.

  All: Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
                 Joke beginning,
                      Never ceases
                 Till your inning
                      Time releases,
                 On your way
                 You blindly stray,
                 And day by day
                      The joke increases!

  King: Ten years later—Time progresses—
            Sours your temper—thins your tresses;
            Fancy, then, her chain relaxes;
            Rates are facts and so are taxes.
                 Fairy Queen's no longer young—
                 Fairy Queen has got a tongue.
            Twins have probably intruded—
            Quite unbidden—just as you did—
            They're a source of care and trouble—
            Just as you were—only double.
                 Comes at last the final stroke—
                 Time has had its little joke!

  All: Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
                 Daily driven
                      (Wife as drover)
                 Ill you've thriven—
                      Ne'er in clover;
                 Lastly, when
                 Three-score and ten
                 (And not till then),
                      The joke is over!
            Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
                 Then—and then
                      The joke is over!

                                           (Exeunt Scaphio and
  Phantis.)

  King: (putting on his crown again) It's all very well. I
  always
            like to look on the humorous side of things; but I do not
            think I ought to be required to write libels on my own
  moral
            character. Naturally, I see the joke of it—anybody
            would—but Zara's coming home today; she's no longer a
            child, and I confess I should not like her to see my
            Opera—though it's uncommonly well written; and I should
  be
            sorry if the Palace Peeper got into her hands—though
  it's
            certainly smart—very smart indeed. It is almost a pity
            that I have to buy up the whole edition, because it's
  really
            too good to be lost. And Lady Sophy—that blameless type
  of
            perfect womanhood! Great Heavens, what would she say if
  the
            Second Housemaid business happened to meet her pure blue
            eye! (Enter Lady Sophy)

  Lady S.: My monarch is soliloquizing. I will withdraw. (going)

  King: No—pray don't go. Now I'll give you fifty chances, and
  you
            won't guess whom I was thinking of.

  Lady S.: Alas, sir, I know too well. Ah! King, it's an old, old
            story, and I'm wellnigh weary of it! Be warned in
            time—from my heart I pity you, but I am not for you!
            (going)

  King: But hear what I have to say.

  Lady S.: It is useless. Listen. In the course of a long and
  adven-
            turous career in the principal European Courts, it has
  been
            revealed to me that I unconsciously exercise a weird and
            supernatural fascination over all Crowned Heads. So
  irre-
            sistible is this singular property, that there is not a
            European Monarch who has not implored me, with tears in
  his
            eyes, to quit his kingdom, and take my fatal charms else-
            where. As time was getting on it occurred to me that by
            descending several pegs in the scale of Respectability I
            might qualify your Majesty for my hand. Actuated by this
            humane motive and happening to possess Respectability
  enough
            for Six, I consented to confer Respectability enough for
            Four upon your two younger daughters—but although I
  have,
            alas, only Respectability enough for Two left, there is
            still, as I gather from the public press of this country
            (producing the Palace Peeper), a considerable balance in
  my
            favor.

  King: (aside) Damn! (aloud) May I ask how you came by this?

  Lady S.: It was handed to me by the officer who holds the position
  of
            Public Exploder to your Imperial Majesty.

  King: And surely, Lady Sophy, surely you are not so unjust as
  to
            place any faith in the irresponsible gabble of the
  Society
            press!

  Lady S.: (referring to paper) I read on the authority of Senex
            Senior that your Majesty was seen dancing with your
  Second
            Housemaid on the Oriental Platform of the Tivoli Gardens.
            That is untrue?

  King: Absolutely. Our Second Housemaid has only one leg.

  Lady S.: (suspiciously) How do you know that?

  King: Common report. I give you my honor.

  Lady S.: It may be so. I further read—and the statement is
  vouched
            for by no less an authority that Mephistopheles
  Minor—that
            your Majesty indulges in a bath of hot rum-punch every
            morning. I trust I do not lay myself open to the charge
  of
            displaying an indelicate curiosity as to the mysteries of
            the royal dressing-room when I ask if there is any
  founda-
            tion for this statement?

  King: None whatever. When our medical adviser exhibits
  rum-punch
            it is as a draught, not as a fomentation. As to our
  bath,
            our valet plays the garden hose upon us every morning.

  Lady S.: (shocked) Oh, pray—pray spare me these unseemly
  details.
            Well, you are a Despot—have you taken steps to slay this
            scribbler?

  King: Well, no—I have not gone so far as that. After all,
  it's
            the poor devil's living, you know.

  Lady S.: It is the poor devil's living that surprises me. If this
            man lies, there is no recognized punishment that is
  suffi-
            ciently terrible for him.

  King: That's precisely it. I—I am waiting until a punishment
  is
            discovered that will exactly meet the enormity of the
  case.
            I am in constant communication with the Mikado of Japan,
  who
            is a leading authority on such points; and, moreover, I
  have
            the ground plans and sectional elevations of several
  capital
            punishments in my desk at this moment. Oh, Lady Sophy,
  as
            you are powerful, be merciful!

                       DUET — King and Lady Sophy.

  King: Subjected to your heavenly gaze
                           (Poetical phrase),
                      My brain is turned completely.
                           Observe me now
                           No monarch I vow,
                                Was ever so afflicted!

  Lady S: I'm pleased with that poetical phrase,
                           "A heavenly gaze,"
                      But though you put it neatly,
                           Say what you will,
                           These paragraphs still
                                Remain uncontradicted.

                 Come, crush me this contemptible worm
                           (A forcible term),
                      If he's assailed you wrongly.
                           The rage display,
                           Which, as you say,
                                Has moved your Majesty lately.

  King: Though I admit that forcible term
                           "Contemptible worm,"
                 Appeals to me most strongly,
                      To treat this pest
                      As you suggest
                           Would pain my Majesty greatly.

  Lady S: This writer lies!
  King: Yes, bother his eyes!
  Lady S: He lives, you say?
  King: In a sort of way.
  Lady S: Then have him shot.
  King: Decidedly not.
  Lady S: Or crush him flat.
  King: I cannot do that.
  Both: O royal Rex,
                      My/her blameless sex
                      Abhors such conduct shady.
                      You/I plead in vain,
                      I/you will never gain
                      Respectable English lady!

           (Dance of repudiation by Lady Sophy. Exit followed by
  King.)

  March. Enter all the Court, heralding the arrival of the Princess
  Zara,
       who enters, escorted by Captain Fitzbattleaxe and four
  Troopers, all
       in the full uniform of the First Life Guards.

                                  CHORUS.

                           Oh, maiden, rich
                                In Girton lore
                           That wisdom which,
                                We prized before,
                           We do confess
                           Is nothingness,
                           And rather less,
                                Perhaps, than more.
                           On each of us
                                Thy learning shed.
                           On calculus
                                May we be fed.
                           And teach us, please,
                           To speak with ease,
                           All languages,
                                Alive and dead!

                     SOLO—Princess and Chorus

  Zara: Five years have flown since I took wing—
                      Time flies, and his footstep ne'er retards—
                 I'm the eldest daughter of your King.

  Troop: And we are her escort—First Life Guards!
                 On the royal yacht,
                      When the waves were white,
                 In a helmet hot
                      And a tunic tight,
                 And our great big boots,
                      We defied the storm;
                 For we're not recruits,
                      And his uniform
                 A well drilled trooper ne'er discards—
                 And we are her escort—First Life Guards!

  Zara: These gentlemen I present to you,
                      The pride and boast of their barrack-yards;
                 They've taken, O! such care of me!

  Troop: For we are her escort—First Life Guards!
                 When the tempest rose,
                      And the ship went so—
                 Do you suppose
                      We were ill? No, no!
                 Though a qualmish lot
                      In a tunic tight,
                 And a helmet hot,
                      And a breastplate bright
                 (Which a well-drilled trooper ne'er discards),
                 We stood as her escort—First Life Guards!

                               CHORUS

            Knightsbridge nursemaids—serving fairies—
            Stars of proud Belgravian airies;
            At stern duty's call you leave them,
            Though you know how that must grieve them!

  Zara: Tantantarara-rara-rara!

  Fitz: Trumpet-call of Princess Zara!

  Cho: That's trump-call, and they're all trump cards—
            They are her escort—First Life Guards!

                              ENSEMBLE

               Chorus Princess Zara and
  Fitzbattleaxe

              Ladies Oh! the hours are gold,
                                         And the joys untold,
  Knightsbridge nursemaids, etc. When my eyes behold
                                              My beloved Princess;
              Men And the years will seem
  When the tempest rose, etc. But a brief day-dream,
                                         In the joy extreme
                                              Of our happiness!

  Full Chorus: Knightsbridge nursemaids, serving fairies, etc.

  (Enter King, Princess Nekaya and Kalyba, and Lady Sophy. As the
  King enters,
       the escort present arms.)

  King: Zara! my beloved daughter! Why, how well you look and
  how
            lovely you have grown! (embraces her.)

  Zara: My dear father! (embracing him) And my two beautiful
            little sisters! (embracing them)

  Nekaya: Not beautiful.

  Kalyba: Nice-looking.

  Zara: But first let me present to you the English warrior who
            commands my escort, and who has taken, O! such care of me
            during my voyage—Captain Fitzbattleaxe!

  Troopers: The First Life Guards.
                 When the tempest rose,
                 And the ship went so—

  (Captain Fitzbattleaxe motions them to be silent. The Troopers
  place
       themselves in the four corners of the stage, standing at ease,
       immovably, as if on sentry. Each is surrounded by an admiring
       group of young ladies, of whom they take no notice.)

  King: (to Capt. Fitz.) Sir, you come from a country where
  every
            virtue flourishes. We trust that you will not criticize
  too
            severely such shortcomings as you may detect in our
            semi-barbarous society.

  Fitz.: (looking at Zara) Sir, I have eyes for nothing but the
            blameless and the beautiful.

  King: We thank you—he is really very polite! (Lady Sophy, who
  has
            been greatly scandalized by the attentions paid to the
            Lifeguardsmen by the young ladies, marches the Princesses
            Nekaya and Kalyba towards an exit.) Lady Sophy, do not
  leave
            us.

  Lady S.: Sir, your children are young, and, so far, innocent. If
            they are to remain so, it is necessary that they be at
  once
            removed from the contamination of their present
  disgraceful
            surroundings. (She marches them off.)

  King: (whose attention has thus been called to the proceedings
  of
            the young ladies—aside) Dear, dear! They really
  should-
            n't. (Aloud) Captain Fitzbattleaxe—

  Fitz.: Sir.

  King: Your Troopers appear to be receiving a troublesome amount
  of
            attention from those young ladies. I know how strict you
            English soldiers are, and I should be extremely
  distressed
            if anything occurred to shock their puritanical British
            sensitiveness.

  Fitz.: Oh, I don't think there's any chance of that.

  King: You think not? They won't be offended?

  Fitz.: Oh no! They are quite hardened to it. They get a good
  deal
            of that sort of thing, standing sentry at the Horse
  Guards.

  King: It's English, is it?

  Fitz.: It's particularly English.

  King: Then, of course, it's all right. Pray proceed, ladies,
  it's
            particularly English. Come, my daughter, for we have
  much
            to say to each other.

  Zara: Farewell, Captain Fitzbattleaxe! I cannot thank you too
  em-
            phatically for the devoted care with which you have
  watched
            over me during our long and eventful voyage.

                  DUET — Zara and Captain Fitzbattleaxe.

  Zara: Ah! gallant soldier, brave and true
                      In tented field and tourney,
                 I grieve to have occasioned you
                      So very long a journey.
                 A British warrior give up all—
                      His home and island beauty—
                 When summoned to the trumpet call
                      Of Regimental Duty!

  Cho: Tantantara-rara-rara!
                 Trumpet call of the Princess Zara!

                              ENSEMBLE

              Men Fitz. and Zara (aside)

  A British warrior gives up all, etc. Oh my joy, my pride,
                                          My delight to hide,
                                          Let us sing, aside,
            Ladies What in truth we feel,
                                          Let us whisper low
  Knightsbridge nursemaids, etc. Of our love's glad glow,
                                          Lest the truth we show
                                               We would fain conceal.

  Fitz.: Such escort duty, as his due,
                      To young Lifeguardsman falling
                 Completely reconciles him to
                      His uneventful calling.
                 When soldier seeks Utopian glades
                      In charge of Youth and Beauty,
                 Then pleasure merely masquerades
                      As Regimental Duty!

  All: Tantantarara-rara-rara!
                 Trumpet-call of Princess Zara!

                              ENSEMBLE

              Men Fitz. and Zara (aside)

  A British warrior gives up all, etc. Oh! my hours are gold,
                                          And the joys untold,
                                          When my eyes behold
            Ladies My beloved Princess;
                                          And the years will seem
  Knightsbridge nursemaids, etc. But a brief day-dream,
                                          In the job extreme
                                               Of our happiness!

  (Exeunt King and Zara in one direction, Lifeguardsmen and crowd in
       opposite direction. Enter, at back, Scaphio and Phantis, who
  watch
       Zara as she goes off. Scaphio is seated, shaking violently,
  and
       obviously under the influence of some strong emotion.)

  Phantis: There—tell me, Scaphio, is she not beautiful? Can you
            wonder that I love her so passionately?

  Scaphio: No. She is extraordinarily—miraculously lovely! Good
            heavens, what a singularly beautiful girl!

  Phantis: I knew you would say so!

  Scaphio: What exquisite charm of manner! What surprising delicacy
  of
            gesture! Why, she's a goddess! a very goddess!

  Phantis: (rather taken aback) Yes—she's—she's an attractive
  girl.

  Scaphio: Attractive? Why, you must be blind!—She's
            entrancing—enthralling—intoxicating! (Aside) God
  bless
            my heart, what's the matter with me?

  Phantis: (alarmed) Yes. You—you promised to help me to get her
            father's consent, you know.

  Scaphio: Promised! Yes, but the convulsion has come, my good boy!
            It is she—my ideal! Why, what's this? (Staggering)
            Phantis! Stop me—I'm going mad—mad with the love of
  her!

  Phantis: Scaphio, compose yourself, I beg. The girl is perfectly
            opaque! Besides, remember—each of us is helpless
  without
            the other. You can't succeed without my consent, you
  know.

  Scaphio: And you dare to threaten? Oh, ungrateful! When you came
  to
            me, palsied with love for this girl, and implored my
  assis-
            tance, did I not unhesitatingly promise it? And this is
  the
            return you make? Out of my sight, ingrate! (Aside)
  Dear!
            dear! what is the matter with me? (Enter Capt.
  Fitzbattleaxe
            and Zara)

  Zara: Dear me. I'm afraid we are interrupting a tete-a-tete.

  Scaphio: (breathlessly) No, no. You come very appropriately. To
  be
            brief, we—we love you—this man and
  I—madly—passionately!

  Zara: Sir!

  Scaphio: And we don't know how we are to settle which of us is to
            marry you.

  Fitz.: Zara, this is very awkward.

  Scaphio: (very much overcome) I—I am paralyzed by the singular
            radiance of your extraordinary loveliness. I know I am
            incoherent. I never was like this before—it shall not
            occur again. I—shall be fluent, presently.

  Zara: (aside) Oh, dear, Captain Fitzbattleaxe, what is to be
            done?

  Fitz.: (aside) Leave it to me—I'll manage it. (Aloud) It's
  a
            common situation. Why not settle it in the English
  fashion?

  Both: The English fashion? What is that?

  Fitz.: It's very simple. In England, when two gentlemen are in
            love with the same lady, and until it is settled which
            gentleman is to blow out the brains of the other, it is
            provided, by the Rival Admirers' Clauses Consolidation
  Act,
            that the lady shall be entrusted to an officer of
  Household
            Cavalry as stakeholder, who is bound to hand her over to
  the
            survivor (on the Tontine principle) in a good condition
  of
            substantial and decorative repair.

  Scaphio: Reasonable wear and tear and damages by fire excepted?

  Fitz.: Exactly.

  Phantis: Well, that seems very reasonable. (To Scaphio) What do
  you
            say—Shall we entrust her to this officer of Household
            Cavalry? It will give us time.

  Scaphio: (trembling violently) I—I am not at present in a
  condition
            to think it out coolly—but if he is an officer of
  Household
            Cavalry, and if the Princess consents—-

  Zara: Alas, dear sirs, I have no alternative—under the Rival
            Admirers' Clauses Consolidation Act!

  Fitz.: Good—then that's settled.

                                  QUARTET
                Fitzbattleaxe, Zara, Scaphio, and Phantis.

  Fitz.: It's understood, I think, all round
                 That, by the English custom bound
                 I hold the lady safe and sound
                      In trust for either rival,
                 Until you clearly testify
                 By sword and pistol, by and by,
                 Which gentleman prefers to die,
                      And which prefers survival.

                              ENSEMBLE

           Sca. and Phan. Zara and Fitz

  Its clearly understood all round We stand, I think, on safish
  ground
  That, by your English custom bound Our senses weak it will
  astound
  He holds the lady safe and sound If either gentleman is found
    In trust for either rival, Prepared to meet his rival.
  Until we clearly testify Their machinations we defy;
  By sword or pistol, by and by We won't be parted, you and
  I—
  Which gentleman prefers to die, Of bloodshed each is rather
  shy—
    Which prefers survival. They both prefer survival

  Phan.: If I should die and he should live
  (aside to Fitz.) To you, without reserve, I give
                      Her heart so young and sensitive,
                           And all her predilections.

  Sca.: If he should live and I should die,
  (aside to Fitz.) I see no kind of reason why
                      You should not, if you wish it, try
                           To gain her young affections.

                              ENSEMBLE

             Sca. and Phant. Fitz and Zara

  If I should die and you should live As both of us are positive
  To this young officer I give That both of them intend to
  live,
  Her heart so soft and sensitive, There's nothing in the case to
  give
    And all her predilections. Us cause for grave
  reflections.
  If you should live and I should die As both will live and neither
  die
  I see no kind of reason why I see no kind of reason why
  He should not, if he chooses, try I should not, if I wish it,
  try
    To win her young affections. To gain your young
  affections!

                                     (Exit Scaphio and Phantis
  together)

                   DUET — Zara and Fitzbattleaxe

  Ensemble: Oh admirable art!
                      Oh, neatly-planned intention!
                      Oh, happy intervention—
                           Oh, well constructed plot!

                 When sages try to part
                      Two loving hearts in fusion,
                      Their wisdom's delusion,
                           And learning serves them not!

  Fitz.: Until quit plain
                      Is their intent,
                 These sages twain
                      I represent.
                 Now please infer
                      That, nothing loth,
                 You're henceforth, as it were,
                      Engaged to marry both—
             Then take it that I represent the two—
             On that hypothesis, what would you do?

  Zara. (aside): What would I do? what would I do?
  (To Fitz.) In such a case,
                      Upon your breast,
                 My blushing face
                      I think I'd rest—(doing so)
                 Then perhaps I might
                      Demurely say—
                 "I find this breastplate bright
                      Is sorely in the way!"

  Fitz.: Our mortal race
                      Is never blest—
                 There's no such case
                      As perfect rest;
                 Some petty blight
                      Asserts its sway—
                 Some crumbled roseleaf light
                      Is always in the way!

                                       (Exit Fitzbattleaxe. Manet
  Zara.)

  (Enter King.)

  King: My daughter! At last we are alone together.

  Zara: Yes, and I'm glad we are, for I want to speak to you very
            seriously. Do you know this paper?

  King: (aside) Da—! (Aloud) Oh yes—I've—I've seen it.
  Where
            in the world did you get this from?

  Zara: It was given to me by Lady Sophy—my sisters' governess.

  King: (aside) Lady Sophy's an angel, but I do sometimes wish
            she'd mind her own business! (Aloud) It's—ha!
  ha!—it's
            rather humorous.

  Zara: I see nothing humorous in it. I only see that you, the
  des-
            potic King of this country, are made the subject of the
  most
            scandalous insinuations. Why do you permit these things?

  King: Well, they appeal to my sense of humor. It's the only
            really comic paper in Utopia, and I wouldn't be without
  it
            for the world.

  Zara: If it had any literary merit I could understand it.

  King: Oh, it has literary merit. Oh, distinctly, it has
  literary
            merit.

  Zara: My dear father, it's mere ungrammatical twaddle.

  King: Oh, it's not ungrammatical. I can't allow that.
  Unpleas-
            antly personal, perhaps, but written with an
  epigrammatical
            point that is very rare nowadays—very rare indeed.

  Zara: (looking at cartoon) Why do they represent you with such
  a
            big nose?

  King: (looking at cartoon) Eh? Yes, it is a big one! Why,
  the
            fact is that, in the cartoons of a comic paper, the size
  of
            your nose always varies inversely as the square of your
            popularity. It's the rule.

  Zara: Then you must be at a tremendous discount just now! I
  see a
            notice of a new piece called "King Tuppence," in which an
            English tenor has the audacity to personate you on a
  public
            stage. I can only say that I am surprised that any
  English
            tenor should lend himself to such degrading
  personalities.

  King: Oh, he's not really English. As it happens he's a
  Utopian,
            but he calls himself English.

  Zara: Calls himself English?

  King: Yes. Bless you, they wouldn't listen to any tenor who
            didn't call himself English.

  Zara: And you permit this insolent buffoon to caricature you in
  a
            pointless burlesque! My dear father—if you were a free
            agent, you would never permit these outrages.

  King: (almost in tears) Zara—I—I admit I am not altogether
  a
            free agent. I—I am controlled. I try to make the best
  of
            it, but sometimes I find it very difficult—very
  difficult
            indeed. Nominally a Despot, I am, between ourselves, the
            helpless tool of two unscrupulous Wise Men, who insist on
  my
            falling in with all their wishes and threaten to denounce
  me
            for immediate explosion if I remonstrate! (Breaks down
            completely)

  Zara: My poor father! Now listen to me. With a view to
  remodel-
            ling the political and social institutions of Utopia, I
  have
            brought with me six Representatives of the principal
  causes
            that have tended to make England the powerful, happy, and
            blameless country which the consensus of European
  civiliza-
            tion has declared it to be. Place yourself unreservedly
  in
            the hands of these gentlemen, and they will reorganize
  your
            country on a footing that will enable you to defy your
            persecutors. They are all now washing their hands after
            their journey. Shall I introduce them?

  King: My dear Zara, how can I thank you? I will consent to
  any-
            thing that will release me from the abominable tyranny of
            these two men. (Calling) What ho! Without there!
  (Enter
            Calynx) Summon my Court without an instant's delay!
                                                           (Exit
  Calynx)

                                  FINALE
             Enter every one, except the Flowers of Progress.

                                  CHORUS
                 Although your Royal summons to appear
                      From courtesy was singularly free,
                 Obedient to that summons we are here—
                           What would your Majesty?

                         RECITATIVE — King

            My worthy people, my beloved daughter
            Most thoughtfully has brought with her from England
            The types of all the causes that have made
            That great and glorious country what it is.

  Chorus: Oh, joy unbounded!

  Sca., Tar., Phan (aside). Why, what does this mean?

                         RECITATIVE — Zara

            Attend to me, Utopian populace,
                 Ye South Pacific island viviparians;
            All, in the abstract, types of courtly grace,
            Yet, when compared with Britain's glorious race,
                 But little better than half clothed Barbarians!

                               CHORUS

                      Yes! Contrasted when
                      With Englishmen,
            Are little better than half-clothed barbarians!

         Enter all the Flowers of Progress, led by Fitzbattleaxe.

                SOLOS — Zara and the Flowers of Progress.

                 (Presenting Captain Fitzbattleaxe)

            When Britain sounds the trump of war
                 (And Europe trembles),
            The army of the conqueror
                 In serried ranks assemble;
            'Tis then this warrior's eyes and sabre gleam
                 For our protection—
            He represents a military scheme
                 In all its proud perfection!

  Chorus: Yes—yes
            He represents a military scheme
                      In all its proud perfection.
                 Ulahlica! Ulahlica! Ulahlica!

                           SOLO — Zara.

             (Presenting Sir Bailey Barre, Q.C., M.P.)

       A complicated gentleman allow to present,
       Of all the arts and faculties the terse embodiment,
       He's a great arithmetician who can demonstrate with ease
       That two and two are three or five or anything you please;
       An eminent Logician who can make it clear to you
            That black is white—when looked at from the proper point
  of
                 view;
            A marvelous Philologist who'll undertake to show
       That "yes" is but another and a neater form of "no."

  Sir Bailey: Yes—yes—yes—
       "Yes" is but another and a neater form of "no."
       All preconceived ideas on any subject I can scout,
       And demonstrate beyond all possibility of doubt,
       That whether you're an honest man or whether you're a thief
       Depends on whose solicitor has given me my brief.

  Chorus: Yes—yes—yes
            That whether your'e an honest man, etc.
                 Ulahlica! Ulahlica! Ulahlica!

  Zara: (Presenting Lord Dramaleigh and County Councillor)
                 What these may be, Utopians all,
                      Perhaps you'll hardly guess—
                 They're types of England's physical
                      And moral cleanliness.
                 This is a Lord High Chamberlain,
                      Of purity the gauge—
                 He'll cleanse our court from moral stain
                      And purify our Stage.

  Lord D.: Yes—yes—yes
                 Court reputations I revise,
                 And presentations scrutinize,
                 New plays I read with jealous eyes,
                      And purify the Stage.

  Chorus: Court reputations, etc.

  Zara: This County Councillor acclaim,
                      Great Britain's latest toy—
                 On anything you like to name
                      His talents he'll employ—

                 All streets and squares he'll purify
                      Within your city walls,
                 And keep meanwhile a modest eye
                      On wicked music halls.

  C.C.: Yes—yes—yes
                 In towns I make improvements great,
                 Which go to swell the County Rate—
                 I dwelling-houses sanitate,
                      And purify the Halls!

  Chorus: In towns he makes improvements great, etc.
                 Ulahlica! Ulahlica! Ulahlica!

                           SOLO — Zara:

                     (Presenting Mr. Goldbury)

       A Company Promoter this with special education,
       Which teaches what Contango means and also Backwardation—
       To speculators he supplies a grand financial leaven,
       Time was when two were company—but now it must be seven.

  Mr. Gold.: Yes—yes—yes
            Stupendous loans to foreign thrones
                 I've largely advocated;
            In ginger-pops and peppermint-drops
                 I've freely speculated;
            Then mines of gold, of wealth untold,
                 Successfully I've floated
            And sudden falls in apple-stalls
                 Occasionally quoted.
            And soon or late I always call
                 For Stock Exchange quotation—
            No schemes too great and none too small
                 For Companification!

  Chorus: Yes! Yes! Yes! No schemes too great, etc.
                 Ulahlica! Ulahlica! Ulahlica!

  Zara: (Presenting Capt. Sir Edward Corcoran, R.N.)

            And lastly I present
                 Great Britain's proudest boast,
            Who from the blows
            Of foreign foes
                 Protects her sea-girt coast—
            And if you ask him in respectful tone,
            He'll show you how you may protect your own!

                      SOLO — Captain Corcoran

            I'm Captain Corcoran, K.C.B.,
            I'll teach you how we rule the sea,
                 And terrify the simple Gauls;
            And how the Saxon and the Celt
            Their Europe-shaking blows have dealt
            With Maxim gun and Nordenfelt
                 (Or will when the occasion calls).
            If sailor-like you'd play your cards,
            Unbend your sails and lower your yards,
                 Unstep your masts—you'll never want 'em more.
            Though we're no longer hearts of oak,
            Yet we can steer and we can stoke,
            And thanks to coal, and thanks to coke,
                 We never run a ship ashore!

  All: What never?

  Capt.: No, never!

  All: What never?

  Capt: Hardly ever!

  All: Hardly ever run a ship ashore!
            Then give three cheers, and three cheers more,
            For the tar who never runs his ship ashore;
            Then give three cheers, and three cheers more,
                 For he never runs his ship ashore!

                               CHORUS

            All hail, ye types of England's power—
                 Ye heaven-enlightened band!
            We bless the day and bless the hour
                 That brought you to our land.

                              QUARTET

            Ye wanderers from a mighty State,
            Oh, teach us how to legislate—
            Your lightest word will carry weight,
                 In our attentive ears.
            Oh, teach the natives of this land
            (Who are not quick to understand)
            How to work off their social and
                 Political arrears!

  Capt. Fitz.: Increase your army!
  Lord D.: Purify your court!
  Capt. Corc: Get up your steam and cut your canvas short!
  Sir B.: To speak on both sides teach your sluggish brains!
  Mr. B.: Widen your thoroughfares, and flush your drains!
  Mr. Gold.: Utopia's much too big for one small head—
                 I'll float it as a Company Limited!

  King: A Company Limited? What may that be?
                 The term, I rather think, is new to me.

  Chorus: A company limited? etc.

  Sca, Phant, and Tara (Aside)
            What does he mean? What does he mean?
                 Give us a kind of clue!
            What does he mean? What does he mean?
                 What is he going to do?

  SONG — Mr. Goldbury

            Some seven men form an Association
                 (If possible, all Peers and Baronets),
            The start off with a public declaration
                 To what extent they mean to pay their debts.
            That's called their Capital; if they are wary
                 They will not quote it at a sum immense.
            The figure's immaterial—it may vary
                 From eighteen million down to eighteenpence.
                      I should put it rather low;
                      The good sense of doing so
                 Will be evident at once to any debtor.
                      When it's left to you to say
                      What amount you mean to pay,
                 Why, the lower you can put it at, the better.

  Chorus: When it's left to you to say, etc.

            They then proceed to trade with all who'll trust 'em
                 Quite irrespective of their capital
            (It's shady, but it's sanctified by custom);
                 Bank, Railway, Loan, or Panama Canal.
            You can't embark on trading too tremendous—
                 It's strictly fair, and based on common sense—
            If you succeed, your profits are stupendous—
                 And if you fail, pop goes your eighteenpence.

                 Make the money-spinner spin!
                 For you only stand to win,
            And you'll never with dishonesty be twitted.
                 For nobody can know,
                 To a million or so,
            To what extent your capital's committed!

  Chorus: No, nobody can know, etc.

            If you come to grief, and creditors are craving
                 (For nothing that is planned by mortal head
            Is certain in this Vale of Sorrow—saving
                 That one's Liability is Limited),—
            Do you suppose that signifies perdition?
                 If so, you're but a monetary dunce—
            You merely file a Winding-Up Petition,
                 And start another Company at once!
                 Though a Rothschild you may be
                 In your own capacity,
            As a Company you've come to utter sorrow—
                 But the Liquidators say,
                 "Never mind—you needn't pay,"
            So you start another company to-morrow!

  Chorus: But the liquidators say, etc.

  King: Well, at first sight it strikes us as dishonest,
            But if its's good enough for virtuous England—
            The first commercial country in the world—
            It's good enough for us.

  Sca., Phan., Tar. (aside to the King)
                                     You'd best take care—
            Please recollect we have not been consulted.

  King: And do I understand that Great Britain
            Upon this Joint Stock principle is governed?

  Mr. G.: We haven't come to that, exactly—but
            We're tending rapidly in that direction.
            The date's not distant.

  King: (enthusiastically) We will be before you!
            We'll go down in posterity renowned
            As the First Sovereign in Christendom
            Who registered his Crown and Country under
            The Joint Stock Company's Act of Sixty-Two.

  All: Ulahlica!

                               SOLO — King

                 Henceforward, of a verity,
                      With Fame ourselves we link—
                 We'll go down to Posterity
                      Of sovereigns all the pink!

  Sca., Phan., Tar.: (aside to King)
                 If you've the mad temerity
                      Our wishes thus to blink,
                 You'll go down to Posterity,
                      Much earlier than you think!

  Tar.: (correcting them)

                 He'll go up to Posterity,
                      If I inflict the blow!

  Sca., Phan.: (angrily)

                 He'll go down to Posterity—
                      We think we ought to know!

  Tar.: (explaining) He'll go up to Posterity,
                 Blown up with dynamite!

  Sca., Phan.: (apologetically)

                 He'll go up to Posterity,
                      Of course he will, you're right!

                              ENSEMBLE

   King, Lady Sophy, Nek., Sca., Phan, and Tar Fitz. and
  Zara (aside)
   Kal., Calynx and Chorus (aside)

  Henceforward of a verity, If he has the temerity Who love
  with all sincerity;
    With fame ourselves we Our wishes thus to blink Their
  lives may safely link.
       link—
  And go down to Posterity, He'll go up to Posterity And as for
  our posterity
    Of sovereigns all pink! Much earlier than they We don't
  care what they think!
                                   think!

                               CHORUS

                      Let's seal this mercantile pact—
                           The step we ne'er shall rue—
                      It gives whatever we lacked—
                           The statement's strictly true.
                      All hail, astonishing Fact!
                           All hail, Invention new—
                      The Joint Stock Company's Act—
                           The Act of Sixty-Two!

                               END OF ACT I





ACT II

  Scene — Throne Room in the Palace. Night. Fitzbattleaxe
  discovered,
       singing to Zara.

                    RECITATIVE — Fitzbattleaxe.

            Oh, Zara, my beloved one, bear with me!
            Ah, do not laugh at my attempted C!
            Repent not, mocking maid, thy girlhood's choice—
            The fervour of my love affects my voice!

                       SONG — Fitzbattleaxe.

            A tenor, all singers above
                 (This doesn't admit of a question),
                      Should keep himself quiet,
                      Attend to his diet
                 And carefully nurse his digestion;
            But when he is madly in love
                 It's certain to tell on his singing—
                      You can't do the proper chromatics
                      With proper emphatics
                 When anguish your bosom is wringing!
            When distracted with worries in plenty,
            And his pulse is a hundred and twenty,
            And his fluttering bosom the slave of mistrust is,
            A tenor can't do himself justice,
                 Now observe—(sings a high note),
            You see, I can't do myself justice!
            I could sing if my fervour were mock,
                 It's easy enough if you're acting—
                      But when one's emotion
                      Is born of devotion
                 You mustn't be over-exacting.
            One ought to be firm as a rock
                 To venture a shake in vibrato,
                      When fervour's expected
                      Keep cool and collected
                 Or never attempt agitato.
            But, of course, when his tongue is of leather,
            And his lips appear pasted together,
            And his sensitive palate as dry as a crust is,
            A tenor can't do himself justice.
                 Now observe—(sings a high note),
            It's no use—I can't do myself justice!

  Zara: Why, Arthur, what does it matter? When the higher
  qualities
            of the heart are all that can be desired, the higher
  notes
            of the voice are matters of comparative insignificance.
  Who
            thinks slightingly of the cocoanut because it is husky?
  Be-
            sides (demurely), you are not singing for an engagement
            (putting her hand in his), you have that already!

  Fitz.: How good and wise you are! How unerringly your practiced
            brain winnows the wheat from the chaff—the material from
            the merely incidental!

  Zara: My Girton training, Arthur. At Girton all is wheat, and
            idle chaff is never heard within its walls! But tell me,
  is
            not all working marvelously well? Have not our Flowers
  of
            Progress more than justified their name?

  Fitz.: We have indeed done our best. Captain Corcoran and I
  have,
            in concert, thoroughly remodeled the sister-services—and
            upon so sound a basis that the South Pacific trembles at
  the
            name of Utopia!

  Zara: How clever of you!

  Fitz.: Clever? Not a bit. It's easy as possible when the
  Admiral-
            ty and Horse Guards are not there to interfere. And so
  with
            the others. Freed from the trammels imposed upon them by
            idle Acts of Parliament, all have given their natural
  tal-
            ents full play and introduced reforms which, even in Eng-
            land, were never dreamt of!

  Zara: But perhaps the most beneficent changes of all has been
  ef-
            fected by Mr. Goldbury, who, discarding the exploded
  theory
            that some strange magic lies hidden in the number Seven,
  has
            applied the Limited Liability principle to individuals,
  and
            every man, woman, and child is now a Company Limited with
            liability restricted to the amount of his declared
  Capital!
            There is not a christened baby in Utopia who has not
  already
            issued his little Prospectus!

  Fitz.: Marvelous is the power of a Civilization which can trans-
            mute, by a word, a Limited Income into an Income Limited.

  Zara: Reform has not stopped here—it has been applied even to
  the
            costume of our people. Discarding their own barbaric
  dress,
            the natives of our land have unanimously adopted the
  taste-
            ful fashions of England in all their rich entirety.
  Scaphio
            and Phantis have undertaken a contract to supply the
  whole
            of Utopia with clothing designed upon the most approved
            English models—and the first Drawing-Room under the new
            state of things is to be held here this evening.

  Fitz.: But Drawing-Rooms are always held in the afternoon.

  Zara: Ah, we've improved upon that. We all look so much better
  by
            candlelight! And when I tell you, dearest, that my Court
            train has just arrived, you will understand that I am
  long-
            ing to go and try it on.

  Fitz.: Then we must part?

  Zara: Necessarily, for a time.

  Fitz.: Just as I wanted to tell you, with all the passionate
  enthu-
            siasm of my nature, how deeply, how devotedly I love you!

  Zara: Hush! Are these the accents of a heart that really
  feels?
            True love does not indulge in declamation—its voice is
            sweet, and soft, and low. The west wind whispers when he
            woos the poplars!

                      DUET — Zara and Fitzbattleaxe.

  Zara: Words of love too loudly spoken
                      Ring their own untimely knell;
                 Noisy vows are rudely broken,
                      Soft the song of Philomel.
                 Whisper sweetly, whisper slowly,
                      Hour by hour and day by day;
                 Sweet and low as accents holy
                      Are the notes of lover's lay.

  Both: Sweet and low, etc.

  Fitz: Let the conqueror, flushed with glory,
                      Bid his noisy clarions bray;
                 Lovers tell their artless story
                      In a whispered virelay.
                 False is he whose vows alluring
                      Make the listening echoes ring;
                 Sweet and low when all-enduring
                      Are the songs that lovers sing!

  Both: Sweet and low, etc.

         (Exit Zara. Enter King dressed as Field-Marshal.)

  King: To a Monarch who has been accustomed to the uncontrolled
  use
            of his limbs, the costume of a British Field-Marshal is,
            perhaps, at first, a little cramping. Are you sure that
            this is all right? It's not a practical joke, is it? No
            one has a keener sense of humor than I have, but the
  First
            Statutory Cabinet Council of Utopia Limited must be
  conduct-
            ed with dignity and impressiveness. Now, where are the
            other five who signed the Articles of Association?

  Fitz.: Sir, they are here.

  (Enter Lord Dramaleigh, Captain Corcoran, Sir Bailey Barre, Mr.
  Blushington, and
       Mr. Goldbury from different entrances.)

  King: Oh! (Addressing them) Gentlemen, our daughter holds her
            first Drawing-Room in half an hour, and we shall have
  time
            to make our half-yearly report in the interval. I am
  neces-
            sarily unfamiliar with the forms of an English Cabinet
            Council—perhaps the Lord Chamberlain will kindly put us
  in
            the way of doing the thing properly, and with due regard
  to
            the solemnity of the occasion.

  Lord D.: Certainly—nothing simpler. Kindly bring your chairs
            forward—His Majesty will, of course, preside.

  (They range their chairs across stage like Christy Minstrels. King
       sits center, Lord Dramaleigh on his left, Mr. Goldbury on his
  right,
       Captain Corcoran left of Lord Dramaleigh, Captain
  Fitzbattleaxe right of
       Mr. Goldbury, Mr. Blushington extreme right, Sir Bailey Barre
  extreme
       left.)

  King: Like this?

  Lord D.: Like this.

  King: We take your word for it that this is all right. You are
            not making fun of us? This is in accordance with the
  prac-
            tice at the Court of St. James's?

  Lord D.: Well, it is in accordance with the practice at the Court
  of
            St. James's Hall.

  King: Oh! it seems odd, but never mind.

                               SONG — King.

            Society has quite forsaken all her wicked courses.
            Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.

  Chorus: Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.

  King: No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour;
            For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.

  Chorus: That's maxim that is prevalent in England.

  King: No peeress at our drawing-room before the Presence passes
            Who wouldn't be accepted by the lower middle-classes.
            Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out
  neatly.

  Chorus: In short, this happy country has been Anglicized
  completely
            Is really is surprising
            What a thorough Anglicizing
       We have brought about—Utopia's quite another land;
            In her enterprising movements,
             She is England—with improvements,
       Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

  King: Our city we have beautified—we've done it willy-nilly—
            And all that isn't Belgrave Square is Strand and
  Piccadilly.

  Chorus: We haven't any slummeries in England!

  King: The chamberlain our native stage has purged beyond a
  ques-
                 tion.
            Of "risky" situation and indelicate suggestion;
            No piece is tolerated if it's costumed indiscreetly—

  Chorus: In short this happy country has been Anglicized com-
                      pletely!
                      It really is surprising, etc.

  King: Our peerage we've remodelled on an intellectual basis,
            Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races—

  Chorus: We are going to remodel it in England.

  King: The Brewers and the Cotton Lords no longer seek
  admission,
            And literary merit meets with proper recognition—

  Chorus: As literary merit does in England!

  King: Who knows but we may count among our intellectual
  chickens
            Like you, an Earl of Thackery and p'r'aps a Duke of
                 Dickens—
            Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we'll
                 welcome sweetly—

  Chorus: In short, this happy country has been Anglicized
  completely!
            It really is surprising, etc.

          (At the end all rise and replace their chairs.)

  King: Now, then for our first Drawing-Room. Where are the
  Prin-
            cesses? What an extraordinary thing it is that since
  Euro-
            pean looking-glasses have been supplied to the Royal bed-
            rooms my daughters are invariably late!

  Lord D.: Sir, their Royal Highnesses await your pleasure in the
            Ante-room.

  King: Oh. Then request them to do us the favor to enter at
  once.

  (Enter all the Royal Household, including (besides the Lord
  Chamber-
       lain) the Vice-Chamberlain, the Master of the Horse, the
  Master
       of the Buckhounds, the Lord High Treasurer, the Lord Steward,
  the
       Comptroller of the Household, the Lord-in-Waiting, the Field
       Officer in Brigade Waiting, the Gold and Silver Stick, and the
       Gentlemen Ushers. Then enter the three Princesses (their
  trains
       carried by Pages of Honor), Lady Sophy, and the
       Ladies-in-Waiting.)

  King: My daughters, we are about to attempt a very solemn
  ceremo-
            nial, so no giggling, if you please. Now, my Lord
  Chamber-
            lain, we are ready.

  Lord D.: Then, ladies and gentlemen, places, if you please. His
  Maj-
            esty will take his place in front of the throne, and will
  be
            so obliging as to embrace all the debutantes. (LADY
  SOPHY
            much shocked.)

  King: What—must I really?

  Lord D.: Absolutely indispensable.

  King: More jam for the Palace Peeper!

  (The King takes his place in front of the throne, the Princess Zara
  on
       his left, the two younger Princesses on the left of Zara.)

  King: Now, is every one in his place?

  Lord D.: Every one is in his place.

  King: Then let the revels commence.

  (Enter the ladies attending the Drawing-Room. They give their
  cards
       to the Groom-in-Waiting, who passes them to the
  Lord-in-Waiting,
       who passes them to the Vice-Chamberlain, who passes them to
  the
       Lord Chamberlain, who reads the names to the King as each lady
       approaches. The ladies curtsey in succession to the King and
  the
       three Princesses, and pass out. When all the presentations
  have
       been accomplished, the King, Princesses, and Lady Sophy come
       forward, and all the ladies re-enter.)

                            RECITATIVE — King

            This ceremonial our wish displays
            To copy all Great Britain's courtly ways.
            Though lofty aims catastrophe entail,
            We'll gloriously succeed or nobly fail!

                        UNACCOMPANIED CHORUS

            Eagle High in Cloudland soaring—
                 Sparrow twittering on a reed—
            Tiger in the jungle roaring—
                 Frightened fawn in grassy mead—
            Let the eagle, not the sparrow,
            Be the object of your arrow—
                 Fix the tiger with your eye—
                 Pass the fawn in pity by.
                 Glory then will crown the day—
                 Glory, glory, anyway!

                                                               Exit
  all.

  Enter Scaphio and Phantis, now dressed as judges in red and ermine
  robes
       and undress wigs. They come down stage melodramatically —
       working together.

                       DUET — Scaphio and Phantis.

  Sca.: With fury deep we burn

  Phan.: We do—

  Sca.: We fume with smothered rage—

  Phan.: We do—

  Sca.: These Englishmen who rule supreme,
                      Their undertaking they redeem
                      By stifling every harmless scheme
                           In which we both engage—

  Phan.: They do—

  Sca.: In which we both engage—

  Phan.: We think it is our turn—

  Sca.: We do—

  Phan.: We think our turn has come—

  Sca.: We do.

  Phan.: These Englishmen, they must prepare
                      To seek at once their native air.
                      The King as heretofore, we swear,
                      Shall be beneath our thumb—

  Sca.: He shall—

  Phan.: Shall be beneath out thumb—

  Sca.: He shall.

  Both: (with great energy)
                      For this mustn't be, and this won't do.
                      If you'll back me, then I'll back you,
                                No, this won't do,
                                No, this mustn't be.
                         With fury deep we burn...

                              Enter the King.

  King: Gentlemen, gentlemen—really! This unseemly display of
            energy within the Royal precincts is altogether unpardon-
            able. Pray, what do you complain of?

  Scaphio: (furiously) What do we complain of? Why, through the
            innovations introduced by the Flowers of Progress all our
            harmless schemes for making a provision for our old age
  are
            ruined. Our Matrimonial Agency is at a standstill, our
            Cheap Sherry business is in bankruptcy, our Army Clothing
            contracts are paralyzed, and even our Society paper, the
            Palace Peeper, is practically defunct!

  King: Defunct? Is that so? Dear, dear, I am truly sorry.

  Scaphio: Are you aware that Sir Bailey Barre has introduced a law
  of
            libel by which all editors of scurrilous newspapers are
  pub-
            licly flogged—as in England? And six of our editors
  have
            resigned in succession! Now, the editor of a scurrilous
            paper can stand a good deal—he takes a private thrashing
  as
            a matter of course—it's considered in his salary—but no
            gentleman likes to be publicly flogged.

  King: Naturally. I shouldn't like it myself.

  Phantis: Then our Burlesque Theater is absolutely ruined!

  King: Dear me. Well, theatrical property is not what it was.

  Phantis: Are you aware that the Lord Chamberlain, who has his own
            views as to the best means of elevating the national
  drama,
            has declined to license any play that is not in blank
  verse
            and three hundred years old—as in England?

  Scaphio: And as if that wasn't enough, the County Councillor has
  or-
            dered a four-foot wall to be built up right across the
            proscenium, in case of fire—as in England.

  Phantis: It's so hard on the company—who are liable to be roasted
            alive—and this has to be met by enormously increased
            salaries—as in England.

  Scaphio: You probably know that we've contracted to supply the
  entire
            nation with a complete English outfit. But perhaps you
  do
            not know that, when we send in our bills, our customers
            plead liability limited to a declared capital of
            eighteenpence, and apply to be dealt with under the
            Winding-up Act—as in England?

  King: Really, gentlemen, this is very irregular. If you will
  be
            so good as to formulate a detailed list of your
  grievances
            in writing, addressed to the Secretary of Utopia Limited,
            they will be laid before the Board, in due course, at
  their
            next monthly meeting.

  Scaphio: Are we to understand that we are defied?

  King: That is the idea I intended to convey.

  Phantis: Defied! We are defied!

  Scaphio: (furiously) Take care—you know our powers. Trifle with
            us, and you die!

                    TRIO — Scaphio, Phantis, and King.

  Sca.: If you think that, when banded in unity,
            We may both be defied with impunity,
                 You are sadly misled of a verity!

  Phan.: If you value repose and tranquility,
            You'll revert to a state of docility,
                 Or prepare to regret your temerity!

  King.: If my speech is unduly refractory
            You will find it a course satisfactory
                 At an early Board meeting to show it up.
            Though if proper excuse you can trump any,
            You may wind up a Limited Company,
                 You cannot conveniently blow it up!

              (Scaphio and Phantis thoroughly baffled)

  King.: (Dancing quietly)
            Whene'er I chance to baffle you
            I, also, dance a step or two—
            Of this now guess the hidden sense:

  (Scaphio and Phantis consider the question as King continues
  dancing
       quietly—then give it up.)

            It means complete indifference!

  Sca. and Phan.: Of course it does—indifference!
                      It means complete indifference!

  (King dancing quietly. Sca. and Phan. dancing furiously.)

  Sca. and Phan.: As we've a dance for every mood
                      With pas de trois we will conclude,
                      What this may mean you all may guess—
                      It typifies remorselessness!

  King.: It means unruffled cheerfulness!

  (King dances off placidly as Scaphio and Phantis dance furiously.)

  Phantis: (breathless) He's right—we are helpless! He's no
  longer a
            human being—he's a Corporation, and so long as he
  confines
            himself to his Articles of Association we can't touch
  him!
            What are we to do?

  Scaphio: Do? Raise a Revolution, repeal the Act of Sixty-Two,
  recon-
            vert him into an individual, and insist on his immediate
  ex-
            plosion! (Tarara enters.) Tarara, come here; you're the
            very man we want.

  Tarara: Certainly, allow me. (Offers a cracker to each; they
  snatch
            them away impatiently.) That's rude.

  Scaphio: We have no time for idle forms. You wish to succeed to
  the
            throne?

  Tarara: Naturally.

  Scaphio: Then you won't unless you join us. The King has defied
  us,
            and, as matters stand, we are helpless. So are you. We
            must devise some plot at once to bring the people about
  his
            ears.

  Tarara: A plot?

  Phantis: Yes, a plot of superhuman subtlety. Have you such a
  thing
            about you?

  Tarara: (feeling) No, I think not. No. There's one on my
            dressing-table.

  Scaphio: We can't wait—we must concoct one at once, and put it
  into
            execution without delay. There is not a moment to spare!

                   TRIO — Scaphio, Phantis, and Tarara.

                              Ensemble

                 With wily brain upon the spot
                      A private plot we'll plan,
                 The most ingenious private plot
                      Since private plots began.
                 That's understood. So far we've got
                 And, striking while the iron's hot,
                 We'll now determine like a shot
                 The details of this private plot.

  Sca.: I think we ought—(whispers)
  Phan. and Tar.: Such bosh I never heard!
  Phan.: Ah! happy thought!—(whispers)
  Sca. and Tar.: How utterly dashed absurd!
  Tar.: I'll tell you how—(whispers)
  Sca and Phan.: Why, what put that in your head?
  Sca.: I've got it now—(whispers)
  Phan. and Tar.: Oh, take him away to bed!
  Phan.: Oh, put him to bed!
  Tar.: Oh, put him to bed!
  Sca.: What, put me to bed?
  Phan. and Tar.: Yes, certainly put him to bed!
  Sca.: But, bless me, don't you see—
  Phan.: Do listen to me, I pray—
  Tar.: It certainly seems to me—
  Sca.: Bah—this is the only way!
  Phan.: It's rubbish absurd you growl!
  Tar.: You talk ridiculous stuff!
  Sca.: You're a drivelling barndoor owl!
  Phan.: You're a vapid and vain old muff!

                  (All, coming down to audience.)

            So far we haven't quite solved the plot—
            They're not a very ingenious lot—
                 But don't be unhappy,
                 It's still on the tapis,
            We'll presently hit on a capital plot!

  Sca.: Suppose we all—(whispers)
  Phan.: Now there I think you're right.
            Then we might all—(whispers)
  Tar.: That's true, we certainly might.
            I'll tell you what—(whispers)
  Sca.: We will if we possibly can.
            Then on the spot— (whispers)
  Phan. and Tar.: Bravo! A capital plan!
  Sca.: That's exceedingly neat and new!
  Phan.: Exceedingly new and neat.
  Tar.: I fancy that that will do.
  Sca.: It's certainly very complete.
  Phan.: Well done you sly old sap!
  Tar.: Bravo, you cunning old mole!
  Sca.: You very ingenious chap!
  Phan.: You intellectual soul!

            (All, coming down and addressing audience.)

            At last a capital plan we've got
            We won't say how and we won't say what:
                 It's safe in my noddle—
                 Now off we will toddle,
            And slyly develop this capital plot!

  (Business. Exeunt Scaphio and Phantis in one direction, and Tarara
  in
  the other.)

             (Enter Lord Dramaleigh and Mr. Goldbury.)

  Lord D.: Well, what do you think of our first South Pacific
            Drawing-Room? Allowing for a slight difficulty with the
            trains, and a little want of familiarity with the use of
  the
            rouge-pot, it was, on the whole, a meritorious affair?

  Gold.: My dear Dramaleigh, it redounds infinitely to your
  credit.

  Lord D.: One or two judicious innovations, I think?

  Gold.: Admirable. The cup of tea and the plate of mixed
  biscuits
            were a cheap and effective inspiration.

  Lord D.: Yes—my idea entirely. Never been done before.

  Gold.: Pretty little maids, the King's youngest daughters, but
            timid.

  Lord D.: That'll wear off. Young.

  Gold.: That'll wear off. Ha! here they come, by George! And
  with-
            out the Dragon! What can they have done with her?

                 (Enter Nekaya and Kalyba timidly.)

  Nekaya: Oh, if you please, Lady Sophy has sent us in here,
  because
            Zara and Captain Fitzbattleaxe are going on, in the
  garden,
            in a manner which no well-conducted young ladies ought to
            witness.

  Lord D.: Indeed, we are very much obliged to her Ladyship.

  Kalyba: Are you? I wonder why.

  Nekaya: Don't tell us if it's rude.

  Lord D.: Rude? Not at all. We are obliged to Lady Sophy because
  she
            has afforded us the pleasure of seeing you.

  Nekaya: I don't think you ought to talk to us like that.

  Kalyba: It's calculated to turn our heads.

  Nekaya: Attractive girls cannot be too particular.

  Kalyba: Oh pray, pray do not take advantage of our unprotected
  inno-
            cence.

  Gold.: Pray be reassured—you are in no danger whatever.

  Lord D.: But may I ask—is this extreme delicacy—this shrinking
            sensitiveness—a general characteristic of Utopian young
            ladies?

  Nekaya: Oh no; we are crack specimens.

  Kalyba: We are the pick of the basket. Would you mind not coming
            quite so near? Thank you.

  Nekaya: And please don't look at us like that; it unsettles us.

  Kalyba: And we don't like it. At least, we do like it; but it's
            wrong.

  Nekaya: We have enjoyed the inestimable privilege of being
  educated
            by a most refined and easily shocked English lady, on the
            very strictest English principles.

  Gold.: But, my dear young ladies—-

  Kalyba: Oh, don't! You mustn't. It's too affectionate.

  Nekaya: It really does unsettle us.

  Gold.: Are you really under the impression that English girls
  are
            so ridiculously demure? Why, an English girl of the
  highest
            type is the best, the most beautiful, the bravest, and
  the
            brightest creature that Heaven has conferred upon this
  world
            of ours. She is frank, open-hearted, and fearless, and
            never shows in so favorable a light as when she gives her
            own blameless impulses full play!

  Nekaya Oh, you shocking story!
  and
  Kalyba:

  Gold.: Not at all. I'm speaking the strict truth. I'll tell
  you
            all about her.

                           SONG — Mr. Goldbury.

            A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,
            In her magnificent comeliness,
            Is an English girl of eleven stone two,
            And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!
                 She follows the hounds, and on the pounds—
                      The "field" tails off and the muffs diminish—

            Over the hedges and brooks she bounds,
                 Straight as a crow, from find to finish.
            At cricket, her kin will lose or win—
                 She and her maids, on grass and clover,
            Eleven maids out—eleven maids in—
                 And perhaps an occasional "maiden over!"

                 Go search the world and search the sea,
                 Then come you home and sing with me
                 There's no such gold and no such pearl
                 As a bright and beautiful English girl!

            With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs,
            She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims—
            She plays, she sings, she dances, too,
            From ten or eleven til all is blue!
                 At ball or drum, til small hours come
                      (Chaperon's fans concealing her yawning)
                 She'll waltz away like a teetotum.
                      And never go home til daylight's dawning.
                 Lawn-tennis may share her favours fair—
                      Her eyes a-dance, and her cheeks a-glowing—
                 Down comes her hair, but then what does she care?
                      It's all her own and it's worth the showing!
                           Go search the world, etc.

            Her soul is sweet as the ocean air,
            For prudery knows no haven there;
            To find mock-modesty, please apply
            To the conscious blush and the downcast eye.
                 Rich in the things contentment brings,
                      In every pure enjoyment wealthy,
                 Blithe and beautiful bird she sings,
                      For body and mind are hale and healthy.
                 Her eyes they thrill with right goodwill—
                      Her heart is light as a floating feather—
                 As pure and bright as the mountain rill
                      That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather!
                           Go search the world, etc.

                              QUARTET

  Nek.: Then I may sing and play?

  Lord D.: You may!

  Kal.: Then I may laugh and shout?

  Gold.: No doubt!.

  Nek.: These maxims you endorse?

  Lord D.: Of course!

  Kal.: You won't exclaim "Oh fie!"

  Gold.: Not I!

  Gold: Whatever you are—be that:
                      Whatever you say—be true:
                                Straightforwardly act—
                           Be honest—in fact,
                      Be nobody else but you.

  Lord D.: Give every answer pat—
                      Your character true unfurl;
                           And when it is ripe,
                           You'll then be a type
                      Of a capital English girl.

  All.: Oh sweet surprise—oh, dear delight,
                 To find it undisputed quite,
                 All musty, fusty rules despite
                 That Art is wrong and Nature right!

  Nek.: When happy I,
                      With laughter glad
                           I'll wake the echoes fairly,
                 And only sigh
                      When I am sad—
                           And that will be but rarely!

  Kal.: I'll row and fish,
                      And gallop, soon—
                           No longer be a prim one—
                 And when I wish
                      To hum a tune,
                           It needn't be a hymn one?

  Gold and Lord D.: No, no!
                 It needn't be a hymn one!

  All (dancing): Oh, sweet surprise and dear delight
                 To find it undisputed quite—
                 All musty, fusty rules despite—
                 That Art is wrong and Nature right!

                                                        (Dance, and
  off)
                         (Enter Lady Sophy)

                         RECITATIVE — Lady Sophy.

            Oh, would some demon power the gift impart
            To quell my over-conscientious heart—
            Unspeak the oaths that never had been spoken,
            And break the vows that never should be broken!

                         SONG — Lady Sophy

            When but a maid of fifteen year,
                 Unsought—unplighted—
            Short petticoated—and, I fear,
                 Still shorter-sighted—
            I made a vow, one early spring,
            That only to some spotless King
            Who proof of blameless life could bring
                 I'd be united.
            For I had read, not long before,
            Of blameless kings in fairy lore,
            And thought the race still flourished here—
                 Well, well—
               I was a maid of fifteen year!

  (The King enters and overhears this verse)

            Each morning I pursued my game
                 (An early riser);
            For spotless monarchs I became
                 An advertiser:
            But all in vain I searched each land,
            So, kingless, to my native strand
            Returned, a little older, and
                 A good deal wiser!

            I learnt that spotless King and Prince
            Have disappeared some ages since—
            Even Paramount's angelic grace—
                      Ah me!—
            Is but a mask on Nature's face!
  (King comes forward)

  King: Ah, Lady Sophy—then you love me!
                 For so you sing—

  Lady S.: (Indignant and surprise. Producing "Palace Peeper")
                 No, by the stars that shine above me,
                      Degraded King!
            For while these rumours, through the city bruited,
            Remain uncontradicted, unrefuted,
            The object thou of my aversion rooted,
                      Repulsive thing!

  King: Be just—the time is now at hand
                 When truth may published be.
            These paragraphs were written and
                 Contributed by me!

  Lady S.: By you? No, no!

  King: Yes, yes. I swear, by me!
            I, caught in Scaphio's ruthless toil,
                 Contributed the lot!

  Lady S.: That that is why you did not boil
                 The author on the spot!

  King: And that is why I did not boil
                 The author on the spot!

  Lady S.: I couldn't think why you did not boil!

  King: But I know why I did not boil
                 The author on the spot!

                    DUET — Lady Sophy and King

  Lady S.: Oh, the rapture unrestrained
                 Of a candid retractation!
            For my sovereign has deigned
                 A convincing explanation—
            And the clouds that gathered o'er
                 All have vanished in the distance,
            And the Kings of fairy lore
                 One, at least, is in existence!

  King: Oh, the skies are blue above,
                 And the earth is red and rosal,
            Now the lady of my love
                 Has accepted my proposal!
            For that asinorum pons
                 I have crossed without assistance,
            And of prudish paragons
                 One, at least, is in existence!

  (King and Lady Sophy dance gracefully. While this is going on Lord
       Dramaleigh enters unobserved with Nekaya and Capt.
  Fitzbattleaxe. The
       two girls direct Zara's attention to the King and Lady Sophy,
  who
       are still dancing affectionately together. At this point the
       King kisses Lady Sophy, which causes the Princesses to make an
       exclamation. The King and Lady Sophy are at first much
  confused at
       being detected, but eventually throw off all reserve, and the
       four couples break into a wild Tarantella, and at the end
  exeunt
       severally.)

  Enter all the male Chorus, in great excitement, for various
  entrances,
       led by Scaphio, Phantis, and Tarara, and followed by the
  female
       Chorus.

                                  CHORUS.

                      Upon our sea-girt land
                      At our enforced command
                      Reform has laid her hand
                           Like some remorseless ogress—
                      And made us darkly rue
                      The deeds she dared to do—
                      And all is owing to
                           Those hated Flowers of Progress!

                           So down with them!
                           So down with them!
                      Reform's a hated ogress.
                           So down with them!
                           So down with them!
                      Down with the Flowers of Progress!

  (Flourish. Enter King, his three daughters, Lady Sophy, and the
  Flowers
       of Progress.)

  King: What means this most unmannerly irruption?
            Is this your gratitude for boons conferred?

  Scaphio: Boons? Bah! A fico for such boons, say we!
            These boons have brought Utopia to a standstill!
            Our pride and boast—the Army and the Navy—
            Have both been reconstructed and remodeled
            Upon so irresistible a basis
            That all the neighboring nations have disarmed—
            And War's impossible! Your County Councillor
            Has passed such drastic Sanitary laws
            That all doctors dwindle, starve, and die!
            The laws, remodeled by Sir Bailey Barre,
            Have quite extinguished crime and litigation:
            The lawyers starve, and all the jails are let
            As model lodgings for the working-classes!
            In short—Utopia, swamped by dull Prosperity,
            Demands that these detested Flowers of Progress
            Be sent about their business, and affairs
            Restored to their original complexion!

  King: (to Zara) My daughter, this is a very unpleasant state
  of
            things. What is to be done?

  Zara: I don't know—I don't understand it. We must have
  omitted
            something.

  King: Omitted something? Yes, that's all very well, but—-
  (Sir
            Bailey Barre whispers to Zara.)

  Zara: (suddenly) Of course! Now I remember! Why, I had
  forgot-
            ten the most essential element of all!

  King: And that is?—-

  Zara: Government by Party! Introduce that great and glorious
            element—at once the bulwark and foundation of England's
            greatness—and all will be well! No political measures
  will
            endure, because one Party will assuredly undo all that
  the
            other Party has done; and while grouse is to be shot, and
            foxes worried to death, the legislative action of the
  coun-
            try will be at a standstill. Then there will be sickness
  in
            plenty, endless lawsuits, crowded jails, interminable
  confu-
            sion in the Army and Navy, and, in short, general and
  unex-
            ampled prosperity!

  All: Ulahlica! Ulahlica!

  Phantis: (aside) Baffled!

  Scaphio: But an hour will come!

  King: Your hour has come already—away with them, and let them
            wait my will! (Scaphio and Phantis are led off in
  custody.)
            From this moment Government by Party is adopted, with all
            its attendant blessings; and henceforward Utopia will no
            longer be a Monarchy Limited, but, what is a great deal
            better, a Limited Monarchy!

                                  FINALE

  Zara: There's a little group of isles beyond the wave—
                 So tiny, you might almost wonder where it is—
            That nation is the bravest of the brave,
                 And cowards are the rarest of all rarities.
            The proudest nations kneel at her command;
                 She terrifies all foreign-born rapscallions;
            And holds the peace of Europe in her hand
                 With half a score invincible battalions!

                      Such, at least, is the tale
                           Which is born on the gale,
                      From the island which dwells in the sea.
                           Let us hope, for her sake
                      That she makes no mistake—
                           That she's all the professes to be!

  King: Oh, may we copy all her maxims wise,
                 And imitate her virtues and her charities;
            And may we, by degrees, acclimatize
                 Her Parliamentary peculiarities!
            By doing so, we shall in course of time,
                 Regenerate completely our entire land—
            Great Britain is the monarchy sublime,
                 To which some add (others do not) Ireland.
                      Such at least is the tale, etc.

                                 CURTAIN.