to look out for a new collaborator.
He found one in Mr. Sydney Grundy, and their 'Haddon Hall' was produced
in 1892. In spite of charming music, reflecting very gracefully the old
English atmosphere of the story, its success was only moderate, and the
world of music was much relieved to hear that the differences between
Mr. Gilbert and the Savoy authorities had been adjusted, and that the
two famous collaborators were to join forces once more. Unfortunately
'Utopia' (1893) echoed but faintly the magical harmonies of the past.
The old enchantment was gone; the spell was shattered. Both
collaborators seemed to have lost the clue that had so often led to
triumph. Again they drifted apart, and Sullivan turned once more to his
old friend, Sir Frank Burnand. Together they produced 'The Chieftain'
(1894), a revised and enlarged version of their early indiscretion, 'The
Contrabandista.' Success still held aloof, and for the last time
Sullivan and Mr. Gilbert joined forces. In 'The Grand Duke' (1896)
there were fitful gleams of the old splendour, notably in an amazing
sham--Greek chorus, which no one but Sullivan could have written, but
the piece could not for a moment be compared to even the weakest of the
earlier operas. The fate of 'The Beauty Stone' (1898), written to a
libretto by Messrs Pinero and Comyns Carr, was even more deplorable.
Fortunately Sullivan's collaboration with Captain Basil Hood brought him
an Indian summer of inspiration and success. 'The Rose of Persia'
(1900), if not upon the level of his early masterpieces, contained
better music than he had written since the days of 'The Gondoliers,' and
at least one number--the marvellous Dervish quartet--that for sheer
invention and musicianship could hardly be matched even in 'The Mikado'
itself. There was a great deal of charming music, too, in 'The Emerald
Isle' (1901), which Sullivan left unfinished at his death, and Mr.
Edward German completed.

During his lifetime, Sullivan was called the English Auber by people who
wanted to flatter him, and the English Offenbach by people who wanted to
snub him. Neither was a very happy nickname. He might more justly have
been called the English Lortzing, since he undoubtedly learnt more than
a little from the composer of 'Czar und Zimmermann,' whose comic operas
he heard during his student days at Leipzig. But Sullivan owed very
little to anyone. His genius was thoroughly his own and thoroughly
English, and in that lies his