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 real value to posterity.  For if we are ever to have a national English opera, we shall get it by writing English music, not by producing elaborate exercises in the manner of Wagner, Verdi, Massenet, Strauss, or anybody else.  Most great artistic enterprises spring from humble sources, and our young lions need not be ashamed of producing a mere comic opera or two before attacking a full-fledged music-drama.  Did not Wagner himself recommend a budding bard to start his musical career with a Singspiel?  It is safest as a rule to begin building operations from the foundation, and a better foundation for a school of English opera than Sullivan’s series of comic operas could hardly be desired.