Music and words never have seemed better wedded than in the comic operas of Gilbert and Sullivan. The music is always graceful, gracious, piquant, and gaily fascinating. The story has no purpose but that of carrying some satirical idea, and the satire is never bitter, always playful. Sullivan's versatility was remarkable, his work ranging from "grave to gay, from lively to severe," and his was a genius that developed in his extreme youth. Many anecdotes are told of this brilliant composer, and all of them seem to illustrate a practical and resourceful mind, while they show little of the eccentricity that is supposed to belong to genius. It was Sir Arthur Sullivan who first popularized Schumann in England. Potter, head of the Royal Academy in London in 1861, had known Beethoven well, and had never been converted to a love of music less great than his--nor was his taste very catholic--and he continually regretted Sullivan's championship of Schumann's music. But one day Sullivan, suspecting the academician didn't know what he was talking about, asked him point-blank if he had ever heard any of the music he so strongly condemned. Potter admitted that he hadn't. Whereupon Sullivan said, "Then play some of Schumann with me, Mr. Potter," and, having done so, Potter "blindly worshipped" Schumann even after. Frederick Crowest tells this story in his "Musicians' Wit, Humour, and Anecdote": "The late Sir Arthur Sullivan, in the struggling years of his career, once showed great presence of mind, which saved the entire breakdown of a performance of 'Faust.' In the midst of the church scene, the wire connecting the pedal under Costa's foot with the metronome stick at the organ, broke. Costa was the conductor. In the concerted music this meant disaster, as the organist could hear nothing but his own instrument. Quick as thought, while he was playing the introductory solo, Sullivan called a stage hand. 'Go,' he said, 'and tell Mr. Costa that the wire is broken, and that he is to keep his ears open and follow me.' No sooner had the man flown to deliver his message than the full meaning of the words flashed upon Sullivan. What would Costa, autocratic, severe, and quick to take offence, say to such a message delivered by a stage hand? The scene, however, proceeded successfully, and at the end Sullivan went, nervously enough, to tender his apologies to his chief. Costa, implacable as he was, had a strong sense of justice, and the great conductor never forgot the signal service his young friend had rendered him by preventing a horrible _fiasco_." There are numberless stories of his suiting his composition to erratic themes. Beverley had painted borders for a woodland scene. Sullivan liked the work and complimented Beverley, who immediately said: "Yes, and if you could compose something to fit it now." Instantly, Sullivan, who was at the organ, composed a score within a few minutes which enraptured the painter and which "fitted" his borders.