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Emilia had caught blindly at Sir Purcell's hand, by which she raised herself, and then uncovering her face, looked furtively at the malign furnace-white face of Mr. Pericles. "It cannot have gone," she spoke, as if mentally balancing the possibility. "It has gone, I say; and you know why, Mademoiselle ze Fool!" Mr. Pericles retorted. "No, no; it can't be gone. Gone? voices never go!"
As to Hawkins's theory that Purcell left his wife in needy circumstances, Cummings, his biographer, believes the thought refuted by the will left by the widow herself, who outlived her husband by eleven years, and on St. Valentine's Day, 1706, was buried at his side. Busby's, a Larum clock, Mr. Edward Purcell's picture, handsome furniture for a room, and he was to be maintained until provided for.
All things were ripe for a secular composer; the mood that found utterance in the old devotional music was a dead thing, and in England Humphries had pointed the new way. Purcell was that secular composer. One spirit, the secular, pagan spirit, breathes in every bar of Purcell's music.
A few days after the elder Purcell's burial, Henry and his wife came to Westminster Abbey again, for the baptism of a son new-born. He died in a few months and a third time they came to the sad old abbey to lay their child in the cloisters there. The next year, 1683, a second son died, and in 1687 a third boy two months old was buried in the cloisters of the abbey.
'Well, never mind, Davy, said the other, smiling sadly. 'We can't talk here in this din. But now I've got you, I keep you. Where are you? 'I'm in Half Street, sir Purcell's, the bookseller. 'Don't know him. I never go into a shop. I have no money. Are you apprentice there? 'Well, there was no binding. I'm assistant. I do a lot of business one way and another, buying and selling both.
Boyce, being a musical doctor, had that learning, he took Purcell's music in hand, and soon put it all right turned it, that is, into a clumsy, forcible-feeble copy of Handel. One could scarcely recognise Purcell so blunderingly disguised.
Purcell's hunting-whip accidentally lay on the table at which he sat, but he did not take it up immediately after Hourigan had concluded. He quickly rose, however, and having closed the door and locked it, he let down the windows, and deliberately drew the blinds.
He, like Humphries, and, indeed, all the foremost musicians of the period, was a bloated pluralist, and held other positions. It is said that he resigned Westminster Abbey in 1680 in Purcell's favour. Whether the resignation was voluntary or not, Purcell assuredly took his place at that date. After Purcell's death in 1695 Dr.
Later composers set the words again, feeling it no desecration, but possibly rather a compliment to Purcell; and Purcell's setting abides, and looks down upon every other, like Mozart's G minor and Beethoven's Ninth upon every other symphony, or the finale of Wagner's "Tristan" upon every other piece of love-music. Purcell is also a chief, though not the chief, among song-writers.
And, sure enough, as he was coming back through Half Street on one of his rounds, and was within a few yards of Purcell's window, the bookseller came out with his face set in Daddy's direction. Purcell, whose countenance, so far as Daddy could see at first sight, was at its blackest and sourest, and whose eyes were on the ground, did not at once perceive his adversary, and came stern on.
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