these complimentary odes, he wrote piles of instrumental music, a fair heap of anthems, and songs and interludes and overtures for some forty odd plays.  This is nearly the sum of our knowledge.  His outward life seems to have been uneventful enough.  He probably lived the common life of the day—­the day being, as I have said, Pepys’ day.  Mr. Cummings has tried to show him as a seventeenth century Mendelssohn—­conventionally idealised—­and he quotes the testimony of some “distinguished divine,” chaplain to a nobleman, as though we did not know too well why noblemen kept chaplains in those days to regard their testimony as worth more than other men’s.  The truth is, that if Purcell had lived differently from his neighbours he would have been called a Puritan.  On the other hand, we must remember that he composed so much in his short life that his dissipations must have made a poor show beside those of many of his great contemporaries—­those of Dryden, for instance, who used to hide from his duns in Purcell’s private room in the clock-tower of St. James’s Palace.  I picture him as a sturdy, beef-eating Englishman, a puissant, masterful, as well as lovable personality, a born king of men, ambitious of greatness, determined, as Tudway says, to exceed every one of his time, less majestic than Handel, perhaps, but full of vigour and unshakable faith in his genius.  His was an age when genius inspired confidence both in others and in its possessor, not, as now, suspicion in both; and Purcell was believed in from the first by many, and later, by all—­even by Dryden, who began by flattering Monsieur Grabut, and ended, as was his wont, by crossing to the winning side.  And Purcell is no more to be pitied for his sad life than to be praised as a conventionally idealised Mendelssohn.  His life was brief, but not tragic.  He never lacked his bread as Mozart lacked his; he was not, like Beethoven, tormented by deafness and tremblings for the immediate future; he had no powerful foes to fight, for he did not bid for a great position in the world like Handel.  Nor was he a romantic consumptive like Chopin, with a bad cough, a fastidious regard for beauty, and a flow of anaemic melody.  He was divinely gifted with a greater richness of invention than was given to any other composers excepting two, Bach and Mozart; and death would not take his gifts as an excuse when he was thirty-seven.  Hence our Mr. Cummings has droppings of lukewarm tears; hence, generally, compassion for his comparatively short life has ousted admiration for his mighty works from the minds of those who are readier at all times to indulge in the luxury of weeping than to feel the thrill of joy in a life greatly lived.  Purcell might have achieved more magnificent work, but that is a bad reason for forgetting the magnificence of the work he did achieve.  But I myself am forgetting that the greatness of his music is not admitted, and that the shortness of his life is merely urged as an excuse for not finding it admirable.  And remembering this, I assert that Purcell’s life was a great and glorious one, and that now his place is with the high gods whom we adore, the lords and givers of light.