ke. More fairy-like music has
never entered a musician's dreams than Philidel's "Hither this way," and
the chorus which alternates with the solo part is as elfin,
will-o'-th'-wispish, as anything of Mendelssohn. Mendelssohn is
Purcell's only rival in such pictures. At the beginning of the
celebrated Frost Scene, where Cupid calls up "thou genius of the clime"
(the clime being Arctic), we get a specimen of Purcell's
"word-painting":

[Illustration]

This "word-painting," it must be noted, is of the very essence of
Purcell's art, at any rate in vocal music. Suggestions came to him from
the lines he was setting and determined the contours of his melody. He
always does it, and never with ridiculous effect. Either the effect is
dramatically right, as here; or impressive, as in "They that go down to
the sea in ships"; or sublime as in "Full fathom five"; and whatever
else it may be, it is always picturesque. The shivering chorus was an
old idea in Purcell's time, but the sheer power of Purcell's music sets
his use of it far above any other. It should be observed that none of
the principals sing in these "operas": they couldn't. It is true that
many singers, thorough musicians--Matthew Locke, for instance, and
Purcell's own father--were also actors, or at least spoken of as actors.
But it is evident they must have been engaged only for the singing
parts, which were insignificant as far as the plots of the plays were
concerned, though prominent enough in the spectacle or show, and
therefore in the public gaze. When all the enchanters and genies, good
and bad, have done their best or worst in _King Arthur_, the speaking
characters finish up their share and the real play in spoken lines; then
the singers and band wind up the whole entertainment in a style that was
probably thought highly effective in the seventeenth century. After the
last chorus--which begins as though the gathering were a Scotch one and
we were going to have "Auld Lang Syne"--there is a final "grand dance,"
one of the composer's vigorous and elaborately worked displays on a
ground-bass.

[1] Poor Grabut's fall was most lamentable. (His name, by the way, is
spelt Grabu, or Grabut, or Grebus.) Pepys records that when "little
Pelham Humfreys" returned from France he was bent on giving "Grebus" a
lift out of his place. He most certainly did; and the case ought to be a
warning to humbugs not to set their faith in princes. He had jockeyed
competent men out of the