What we know of Purcell's life is nothing, or next to nothing; what is
written as his life is conjecture, more or less ingenious inference, or
pure fiction. In that we know so little of him he is blessed, but the
blessedness has not as yet extended to his biographers. At one time a
biographer's task was easy: he simply took the hearsay and inventions of
Hawkins, and accepted them as gospel truth whenever they could not be
tested. The fact that whenever they could by any means be tested they
were found to be false--even this did not dismay the biographer.
Hawkins's favourite pastime was libelling the dead. He libelled Dr.
Johnson, and Boswell promptly and most vigorously dealt with him; he
libelled Purcell grossly--he deliberately devised slanderous tales of
him. The biographers, with simple, childlike credulity, went on whenever
possible repeating his statements, for the obvious reason that this
course was the easiest. Hawkins knew nothing of Purcell. He can be
proved to be wrong, not merely about this or that detail, but about
everything. He is said to have known one Henry Needler, a pupil of
Purcell, and also Gostling, the son of the singer of the same name for
whom Purcell wrote; but neither acquaintance seems to have profited him
aught. His anecdotes are the product of inborn wickedness and an
uncouth, boorish imagination. When we have cleared away his garbage,
there remains only a skeleton life, but at any rate we have the
satisfaction of knowing that is pure fact.

Henry Purcell was born (probably) about the end of 1658, and (probably
also) in Westminster. Some of his family were musicians before him. His
father, Henry Purcell the elder, was a Gentleman of the Chapel Royal
(that is, a singer in the choir, and in many cases organist as well),
and was master of the choristers at Westminster Abbey for three years.