actors to
his temple of Fame, his old mother writes from the country, "My deare,"
says she, "my deare, there's Mr. Blount, of Mapel Durom, dead the same day
that Mr. Inglefield died. Your sister is well; but your brother is sick.
My service to Mrs. Blount, and all that ask of me. I hope to hear from
you, and that you are well, which is my daily prayer; and this with my
blessing." The triumph marches by, and the car of the young conqueror, the
hero of a hundred brilliant victories--the fond mother sits in the quiet
cottage at home, and says, "I send you my daily prayers, and I bless you,
my deare".

In our estimate of Pope's character, let us always take into account that
constant tenderness and fidelity of affection which pervaded and
sanctified his life, and never forget that maternal benediction.(138) It
accompanied him always: his life seems purified by those artless and
heartfelt prayers. And he seems to have received and deserved the fond
attachment of the other members of his family. It is not a little touching
to read in Spence of the enthusiastic admiration with which his
half-sister regarded him, and the simple anecdote by which she illustrates
her love. "I think no man was ever so little fond of money." Mrs. Rackett
says about her brother, "I think my brother when he was young read more
books than any man in the world"; and she falls to telling stories of his
schooldays, and the manner in which his master at Twyford ill-used him. "I
don't think my brother knew what fear was," she continues; and the
accounts of Pope's friends bear out this character for courage. When he
had exasperated the dunces, and threats of violence and personal assault
were brought to him, the dauntless little champion never for one instant
allowed fear to disturb him, or condescended to take any guard in his
daily walks, except occasionally his faithful dog to bear him company. "I
had rather die at once," said the gallant little cripple, "than live in
fear of those rascals."

As for his death, it was what the noble Arbuthnot asked and enjoyed for
himself--a euthanasia--a beautiful end. A perfect benevolence, affection,
serenity, hallowed the departure of that high soul. Even in the very
hallucinations of his brain, and weaknesses of his delirium, there was
something almost sacred. Spence describes him in his last days, looking
up, and with a rapt gaze as if something had suddenly passed before him.
He said to me, "What's that?" pointing