as he
often delights our intellect.

Unluckily we can catch but few glimpses of Pope's family life; of the
old mother and father and the affectionate nurse, who lived with him
till 1721, and died during a dangerous illness of his mother's. The
father, of whom we hear little after his early criticism of the son's
bad "rhymes," died in 1717, and a brief note to Martha Blount gives
Pope's feeling as fully as many pages: "My poor father died last night.
Believe, since I don't forget you this moment, I never shall." The
mother survived till 1733, tenderly watched by Pope, who would never be
long absent from her, and whose references to her are uniformly tender
and beautiful. One or two of her letters are preserved. "My Deare,--A
letter from your sister just now is come and gone, Mr. Mennock and
Charls Rackitt, to take his leve of us; but being nothing in it, doe not
send it.... Your sister is very well, but your brother is not. There's
Mr. Blunt of Maypell Durom is dead, the same day that Mr. Inglefield
died. My servis to Mrs. Blounts, and all that ask of me. I hope to here
from you, and that you are well, which is my dalye prayers; this with my
blessing." The old lady had peculiar views of orthography, and Pope, it
is said, gave her the pleasure of copying out some of his Homer, though
the necessary corrections gave him and the printers more trouble than
would be saved by such an amanuensis. Three days after her death he
wrote to Richardson, the painter. "I thank God," he says, "her death was
as easy as her life was innocent; and as it cost her not a groan, nor
even a sigh, there is yet upon her countenance such an expression of
tranquillity, nay, almost of pleasure, that it is even enviable to
behold it. It would afford the finest image of a saint expired that ever
painter drew, and it would be the greatest obligation which ever that
obliging art could ever bestow upon a friend, if you would come and
sketch it for me. I am sure if there be no very prevalent obstacle, you
will leave any common business to do this, and I shall hope to see you
this evening as late as you will, or to-morrow morning as early, before
this winter flower is faded." Swift's comment, on hearing the news,
gives the only consolation which Pope could have felt. "She died in
extreme old age," he writes, "without pain, under the care of the most
dutiful son I have ever known or heard of, which is a felicity not
happening to one in a million." And with he