acquaintance, a rich father-in-law; and himself, by and by, the Bishop
of Gloucester. Sophistry has seldom, although sometimes, been thus
richly rewarded.

The last scene of Pope's tiny and tortured existence was now at hand.
But ere it closed, it must close like Dryden's, characteristically, with
an author's quarrel. Colley Cibber had long been a favourite of Pope's
ire, and had as often retorted scorn, till at last, by laughing upon the
stage at Pope's play (partly Gay's), entitled, "Three Hours After
Marriage," he roused the bard almost to frenzy; and Pope set to work to
remodel "The Dunciad;" and, dethroning Theobald, set up Cibber as the
lawful King of the Dull,--a most unfortunate substitution, since, while
Theobald was the ideal of stolid, solemn stupidity, Cibber was gay,
light, pert, and clever; full of pluck, too, and who overflowed in
reply, with pamphlets which gave Pope both a headache and a heartache
whenever he perused them.

Pope had never been strong, and for many years the variety and multitude
of his frailties had been increasing. He had habitually all his life
been tormented with headaches, for which he found the steam of strong
coffee the chief remedy. He had hurt his stomach, too, by indulging in
excess of stimulating viands, such as potted lampreys, and in copious
and frequent _drams_. He was assailed at last by dropsy and asthma; and
on the 30th of May 1744, he breathed his last, fifty-six years of age.
He had long, he said, "been tired of the world," and died with
philosophic composure and serenity. He took the sacrament according to
the form of the Roman Catholic Church; but merely, he said, because it
"looked right." A little before his death, he called for his desk, and
began an essay on the immortality of the soul, and on those material
things which tend to weaken or to strengthen it for immortality,--