s overbalancing her fault; and if he had suffered
his heart to be alienated from her, he could have found nothing that
might fill her place; he could have only shrunk within himself; it was
too late to transfer his confidence or fondness.

In May, 1744, his death was approaching[143]; on the 6th, he was all day
delirious, which he mentioned four days afterwards as a sufficient
humiliation of the vanity of man; he afterwards complained of seeing
things as through a curtain, and in false colours; and one day, in the
presence of Dodsley, asked what arm it was that came out from the wall.
He said that his greatest inconvenience was inability to think.

Bolingbroke sometimes wept over him in this state of helpless decay; and
being told by Spence, that Pope, at the intermission of his
deliriousness, was always saying something kind either of his present or
absent friends, and that his humanity seemed to have survived his
understanding, answered, "It has so." And added, "I never in my life
knew a man that had so tender a heart for his particular friends, or
more general friendship for mankind." At another time he said, "I have
known Pope these thirty years, and value myself more in his friendship
than"--His grief then suppressed his voice.

Pope expressed undoubting confidence of a future state. Being asked by
his friend Mr. Hooke, a papist, whether he would not die like his father
and mother, and whether a priest should not be called; he answered, "I
do not think it essential, but it will be very right; and I thank you
for putting me in mind of it."

In the morning, after the priest had given him the last sacraments, he
said, "There is nothing that is meritorious but virtue and friendship,
and indeed friendship itself is only a part of virtue."

He died in the evening of the thirtieth day of May, 1744, so placidly,
that the attendants did not discern the exact time of his expiration. He
was buried at Twickenham, near his father and mother, where a monument
has been erected to him by his commentator, the bishop of Gloucester.

He left the care of his papers to his executors; first to lord
Bolingbroke[144], and, if he should not be living, to the earl of
Marchmont; undoubtedly expecting them to be proud of the trust, and
eager to extend his fame. But let no man dream of influence beyond his
life. After a decent time, Dodsley, the bookseller, went to solicit
preference as the publisher, and was told that the parcel had not