Ravenet, from Kneller. It is a
striking portrait. A copy of this is admirably engraved in Bell's Poets,
richly ornamented. A copy from that by Richardson is prefixed to
Warton's edition. Among the portraits at _Hagley_, is that of Pope, and
his dog Bounce, by Richardson.[76] Lord Chesterfield thus speaks of
Pope:--"His poor, crazy, deformed body, was a mere Pandora's box,
containing all the physical ills that ever afflicted humanity. This,
perhaps, whetted the edge of his satire, and may, in some degree, excuse
it. I will say nothing of his works; they speak sufficiently for
themselves; they will live as long as taste and letters shall remain in
this country, and be more and more admired, as envy and resentment shall
subside. But I will venture this piece of classical blasphemy: which is,
that however he may be supposed to be obliged to Horace, Horace is more
obliged to him." Mr. Ruffhead (generally supposed to have had his
information from Dr. Warburton) thus states:--"Mr. Pope was low in
stature, and of a diminutive and misshapen figure, which no one
ridiculed more pleasantly than himself. His constitution was naturally
tender and delicate, and in his temper he was naturally mild and
gentle, yet sometimes betrayed that exquisite sensibility which is the
concomitant of genius. His lively perception and delicate feeling,
irritated by wretched ill health, made him too quickly take fire, but
his good sense and humanity soon rendered him placable. With regard to
the extent of his genius, it was so wide and various, that perhaps it
may not be too much to say, that he excelled in every species of
composition; and, beside his excellence as a poet, he was both an
antiquarian and an architect, and neither in an inferior degree.[77] No
man ever entertained more exalted notions of friendship, or was ever
more sincere, steady, warm, and disinterested, in all his attachments.
Every inch of his heart was let out in lodgings for his friends." Lord
Orrery thus speaks of him:--"His prose writings are little less
harmonious than his verse; and his voice, in common conversation, was so
naturally musical, that I remember honest Tom Southern used to call him
the Little Nightingale; his manners were delicate, easy, and engaging;
he treated his friends with a politeness that charmed, and a generosity
that was much to his honour. Every guest was made happy within his
doors; pleasure dwelt under his roof, and elegance presided at his
table." On