have regarded Pope personally with attachment,’ because she was incapable of attachment; but I deny that Pope could not be regarded with personal attachment by a worthier woman.  It is not probable, indeed, that a woman would have fallen in love with him as he walked along the Mall, or in a box at the opera, nor from a balcony, nor in a ball-room:  but in society he seems to have been as amiable as unassuming, and, with the greatest disadvantages of figure, his head and face were remarkably handsome, especially his eyes.  He was adored by his friends—­friends of the most opposite dispositions, ages, and talents—­by the old and wayward Wycherley, by the cynical Swift, the rough Atterbury, the gentle Spence, the stern attorney-bishop Warburton, the virtuous Berkeley, and the ‘cankered Bolingbroke.’  Bolingbroke wept over him like a child; and Spence’s description of his last moments is at least as edifying as the more ostentatious account of the deathbed of Addison.  The soldier Peterborough and the poet Gay, the witty Congreve and the laughing Rowe, the eccentric Cromwell and the steady Bathurst, were all his intimates.  The man who could conciliate so many men of the most opposite description, not one of whom but was a remarkable or a celebrated character, might well have pretended to all the attachment which a reasonable man would desire of an amiable woman.

“Pope, in fact, wherever he got it, appears to have understood the sex well.  Bolingbroke, ‘a judge of the subject,’ says Warton, thought his ‘Epistle on the Characters of Women’ his ‘masterpiece.’  And even with respect to the grosser passion, which takes occasionally the name of ‘romantic,’ accordingly as the degree of sentiment elevates it above the definition of love by Buffon, it may be remarked, that it does not always depend upon personal appearance, even in a woman.  Madame Cottin was a plain woman, and might have been virtuous, it may be presumed, without much interruption.  Virtuous she was, and the consequences of this inveterate virtue were that two different admirers (one an elderly gentleman) killed themselves in despair (see Lady Morgan’s ’France’).  I would not, however, recommend this rigour to plain women in general, in the hope of securing the glory of two suicides apiece.  I believe that there are few men who, in the course of their observations on life, may not have perceived that it is not the greatest female beauty who forms the longest and the strongest passions.

“But, apropos of Pope.—­Voltaire tells us that the Marechal Luxembourg (who had precisely Pope’s figure) was not only somewhat too amatory for a great man, but fortunate in his attachments.  La Valiere, the passion of Louis XIV. had an unsightly defect.  The Princess of Eboli, the mistress of Philip the Second of Spain, and Maugiron, the minion of Henry the Third of France, had each of them lost an eye; and the famous Latin epigram was written upon them, which has, I believe, been either translated or imitated by Goldsmith: