In the remarkable autobiographic poem called the _Epistle to Arbuthnot_, Pope speaks of his early patrons and friends, and adds-- Soft were my numbers; who could take offence When pure description held the place of sense?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme, A painted mistress or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill-- I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answer'd,--I was not in debt.
Pope's view of his own career suggests the curious problem: how it came to pass that so harmless a man should be the butt of so many hostilities?
How could any man be angry with a writer of gentle pastorals and versified love-letters?
The answer of Pope was, that this was the normal state of things.

"The life of a wit," he says, in the preface to his works, "is a warfare upon earth;" and the warfare results from the hatred of men of genius natural to the dull.

Had any one else made such a statement, Pope would have seen its resemblance to the complaint of the one reasonable juryman overpowered by eleven obstinate fellows.

But we may admit that an intensely sensitive nature is a bad qualification for a public career.

A man who ventures into the throng of competitors without a skin will be tortured by every touch, and suffer the more if he turns to retaliate.
Pope's first literary performances had not been so harmless as he suggests.