The Letters of Robert Burns | Page 7

his correspondent." This only means that a
very large proportion of Burns's letters are not like the letters of
ordinary men, and therefore do not satisfy the critic's idea or definition
of a letter. They treat of themes that are not specially à propos of
passing events, and therefore they are forced and affected. Few are
likely to be imposed upon by such shallow reasoning. Another critic[c]
avers that "while Burns says nothing of difficulties at all, he yet leaves
an admirable letter, out of nothing, in your hands!" We may pit the one
critic against the other, and so leave them, while we peruse the letters,

and form an opinion for ourselves.
While both the verse and the prose of Burns are revelations, his letters
reveal more than his poems the failings and frailties of the man. His
poems, taken altogether, shew him at his best, as we wish to--and as we
mainly do--remember him; a man to be loved, admired, even envied,
and by no means pitied, for his soul, though often vexed with the
irritations incidental to an obscure and toiling lot, has a strength and
buoyancy which readily raise it to divine altitudes, where it might well
be content to see and smile at the petty class distinctions and the paltry
social tyranny from which those irritations chiefly spring. His letters,
on the other hand, present him to us less frequently on those
commanding altitudes. He is oftener careful and concerned about many
things, groping occasionally in the world's ways for the world's gifts,
and handicapped in the struggle for them by a contemptuous and
half-hearted adoption of the world's methods of winning them.
The same personality that stands forth in the poems is everywhere
present in all essential features in the letters. We have in the latter the
same view of life, present and future; the same fierce contentment with
honest poverty; the same aggressive independency of manhood; the
same patriotism, susceptibility to female loveliness, love of sociality,
undaunted likes and dislikes. The humour is the same, though often too
elaborately expressed.[d] In one important respect, however, his letters
fail to reflect that image of him which his poetry presents. It is
remarkable that his descriptions of rural nature, and one might add of
rustic life, so full and plentiful in his verse, are so few and slight in his
letters. He seems to have reserved these descriptions for his verse.
The best, because the most genuine, biography of Burns is furnished by
his own writings. His letters will, if carefully studied, disprove many of
the positions taken up so confidently by would-be interpreters of his
history. It is not the purpose of this discursive paper to take up the
details of the Clarinda episode; but philandering is scarcely the word by
which to describe the mutual relations of the lovers. As for Mrs.
M'Lehose, the severest thing that can with justice be said against her is
that, if she maintained her virtue, she endangered her reputation. One

remarkable position taken up by a recent writer[e] on the subject of
Burns's amours is, that he never really loved any woman, and least of
all Jean Armour. The letters would rather warrant the converse of his
statement. They go to prove that while Burns's affections were more
than oriental in their strength and liberality, they were especially
centred upon Jean. He felt "a miserable blank in his heart with want of
her;" "a rooted attachment for her;" "had no reason on her part to rue
his marriage with her;" and "never saw where he could have made it
better." If Burns was never really in love, it is more than probable that
the whole world has been mistaking some other passion for it. It is this
same writer who in one breath speaks of Burns philandering with
Clarinda, and yet declaring his attachment to her in the best songs he
ever wrote. Another error which the letters should correct is the belief
expressed in some quarters that Burns was no longer capable of
producing poetry after his fatal residence in Edinburgh. It was, as a
matter of fact, subsequent to his residence in Edinburgh that he wrote
the poems for which he is now, and for which he will be longest,
famous--namely, his songs. The writer already referred to compares the
composition of these songs to the carving of cherry-stones. They were,
he says in effect, the amusement of a man who could do nothing better
in literature! The world has agreed that they are the best things Burns
has done; and rates him for their sake in the highest rank of its poets.
The truth is that Burns came to Ellisland with numerous schemes of
future poetical work, vigorous hopes of carrying some of them, and an