In love-poetry of the Middle Age the allegorical personage named “Danger” plays a considerable part, and it is to be feared that Danger too often signified a husband.  In Wimpole Street that alarming personage always meant a father.  Edward Moulton Barrett was a man of integrity in business, of fortitude in adversity, of a certain stern piety, and from the superior position of a domestic autocrat he could even indulge himself in occasional fiats of affection.  We need not question that there were springs of water in the rock, and in earlier days they had flowed freely.  But now if at night he visited his ailing daughter’s room for a few minutes and prayed with her and for her, it meant that on such an occasion she was not too criminal to merit the pious intercession.  If he called her “puss,” it meant that she had not recently been an undutiful child of thirty-nine or forty years old.  A circus-trainer probably rewards his educated dogs and horses with like amiable familiarities, and he is probably regarded by his troupe with affection mingled with awe.  Mr Barrett had been appointed circus-trainer by the divine authority of parentage.  No one visited 50 Wimpole Street, where there were grown-up sons as well as daughters, without special permission from the lord of the castle; he authorised the visits of Mr Browning, the poet, being fondly assured that Mr Browning’s intentions were not those of a burglar, or—­worse—­an amorous knight-errant.  If any daughter of his conceived the possibility of transferring her prime love and loyalty from himself to another, she was even as Aholah and Aholibah who doted upon the Assyrians, captains, and rulers clothed most gorgeously, all of them desirable young men.  “If a prince of Eldorado” said Elizabeth Barrett to her sister Arabel, “should come with a pedigree of lineal descent from some signory in the moon in one hand, and a ticket of good behaviour from the nearest Independent chapel in the other—­” “Why, even then,” interrupted Arabel, “it would not do” One admirable trait, however, Mr Moulton Barrett did possess—­he was nearly always away from home till six o’clock.

The design that Miss Barrett should winter abroad was still under consideration, but the place now fixed upon was Pisa.  Suddenly, in mid-September, she finds herself obliged to announce that “it is all over with Pisa.”  Her father had vetoed the undutiful project, and had ceased to pay her his evening visits; only in his separate and private orisons were all her sins remembered.  To admit the fact that he did not love her enough to give her a chance of recovery was bitter, yet it could not be denied.  Her life was now a thing of value to herself, for it was precious to another.  She beat against the bars of her cage; planned a rebellious flight; made inquiries respecting ships and berths; but she could not travel alone; and she would not subject either of her sisters to the heavy displeasure of the ruler of the house.  Robert Browning held strong opinions