Robert Browning’s mother was the daughter of William Wiedermann, a German merchant settled in Dundee, and married to a Scotch wife.  One of the poet’s principal biographers has suggested that from this union of the German and Scotch, Browning got his metaphysical tendency; it is possible; but here again we must beware of the great biographical danger of making mountains out of molehills.  What Browning’s mother unquestionably did give to him, was in the way of training—­a very strong religious habit, and a great belief in manners.  Thomas Carlyle called her “the type of a Scottish gentlewoman,” and the phrase has a very real significance to those who realise the peculiar condition of Scotland, one of the very few European countries where large sections of the aristocracy are Puritans; thus a Scottish gentlewoman combines two descriptions of dignity at the same time.  Little more is known of this lady except the fact that after her death Browning could not bear to look at places where she had walked.

Browning’s education in the formal sense reduces itself to a minimum.  In very early boyhood he attended a species of dame-school, which, according to some of his biographers, he had apparently to leave because he was too clever to be tolerable.  However this may be, he undoubtedly went afterwards to a school kept by Mr. Ready, at which again he was marked chiefly by precocity.  But the boy’s education did not in truth take place at any systematic seat of education; it took place in his own home, where one of the quaintest and most learned and most absurdly indulgent of fathers poured out in an endless stream fantastic recitals from the Greek epics and mediaeval chronicles.  If we test the matter by the test of actual schools and universities, Browning will appear to be almost the least educated man in English literary history.  But if we test it by the amount actually learned, we shall think that he was perhaps the most educated man that ever lived; that he was in fact, if anything, overeducated.  In a spirited poem he has himself described how, when he was a small child, his father used to pile up chairs in the drawing-room and call them the city of Troy.  Browning came out of the home crammed with all kinds of knowledge—­knowledge about the Greek poets, knowledge about the Provencal Troubadours, knowledge about the Jewish Rabbis of the Middle Ages.  But along with all this knowledge he carried one definite and important piece of ignorance, an ignorance of the degree to which such knowledge was exceptional.  He was no spoilt and self-conscious child, taught to regard himself as clever.  In the atmosphere in which he lived learning was a pleasure, and a natural pleasure, like sport or wine.  He had in it the pleasure of some old scholar of the Renascence, when grammar itself was as fresh as the flowers of spring.  He had no reason to suppose that every one did not join in so admirable a game.  His sagacious destiny, while giving him knowledge of everything else, left him in ignorance of the ignorance of the world.