He had three children himself—­Robert, born May 7th, 1812, a daughter named Sarianna, after her mother, and Clara.  His wife was a woman of singular beauty of nature, with a depth of religious feeling saved from narrowness of scope only by a rare serenity and a fathomless charity.  Her son’s loving admiration of her was almost a passion:  even late in life he rarely spoke of her without tears coming to his eyes.  She was, moreover, of an intellectual bent of mind, and with an artistic bias having its readiest fulfilment in music, and, to some extent, in poetry.  In the latter she inclined to the Romanticists:  her husband always maintained the supremacy of Pope.  He looked with much dubiety upon his son’s early writings, “Pauline” and “Paracelsus”; “Sordello,” though he found it beyond either his artistic or his mental apprehension, he forgave, because it was written in rhymed couplets; the maturer works he regarded with sympathy and pride, with a vague admiration which passed into a clearer understanding only when his long life was drawing near its close.

Of his children’s company he never tired, even when they were scarce out of babyhood.  He was fond of taking the little Robert in his arms, and walking to and fro with him in the dusk in “the library,” soothing the child to sleep by singing to him snatches of Anacreon in the original, to a favourite old tune of his, “A Cottage in a Wood.”  Readers of “Asolando” will remember the allusions in that volume to “my father who was a scholar and knew Greek.”  A week or two before his death Browning told an American friend, Mrs. Corson, in reply to a statement of hers that no one could accuse him of letting his talents lie idle:  “It would have been quite unpardonable in my case not to have done my best.  My dear father put me in a condition most favourable for the best work I was capable of.  When I think of the many authors who have had to fight their way through all sorts of difficulties, I have no reason to be proud of my achievements.  My good father sacrificed a fortune to his convictions.  He could not bear with slavery, and left India and accepted a humble bank-office in London.  He secured for me all the ease and comfort that a literary man needs to do good work.  It would have been shameful if I had not done my best to realise his expectations of me."[5]

[Footnote 5:  ‘India’ is a slip on the part either of Browning or of Mrs. Corson.  The poet’s father was never in India.  He was quite a youth when he went to his mother’s sugar-plantation at St. Kitts, in the West Indies.]

The home of Mr. Browning was, as already stated, in Camberwell, a suburb then of less easy access than now, and where there were green trees, and groves, and enticing rural perspectives into “real” country, yet withal not without some suggestion of the metropolitan air.

“The old trees
Which grew by our youth’s home—­the waving mass
Of climbing plants, heavy with bloom and dew—­
The morning swallows with their songs like words—­
All these seem clear....
...most distinct amid
The fever and the stir of after years.”