By no means roses, roses all the way

Robert Browning, in life, was always immensely popular in a worldly way; he knew everyone not just in London but in Europe, and was almost universally loved over the dinner table. More than that, his shining, decent, boldly original mind leaps out from any biography, and it is easy to see how enchanting and charming he must have been in person. His poetry, on the other hand, is another matter; it has never been exactly popular. Even at the height of his success in 1870, just after the publication and immense acclamation of The Ring and the Book, he earned only £100 from his poetry, and his busy social life had to be funded by a legacy from a rich benefactor. That is roughly one-fiftieth of Tennyson’s earned income at the time, and you wonder whether anyone outside Browning’s substantial acquaintanceship bought and read his poetry, and whether he has ever managed to acquire a large readership since.