And nodded that the bull-bait might begin.

Then mad with fighting frenzy in the sacking of Vicenza, then in his
palace nursing his scheme to make the Emperor predominant, then pacing
like a lion, hot with hope of mastering all Italy, when he finds out
that Sordello is his son: "hands clenched, head erect, pursuing his
discourse--crimson ear, eyeballs suffused, temples full fraught."

Then in the fourth book there is a long portrait of him which I quote as
a full specimen of the power with which Browning could paint a partisan
of the thirteenth century. Though sixty years old, Salinguerra looked
like a youth--

So agile, quick
And graceful turned the head on the broad chest
Encased in pliant steel, his constant vest,
Whence split the sun off in a spray of fire
Across the room; and, loosened of its tire
Of steel, that head let breathe the comely brown
Large massive locks discoloured as if a crown
Encircled them, so frayed the basnet where
A sharp white line divided clean the hair;
Glossy above, glossy below, it swept
Curling and fine about a brow thus kept
Calm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound:
This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found,
Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced,
No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchased
In hollows filled with many a shade and streak
Settling from the bold nose and bearded cheek.
Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformed
A lip supremely perfect else--unwarmed,
Unwidened, less or more; indifferent
Whether on trees or men his thoughts were bent,
Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and train
As now a period was fulfilled again:
Of such, a series made his life, compressed
In each, one story serving for the rest.

This is one example of a gallery of vivid portraiture in all Browning's
work, such as Carlyle only in the nineteenth century has approached in
England. It is not a national, but an international gallery of
portraits. The greater number of the portraits are Italian, and they
range over all classes of society from the Pope to the peasant. Even
Bishop Blougram has the Italian subtlety, and, like the Monsignore in
_Pippa Passes_, something of the politic morality of Machiavelli. But
Israel, Greece, France, Spain, Germany, and the days before the world
was brought together, furnish him with men drawn as alive. He has
painted their souls, but oth