Julia, in "Two Gentlemen of Verona," iv. 4, hangs jealously over the picture of Sylvia, her unconscious rival:-- "And yet the painter flatter'd her a little, Unless I flatter with myself too much. Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow: If that be all the difference in his love, I'll get me such a color'd periwig. Her eyes are gray as glass; and so are mine: Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high." All the light-complexioned women may be classed as blondes, whether the pure red and white that strive for ascendency be pacified by golden hair, or whether a more even tint of the cheek find its correspondence in hair of chestnut hue. There are also women of high vitality, with gifts never too forthputting because blended into a harmonious disposition, who contribute still a fresh tone to this chromatic scale; for their heads wear the crisp aureole of another shade that seems to invite you, as William Blake, the painter, invited his city friend, to a "thatched roof of rusted gold." Beneath these roofs we can take shelter, fearing no catastrophe, unless the rich and winning manners bring one on. In Bellini's portrait of Cassandra Fedeli,[21] the famous improvisatrice, whom the Venetians crowned early in the sixteenth century, this gracious style of woman is preserved. There is a kind of brunette whose eyes are black as the sloe-berry, with the pupil and the iris melted together: they are couched underneath sombre hedges of eyebrows, and silently keep a good look-out. "The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman:" so can the princesses of the same color be ladies, but their style may ambush wickedness enough to task the most adventurous resources of a criminal lawyer. You will notice, however, that their scheming minds are endowed with little sprightliness. Intrigue does not put forth a sparkling surface that is swept by the light thrills of various moods that blow: the social prattle lacks the tone of charming simplicity and ease. The face is subject to lowering weather when one of these women meditates a poisoning: there is one clinch of the teeth as the limbs collect to make a fatal spring, one glance askant at the person whom she is diplomatically entertaining with arrangements for his ruin. They cannot so readily nurse a fell purpose with a melting air of maternity which transpires in every line of the face and limbs, as the victim is held cosingly to the fatal breast. He is clutched a little too menacingly, and has time for a suspicion concerning the nutriment he is about to draw.