"She is not Cleopatra, but she is at least Charmian," wrote Keats,
conscious that his damsel was not in the vanward of the pageant of
ladies. One may divine that he counted the ways wherein she was not
Cleopatra, the touches whereby she fell short of and differed from, nay,
in which she mimicked, the Queen.

In like manner many of us have for some years past boasted of our
appreciation of the inferior beauty, the substitute, the waiting
gentlewoman of corrupt or corruptible heart; Keats confessed, but did not
boast. It is a vaunt now, an emulation, who shall discover her beauty,
who shall discern her.

She is most conspicuous in the atmosphere in smoke "effects," in the
"lurid," the "mystery"; such are the perfervid words. But let us take
the natural and authentic light as our symbol of Cleopatra, her sprightly
port, her infinite jest, her bluest vein, her variety, her laugh. "O
Eastern star!"

Men in cities look upward not much more than animals, and these--except
the dog when he bays the moon--look skyward not at all. The events of
the sky do not come and go for the citizens, do not visibly approach and
withdraw, threaten and pardon; they merely happen. And even when the sun
so condescends as to face them at the level of their own horizon (say
from the western end of the Bayswater Road), when he searches out the
eyes that have neglected him all day, finds a way between their narrowing
lids, looks straight into their unwelcoming pupils, explores the careful
wrinkles, singles and numbers the dull hairs, even, I say, to sudden
sunset in our dim climate, the Londoner makes no reply; he would rather
look into puddles than into the pools of light among clouds.