midnight
There arose at one time a school of art , which delighted to paint the human face as perfect in beauty ; and from that time to this we are discontented unless every woman is drawn for us as a Venus , or , at least , a Madonna . I do not know that we have gained much by this untrue portraiture , either in beauty or in art . There may be made for us a pretty thing to look at , no doubt ; -- but we know that that pretty thing is not really visaged as the mistress whom we serve , and whose lineaments we desire to perpetuate on the canvas . The winds of heaven , or the flesh-pots of Egypt , or the midnight gas , -- passions , pains , and , perhaps , rouge and powder , have made her something different . But there still is the fire of her eye , and the eager eloquence of her mouth , and something , too , perhaps , left of the departing innocence of youth , which the painter might give us without the Venus or the Madonna touches . But the painter does not dare to do it . Indeed , he has painted so long after the other fashion that he would hate the canvas before him , were he to give way to the rouge-begotten roughness or to the flesh-pots , -- or even to the winds .