scular anatomy were
imitated by painters and sculptors, who thought that the grand style
lay in the presentation of theatrical athletes, but who could not
seize the secret whereby the great master made even the bodies of men
and women--colossal trunks and writhen limbs--interpret the meanings
of his deep and melancholy soul.

It is a sad law of progress in art, that when the aesthetic impulse is
on the wane, artists should perforce select to follow the weakness
rather than the vigour, of their predecessors. While painting was in
the ascendant, Raphael could take the best of Perugino and discard the
worst; in its decadence Parmigiano reproduces the affectations of
Correggio, and Bernini carries the exaggerations of Michelangelo to
absurdity. All arts describe a parabola. The force which produces
them causes them to rise throughout their growth up to a certain
point, and then to descend more gradually in a long and slanting line
of regular declension. There is no real break of continuity. The end
is the result of simple exhaustion. Thus the last of our Elizabethan
dramatists, Shirley and Crowne and Killigrew, pushed to its ultimate
conclusion the principle inherent in Marlowe, not attempting to break
new ground, nor imitating the excellences so much as the defects of
their forerunners. Thus too the Pointed style of architecture in
England gave birth first to what is called the Decorated, next to the
Perpendicular, and finally expired in the Tudor. Each step was a step
of progress--at first for the better--at last for the worse--but
logical, continuous, necessitated.[11]

It is difficult to leave Correggio without at least posing the
question of the difference between moralised and merely sensual art.
Is all art excellent in itself and good in its effect that is
beautiful and earnest? There is no doubt that Correggio's work is in a
way most beautiful; and it bears unmistakable signs of the master
having given himself with single-hearted devotion to the expression of
that phase of loveliness which he could apprehend. In so far we must
admit that his art is both excellent and solid. Yet we are unable to
conceive that any human being could be made better--stronger for
endurance, more fitted for the uses of the world, more sensitive to
what is noble in nature--by its contemplation. At the best Correggio
does but please us in our lighter moments, and we are apt to feel that
the pleasure he has given is of an enervating kind.