Whether the greatest art is grounded in pride or in humility has divided the critics. To most it will seem evident that the artist’s assertion of his own powers is an act of pride—a pride of person which is often reinforced by that of nation and race. As fine a critic as John Ruskin, on the contrary, has insisted that the greatest art springs from humility—reverence for God, admiration of His works in nature, homage also to one’s earthly master in art and withal to the great tradition of one’s craft. The difference is world-wide. According to one interpretation or the other, the work of art becomes an act of display or of worship. Such opposites in the realm of analysis often meet comfortably enough in the realm of practice. A haughty individualist like Leonardo da Vinci insists that his investigations of appearance and reality lead to that knowledge of God without which love is impossible. And the Golden Age of painting itself, though mostly based on corporate and individual pride, has also its infusion of humility. If Michelangelo represents the flowering of three generations of research, of that pride of intellect which ever ruled Florence, so equally does Raphael represent many generations of humility and teachableness in his native Umbria. For about ten years pride and humility worked side by side, and that was the Golden Age. Pride prevailed over humility, and the classical style of Central Italy sunk to a pretentious exhibitionism. Our theme is that brief moment of accomplishment which witnessed the rise of Rome as centre of art, and the greatest painting of Raphael and Michelangelo. We need not hesitate to apply to it the oldfashioned term, the Golden Age. But we shall not use it with quite the oldfashioned unction, knowing as we do the heavy sacrifice involved in attaining the so-called Grand Style, and the still heavier penalty it imposed upon the art that succeeded it.