On a terra cotta medallion, found not in the Catacombs themselves, but in the rubbish near the mouth of the cemetery of St. Agnes, is a head of Our Lord of the same general type as Fig. 106, but of much superior execution. The face is of exquisite beauty, and is characterized by a sweet and tender grace of expression. But with the decline of art and the corruption of Christianity this beautiful type disappeared, and a more austere and solemn aspect was given to pictures of Christ. Although the technical means of execution were diminished, and the rendering of form became more and more incorrect, yet for powerful effect, strength of character, and depth of feeling, Christian art exhibited resources beyond any thing to be found in the Catacombs. It burst the narrow limits in which it was there confined, and found ample scope in the frescoes and mosaics of the stately basilicas which were everywhere rising. In those vast and shadowy interiors the principal figure was that of Christ, surrounded by saints and angels, looking down upon the worshippers with awe-inspiring power, holding in his left hand the book of life, and raising his right in solemn menace or warning. The first example of the art-presentation of Christ under this stern and sullen aspect, according to that accomplished critic, Mr. Hemans, 349 is a large mosaic composition of the fifth century in the Ostian basilica of St. Paul. The colossal figure of the Saviour dominates over every other object, with an effect at once startling and repulsive. “Nor can we help,” says Mr. Hemans, “seeing in this strangely unworthy conception the evidence of deterioration in the religious ideal, even more than of decline in the technical treatment peculiar to the age.”[587] Of this character is the head of Our Lord in the crypt of St. Cecilia. The expression is grave, the eyes large and solemn; the book of the gospels is in his hand, and his head is surrounded by a nimbus in the form of a Greek cross. This type became more and more rigid and austere as the gathering shadows of the Dark Ages mantled on the minds of men. The gloomy asceticism of the monastic orders also left its impress on the art of the period, especially in the East, where the Basilian monks too faithfully illustrated the stern, austere judgments of their founder concerning the person of Christ. The rudeness of execution of this Byzantine school was only equalled by the meanness of conception of 350 the harsh, stiff and blackened portraits of Our Lord, in which he was exhibited as emphatically “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” Toward the close of the tenth century art sank into its deepest degradation as the long night of the Dark Ages reached its densest gloom. The year one thousand was regarded in popular apprehension as the date of the end of time, and of the final conflagration of the world so intensely realized in the sublime hymn, Dies iræ, dies illa, Solvet sæclum in favilla.