Who would wish to have lived a pagan under that old Olympian dispensation, even though, like the dark-eyed Greek of the Atreidean age, his fancy could have “fetched from the blazing chariot of the Sun a beardless youth who touched a golden lyre and filled the illumined groves with ravishment"?—­even though, like him, he might in myrtle-grove and lonely mountain-glen have had favors granted him even by Idalian Aphrodite the Beautiful, and felt her warm breath glowing upon his forehead, or been counselled by the blue-eyed Athene, or been elevated to ample rule by Here herself, Heaven’s queen?  That Greek heaven was heartless, libidinous, and cold.  It had no mild divinities appointed to bind up the broken heart and assuage the grief of the mourner.  The weary and the heavy-laden had no celestial resource amongst its immortal revellers and libertines, male and female.  There was no sympathy for mortal suffering amongst those divine sensualists.  They talked with contempt and unsympathizing ridicule of the woes of the earthborn, of the brevity of mortal life, and of its miseries.  A boon, indeed, and a grateful exchange, was the Mother Mild of the Roman Catholic Pantheon, the patroness of the broken-hearted, who inclines her countenance graciously to the petitions of womanly anguish, for the voluptuous Aphrodite, the haughty Juno, the Di-Vernonish Artemis, and the lewd and wanton nymphs of forest, mountain, ocean, lake, and river.  Ceres alone, of the old female classic daemons, seemed to be endowed with a truly womanly tenderness and regard for humankind.  She, like the Mater Dolorosa, is represented in the myths to have known bereavement and sorrow, and she, therefore, could sympathize with the grief of mothers sprung from Pyrrha’s stem.  Nay, she had envied them their mortality, which enabled them to join their lost ones, who could not come back to them, in the grave.  Vainly she sought to descend into the dark underworld to see her “young Persephone, transcendent queen of shades.”  Not for her weary, wandering feet was a single one of the thousand paths that lead downward to death.  Her only consolation was in the vernal flowers, which, springing from the dark earthly mould, seemed to her to be

  “heralds from the dreary deep,
  Soft voices from the solemn streams,”

by whose shores, veiled in eternal twilight, wandered her sad child, the queen of the realm of Dis, with its nine-fold river, gates of adamant, and minarets of fire.  The heartlessness of all the ethnic deities, of whatever age or nation, is a noticeable feature, especially when contrasted with the unfathomable pity of their Exterminator, who wept over the chief city of his fatherland, and would have gathered it, as a hen gathereth her chickens, under the wings of his love, though its sons were seeking to compass his destruction.  Those old ethnic deities were cruel, inexorable, and relentless.  They knew nothing of mercy and forgiveness.  They ministered no