There was a Pantheon at Rome, which was a monument of the religious
tolerance of the Empire. It was dedicated, as appears from the
inscription on the portico, by Agrippa, son-in-law to the great
Augustus, to Jupiter and all the other gods, with the same generosity
that prompted the Athenians to erect an altar to the gods that might
be unknown. A niche was afforded within its walls to every deity of the
provinces whose devotees were willing to accept the hospitality; and
Christ himself might have figured with the rest, if his worshippers did
not scorn all other gods but their own.
The old Pantheon still exists, and bears the name of the Rotunda. But
it is no longer a Pagan temple. It was re-dedicated by Pope Boniface
the Fourth, in A.D. 608, to the Virgin Mary and all the saints. Another
Pope, a thousand years later, despoiled it of its ornaments, which had
been spared by so many barbarian conquerors. He cast some into cannon,
and with the rest formed a high altar for the Church of St. Peter.
These alterations were of course justifiable. They were all made in
the interest of Christianity. What could be more proper than the
transformation of Pagan temples into Christian churches? What more
admirable than devoting to the worship of Christ the edifice which had
echoed to the tread of the priests of Jupiter? What more pious than
singing the praises of Mary and all the saints in a temple where
idolaters had celebrated the glories of all the gods and goddesses of
Olympus?
Such is Christian logic. But if the temples of one faith may be so
transformed, why may not those of another? If Christianity had the right
to devote the temples of Paganism to its own uses, why has not modern
civilisation the right to devote the temples of Christianity to Secular
purposes?
The Church thinks otherwise. It is at present denouncing the
secularisation of the Church of St. Geneviève, in order that Victor
Hugo, who died a Freethinker and was buried without religious rites,
might repose in an unconsecrated place. This building is the French
Pantheon. It was secularised during the Revolution, and dedicated by
the Republic, not to the gods of religion, but to the heroes of liberty.
When the monarchy was restored it was re-consecrated, and purged of the
luciferous taint of Voltaire's dust. But now the Republic is once
more established on the ruins of monarchy and imperialism, it again
secularises the Church of St. Geneviève as a tomb for its mighty dead.
The Church is naturally indignant, but its anathemas are powerless. God
does not interpose, and the Republic is too strong. Nay, there is even a
rumor that the Roman Pantheon may be secularised also, and changed
into a national mausoleum, where the youth of Italy may bend reverently
before the tombs of such glorious soldiers of progress as Mazzini and
Garibaldi, instead of honoring the very counterfeit presentment of
fabulous old saints, chiefly renowned for their laziness and dirt.
The Church of St. Geneviève is desecrated, cries the Archbishop of
Paris, and special prayers are offered up to that ancient lady in heaven
to avert her wrath from the infidel city which has so insulted her.
In one sense the Archbishop is right. The Church is desecrated in the
strict etymological meaning of the word. It has been converted from
sacred to secular uses. But in the secondary meaning of the word the
building is not desecrated, but honored, by being made a fit receptacle
for the mortal remains of Victor Hugo.
A government decree and the removal of the cross on top of the church
were the only steps necessary to its desecration. The consecrated
character of the temple is gone. To the carnal eye the structure remains
unchanged, within and without, except for the loss of a crucifix; but
it is quite possible that a priestly nose would be able to scent the
absence of the Spirit. The Holy Ghost has fled, angels no more haunt
the nave and aisles, and St. Geneviève hides her poor head in grief and
humiliation. No doubt; yet we dare say the building will stand none the
less firmly, and if it should ever be pulled down, its materials would
fetch as much in the market as if they were saturated with divinity.
Consecration is, after all, nothing but a priestly trick. What sensible
man believes that the Holy Ghost, if such a being exist, is at the beck
and call of every Catholic or Protestant bishop? Can the "universal
spirit" dwell exclusively in certain places? Can the third person of the
Trinity have sunk into such an abject state as to dodge in and out of
buildings, according as he is wanted or not? Is there any difference
that the nose, or any other sensitive organ, can detect between a
consecrated church and an unconsecrated chapel? Can the geologist or
the chemist discern any difference between the consecrated and the
unconsecrated division in a cemetery? Is the earth affected by priestly
mutterings? Do the corpses lie any more peacefully, or decompose any
more slowly, for the words pronounced over the mould that covers them?
Or is there any appreciable virtue in the consecrated water, with which
the Protestant and Catholic are alike baptised, and with which the
latter sprinkles himself periodically as a preservative against evil?
Season finds no difference; it is perceived only by Faith, which may be
defined as the faculty which enables a man to see what does not exist.