The Crime of the Century; Or, The Assassination of Dr. Patrick Henry Cronin

by Henry M. Hunt

A VOICE FROM THE PULPIT.

In eloquent language the speaker impressed upon his hearers the uncertainty of life as illustrated in the case of the murdered man. He spoke as follows:

"In the name of the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen."

These words I have just recited to you from the inspired writer, my beloved friends, tell us by example and analogy that death comes upon us suddenly—that it shall come, as we are told elsewhere, "as a thief in the night." As the birds in the air have their being in the air, and drink it in and live their life mainly in the air, and as the fishes have their life in the sea, they shall find their death in that element in which they have their life. And so, too, we who are here living upon the earth, having our life, as it were, in the social world round about us—finding our being there—we, too, frequently find our death there, unawares and suddenly. In fact, we carry death in and around and about us, even, I may say, in our very being, for from the moment of our birth until the moment of our death, death is ever with us, death is ever working in our members. It is death that is forever bearing us down; it is death that is ever causing the ailments of humanity, which are a premonition of what is to come; and, as the sacred writers have told us, no matter when death comes, it will always come suddenly to us. We can never be enough prepared for it. We can never take it unawares, but it will too frequently take us unawares.

The lesson, then, taught us to-day by this text is that we should be prepared to meet this death whenever and wherever it shall come, and passing from the text of to-day to him whose memory we serve, it teaches us the lesson that death often comes as sudden as a thief in the night. It comes to snatch us away from all social relations, to take us away from home, to take us away from friends, family and all that is dear to us; to take us from earth to heaven, to take us from time to eternity. Death points this out to us, and his death should teach us a strong and emphatic lesson. If he (pointing to the bier) were here to-day to talk to you, he would not ask for a eulogy on his life, but he would ask you to take a lesson home to yourselves from his life to make you purer, richer and better. He would say: "By my life so guide your own. If there is anything else in my death to teach you to value life, to teach you to value Christ, and Almighty God, and the Holy Church, and the sacraments—oh, take it home to your own hearts, and make it part of yourselves. If I have suffered, let my suffering be a lesson to you; let it come home to your hearts and make you better and holier." His life and his death, dear friends, teach us to make ourselves better, teach us to make ourselves holier, and to prepare ourselves for our last moment.

What a change is here from a couple of weeks ago! To-day friends near and dear to him bore all that is mortal of him up this aisle to receive the last rites of the Church; and only two weeks ago that same person walked this floor and came up these aisles in all the vigor of his manhood. He came here with all the charity of his faith and nature to worship at the same altar before which and on which to-day his obsequies are said. O! this is a strong lesson to us. Who would think when he led that body of men here to the sacrament of the altar to make himself purer and better—who would think that in the short term of two weeks that health and vigor and manhood would be snatched ruthlessly from him? But such was the fact, and this death, so sudden and awful, may be ours—if not in the same manner, in other manners equally sudden, if not as atrocious.

Therefore the lesson is brought home to us to be always prepared lest God should strike us, for His angel is always coming from Him to touch the young and the old, the deformed and the beautiful, and His touch is enough to call them from this earth to the land above.

And now, my dear friends, have we reason to be sorry to-day? Have we reason to mourn that our friend has gone from us? No, my friends; there is no reason for mourning the death of a person who has lived a religious life. As the epistle tells us, the religious man, and one pleasing to God the Father, is he who visits the orphans and widows in their tribulation, and he is one, too, who preserves himself undefiled from the world. I shall not pronounce his eulogy, but examine his life in the light of this text, and see whether or not he was religious; and if his life was a religious life, and if it was, we must inevitably come to the conclusion that he was pleasing to Almighty God, and now enjoys the repose promised by Almighty God to those who serve Him while on earth. Religion pure and undefiled is to visit the widow and orphan. Did he do that? What was his avocation and mission in life? It was the grandest and noblest after the avocation of priest. It was to deal out charity—a charity of word and charity of example, to minister to the unfortunate, to heal the ailments of human life. This was his mission and this his vocation. Did he fulfil his vocation; I ask you here in the presence of his mortal remains, did he carry out his vocation? Most assuredly, my friends, he did so And why did he do so? The very manner in which he met his death will tell you in more emphatic terms than I can possibly utter. A call comes that a fellow being is in suffering. Other things are crowded upon him—other business demands were calling for him. But he hearkened to the call of humanity. He was told that a fellow-man was sick, and instantly, without hesitation, with his heart full of charity, and in his hands the very instruments to bring relief and mercy to a fellow being, he goes forth with mercy, charity and good will to his fellow-man and—meets what? An atrocious death! In the fulfilment of his mission, in the very carrying out of his avocation, he met his own death. Must we not say, then, that meeting his death, thus fulfilling his mission and performing his duty, whatever there may have been against him, if there was sin upon his soul of any kind whatever, he shall be remembered before the throne of Almighty God? Yes, he did visit the widows and orphans; and as the anecdotes and sayings about him pass away, coming to us as straggling rivulets to swell the stream of his worth, and to show that him who we mourn had a noble Christian heart, and that is what we cannot say of many to-day. He had a good heart, a Christian heart, a Catholic heart, and that heart was full of love and charity toward his fellow-man. Was he ever a man opposite or opposed to the good of his fellow-man? Was he not ever anxious to improve the lot and well-being of his fellow-men? Look at the associations to which he belonged. Every one of those associations has its being and life in those things which are for the betterment of man.

I have often heard him urge those who are poor and of little means to join those associations, in order to make themselves thrifty and better, and to build up for themselves a home here, and provide for their children a means to live decently afterward. Was not this patriotic? Was not this the best thing a human being can do on earth, to strive with all his power to better his fellow-man, to make his home more agreeable, and leave an inheritance to posterity? Most assuredly it was; and most assuredly we must conclude that his life was righteous, good and holy. And did he preserve himself unspotted from the world? He lived a public life, a life with the people and among the people. He was in every sense of the word a public man, known of thousands, as the thousands here to-day testify; and if there was anything wrong or sinful in his life, long ere this it would have been brought forward in triumph. But now no single finger of scorn or imputation can be pointed toward him. After his life has been laid before you we know that he had a good, Christian, Catholic heart, and that his heart went out to his fellow-men, and that in all his dealings with his fellow-men he was never in any sense greatly sinful—that he was not small or mean toward or in his dealings with his fellow-men.

What better eulogy can we pronounce upon him than this? None. We have forgotten half our duty to-day if in our presence here whilst the priest has offered up for him the holy sacrament of the mass, we have not let our own hearts go out in charity, holiness and love toward him that is gone.

Now he is powerless; his days are past, and the church has done what she possibly can for him through her prayers and sacrifices.

It remains for you to do something for him. We believe that there is a hereafter, and that there is a probation for the small defects and defilements of sin that may be upon the soul after death.

It remains for us, his friends—for there is a communion of saints—to offer up our alms, to offer our prayers and the holy sacrifice of the mass that his soul may quickly and surely find rest and peace with God eternal. That is your duty, my friends, to-day. As Catholics and Christians this is imposed upon you, and if you forget it or neglect it you are not truly his friends.

Any more words of praise will be useless for him. But your prayers, the prayers of the poor and defenseless that he helped, will go as a sacred cry to the throne of God and will not be resisted, for God will hear it and take him to the bosom of his fathers. Let us then not forget to promise that we will as friends and Christians do something for him, and in the purity of our faith let us imitate the purity of his faith, the faith that he drank in with his mother's milk and that lasted him through life. There never was a time in the associations or organizations to which he belonged, or anywhere else, that he denied that faith, that he ever was ashamed to acknowledge that he was a Catholic and held to the tenets and belief of the church. He could say: "After my title of Catholic my title of patriot is prominent, and I am not ashamed to confess it to the world. I am willing to sacrifice anything in order to defend my term of Catholicity, and I am willing to do all in my power to help along the poor men of our country."

Therefore, my friends, pray for him who is gone. Let your prayers be that his soul may find rest. Remember him in your daily prayers. Remember him in the places you used to meet him. Remember him when on your knees before the throne of God. He was snatched from the earth without the sacraments of the church; he had not even the soothing words of the priest to bring him more quietly to his end, to help him on the perilous journey toward another life; but, as I said, he met his death in the performance of his duty, and that supplied in part the place of the sacrament.

Pray for him. Breathe his name with love; and as his body moulders in the earth, he may say to you: "Have pity upon me, you, my friends. Have pity on me, for I am now helpless and defenseless. I have no power in my own hands, but your hands are full of alms, deeds and of blessings and prayers, and let them ascend before the throne of Almighty God that I may have rest and peace. Treat all with kindness as my life has been one of kindness—treat them with charity, as my life has been one of charity. If any one say aught against me let it pass forgiven. The words of man are nothing, and pass away as the wind from the mouth. Receive them, then, and mind them not, and those who have injured me most, in the name of mercy have pity on them."

Receive, then, O God, his soul. Be merciful to him for his faith and his hope and his love.

Every head was bowed while the Chancellor gave the benediction. The strains of the organ as it rendered the dead march in Saul filled the edifice, the congregation rose to its feet, the casket was borne out, and the service was at an end.