THE LATE ARCHBISHOP OF HALIFAX, N. S.
The Catholic Church in America has recently lost, in the person of the Most Reverend Dr. Connolly, one of her most distinguished prelates. Thomas Louis Connolly was born about sixty-two years ago in the city of Cork, Ireland. In his person were found all the virtues and noble qualities of head and heart that have made his countrymen loved and honored. Like many other distinguished churchmen, he was of humble parentage; and there are many townsmen of his in America to-day who remember the late archbishop as a boy running about the streets of Cork. He lost his father when he was three years old; nevertheless, his widowed mother managed to bring up her little son and a still younger daughter in comfort. She kept a small but decent house of entertainment, and the place is remembered by a mammoth pig that stood for years in the window, and which bore the quaint inscription:
“This world is a city with many a crooked street,
And death the market-place where all men meet.
If life were merchandise that men could buy,
The rich would live and the poor would die.”
Father Mathew, the celebrated Apostle of Temperance, whose church was but a few doors from young Connolly’s home, noticed the quiet, good-natured boy who was so attentive to his church and catechism, and, perhaps discerning in him some of the rare qualities which afterwards distinguished him as a man, became his friend, confidant, and adviser. The widow was able to give her only son a good
education, and we learn that at sixteen young Connolly was well advanced in history and mathematics and in the French, Latin, and Greek languages. The youth, desiring to devote his life to the church, became a novice in the Capuchin Order, in which order Father Mathew held high office.
In his eighteenth year he went to Rome to complete his studies for the priesthood. He spent six years in the Eternal City, and they were years of hard study, devoted to rhetoric, philosophy, and theology. Even then he was noted for his application, and was reserved and retiring in his disposition, except to the few with whom he was intimately acquainted. He left Rome for the south of France, where he completed his studies, and in 1838, at the cathedral at Lyons, he was ordained priest by the venerable archbishop of that city, Cardinal Bolæ. The following year he returned to Ireland, and for three years he labored hard and fervently in the Capuchin Mission House, Dublin, and at the Grange Gorman Lane Penitentiary, to which latter institution he was attached as chaplain. In 1842, when Dr. Walsh was appointed Bishop of Halifax, the young Capuchin priest, then in his twenty-eighth year, volunteered his services, and came out as secretary to the studious and scholarly prelate whom he was afterwards to succeed.
Until 1851, a period of nine years, Father Connolly labored incessantly, faithfully, and cheerfully
as parish priest, and after a while as Vicar-General of Halifax. In the prime of his manhood, possessed of a massive frame and a vigorous constitution, with the ruddy glow of health always on his face, the young Irish priest went about late and early, in pestilence and disease, among the poor and sick, hearing confessions, organizing societies in connection with the church, preaching in public, exhorting in private, doing the work that only one of his zeal and constitution could do, and through it all carrying a smiling face and cheering word for every one. It is this period of his life that the members of his flock love to dwell upon, and to which he himself, no doubt, looked back with pleasure as a time when, possessed of never-failing health, he had only the subordinate’s work to do, without the cares, crosses, and momentous questions to decide which the mitre he afterwards wore brought with it. Indeed, at that time Father Connolly was everywhere and did everything. All the old couples in Halifax to-day were married by him; and all the young men and women growing up were baptized by him.
The worth, labors, and abilities of the ardent missionary could not fail to be recognized, and when Dr. Dollard died, in 1851, on the recommendation of the American bishops Father Connolly was appointed to succeed him as Bishop of St. John, New Brunswick. He threw all his heart and soul into his work, and before the seven years he resided in St. John had passed away he had brought the diocese, which he found in a chaotic, poverty-stricken, and ill-provided state, into order, efficiency, and comparative financial prosperity. Without a dollar, but with a true reliance on Providence
and his people, he set to work to build a cathedral, and by his energy and the liberality of his flock soon had it in a tolerable state of completion. He seems to have taken a special delight in building, and no sooner was one edifice fairly habitable than he was at work on another. Whatever little difficulties or differences he may have had with the Catholics under his jurisdiction can be all traced to this; they were money questions, questions of expense. He always kept a warm corner in his heart for the orphans of his diocese, whom he looked upon as especially under his care, and who were to be provided for at all costs; and soon the present efficient Orphan Asylum of St. John sprang up, nuns were brought from abroad to conduct it, and, through the exertions of their warm-hearted bishop, the little wanderers and foundlings of New Brunswick were provided with a home.
On the death of Archbishop Walsh, in 1859, Bishop Connolly was appointed by the present Pontiff to succeed him. In his forty-fifth year, with all his faculties sharpened, his views and mind widened, and his political opinions changed for the better by his trying experience, Bishop Connolly came back to Halifax a different man, in all but outward appearance, from the Father Connolly who had left that city eight years before.
Halifax is noted as being one of the most liberal and tolerant cities on the continent. Nowhere do the different bodies of Christians mingle and work so well together; and although it is not free from individual bigotry, the great mass of its citizens work and live together in harmony and cordial good-will. It is too much to credit the late archbishop with this happy state of
affairs, for it existed before his time, and owes its existence to the good sense and liberality of the Protestant party as well as the Catholic; but it is only common justice to say that the archbishop did all in his power to maintain it. Hospitable and genial by nature, it was a pleasure to him to have at his table the most distinguished citizens of all creeds, to entertain the officers of the army and navy, and to extend his hospitality to the guests of the city. Without lessening his dignity, and without conceding a point of what might be considered due to the rights of his church, he worked and lived on the most friendly and intimate footing with those who differed from him in religion. A hard worker, an inveterate builder, and a great accumulator of church property, he was hardly settled in his archdiocese before he set to work to convert the church of St. Mary’s into the present beautiful cathedral. The work has been going on for years under his personal supervision, and he resolutely refused to let any part out to contract; and although his congregation has grumbled at the money sunk in massive foundations, unnecessary finish, and the extras for alterations, yet time, by the strength, durability, and thoroughness of the work, will justify the archbishop in the course he adopted. School-houses were built, homes for the Sisters of Charity, orphanages, an academy, and a summer residence for himself and clergy at the Northwest Arm, a few miles from the city. All of these buildings have some pretensions to architecture, and are substantial and well built. Excepting the cathedral, the archbishop was generally his own architect; and as he was a little dogmatic in his manner, and not too ready to listen to suggestions
from the tradesmen under him, he on more than one occasion made blunders, more amusing than serious, in his building operations. A man’s religion never stood in his way in working for Archbishop Connolly.
His duties as the father of his flock were not neglected on account of his outside work. No amount of physical or mental labor seemed too much for him. After the worry, work, and travelling of the week, it was no uncommon thing for him to preach in the three Catholic churches in the city on the one Sunday. His knowledge of the Scriptures was astonishing, even for a churchman, and was an inexhaustible mine on which he could draw at pleasure. His reading was wide and extensive. It was hard to name a subject on which he had not read and studied; on the affairs and politics of the day he was ready, when at leisure, to talk; and on his table might be found the periodical light literature as well as heavier reading. In 1867, when the confederation of the different British provinces into the present Dominion of Canada was brought about, he took an active part in politics. Believing that Nova Scotia would be rendered more prosperous, and that the Catholics would become more powerful by being united to their Canadian brethren, he warmly advocated the union. But despite his position and influence, and the exertions of those on his side, the union party was defeated at the polls all over the province as well as in the city of Halifax. Since that he ceased to take an active part in politics, and refrained from expressing his political opinions in public.
As a speaker he was noted for his sound common sense and the
absence of anything like tricks of rhetoric or of manner. His lectures and addresses from the pulpit of his own church to his own people were generally extempore. He was powerful in appealing to a mixed audience, and spoke more especially to the humbler classes. He had a fund of quaint proverbs and old sayings, and, by an odd conceit or happy allusion, would drive his argument home in the minds of those of his own country. He could, at times, be eloquent in the true sense of the word; and when he prepared himself, girded on his armor for the conflict, he was truly powerful. On the melancholy death of D’Arcy McGee the archbishop had service in St. Mary’s, and delivered a panegyric on the life and labors of that gifted Irishman, who was a personal friend of his own, which is looked upon as one of his ablest efforts.
If he was quickly excited, he was just as quick to forgive; and when he thought he had bruised the feelings of the meanest, he was ever ready to atone, and never happy till he did so. Like many great republicans, while claiming the greatest freedom of thought, word, and action for himself, he was, though he knew it not, arbitrary in his dictates to others. Whatever he took in hand he went at heart and soul. The smallest detail of work he could not leave to another, but would himself see it attended to—from a board in a fence to the building of a cathedral. Travelling over a scattered diocese with poor roads and poor entertainment, preaching, hearing confessions, and administering the sacraments of the church, can it be wondered at that his health broke down? that a constitution, vigorous at first, wore out before its time? With everything
to do and everything a trouble to him, can we wonder that some mistakes were made, that some things were ill-done?
Though hospitable, witty, and a lover of company, he was very abstemious and temperate in his habits; and, although never attacked by long disease, his health was continually bad. Last fall he visited Bermuda, which was under his jurisdiction, partly for his health, and also to see to the wants of the few Catholics there. In the spring he returned to Halifax, but little benefited by the change.
If there was one subject of public importance more than another in which the archbishop was interested, it was the public-school question. No question requires more careful handling; none involves vaster public interests. His school-houses had been leased to the school authorities; he had brought the Christian Brothers to Halifax, and these schools were under their charge; and the Catholics in Halifax had, thanks to their archbishop and the tolerance of their fellow-citizens, separate schools in all but the name. For a long time past there had been personal and private differences and grievances between the archbishop and the brothers. What they were, and what the rights and the wrongs of the matter are, was never fully made public, nor is it essential that it should be. On the Sunday after his arrival from Bermuda the archbishop was visited by the director-general of the brothers, a Frenchman, who gave him twenty-four hours to accede to the demands of the brothers, or threatened in default that they would leave the province. Both were hot-tempered, both believed they had right on their side, and it is more than probable that neither
thought the other would proceed to extremities. The archbishop did not take an hour to decide; he flatly refused. Next day saw the work of years undone; the brothers departed; their places were temporarily filled by substitutes; the School Board took the matter in hand; and the sympathies of the Catholics of Halifax were divided between their archbishop and the teachers of their children.
Many think the excitement and worry that he underwent on this occasion had much to do with his death. A gentleman who had some private business with the archbishop called at the glebe-house on the Tuesday following the Sunday on which the rupture with the brothers had taken place. Although it was ten o’clock in the morning, and the sun was shining brightly outside, he found the curtains undrawn, the gas burning, and the archbishop hard at work writing at a table littered with paper. In the course of their conversation he mentioned incidentally to his visitor that he had not been to bed for two nights, nor changed his clothes for three days. Even after the difficulty had been smoothed over, and matters seemed to be going on as of old, it was noticed that the archbishop had lost his cheerfulness and looked wearied and haggard. His duties were not neglected, though sickness and sadness may have weighed him down. He began a series of lectures on the doctrines of the church which unhappily were never to be completed. On the third Sunday before his death, in making an appeal to his parishioners for funds to finish the cathedral, he enumerated the many other works he wished to undertake, and stated that he trusted he had ten or fifteen years of life before him wherein to
accomplish these works. The meeting which he had called for that afternoon was poorly attended, and the amount subscribed not nearly what he expected. It was noticed that this troubled him; for he loved to stand well with his people always, and he took this as a sign that his popularity was on the wane.
On Saturday, the 22d of July, he complained of being unwell, but it did not prevent him from speaking as usual at the three churches on the morrow. He never allowed his own sufferings to interfere with what he considered his duty. None of the many who heard him that day surmised that the shadow of death was then on him, and that on the following Sunday they would see the corpse of the speaker laid out on the same altar. On Monday, still feeling unwell, he drove to his residence at the Northwest Arm, thinking that a little rest and quiet would restore him to his usual health. The next day, growing worse, and no doubt feeling his end approaching, he told his attendants to drive him to the glebe-house and to write to Rome. Next day the whole community was startled to hear that the archbishop was stricken down by congestion of the brain; that he was delirious; that he had been given up by the doctors; and that his death was hourly expected.
A gloom seemed to have fallen over the city. The streets leading to the glebe-house were filled all the next day and late into the night with a noiseless throng; and hour after hour the whisper went from one to another, “He still lives, but there’s no hope.” All this time the dying prelate remained unconscious. The heavy breathing and the dull pulse were all that told
the watchful and sorrowing attendants that he yet lived. From his bedroom to the drawing-room, in which he had at times received such a brilliant company, they carried the dying man for air. Those who wished were allowed in to see him; but he saw not the anxious faces that gazed sorrowfully for a moment and then passed away; he heard not the low chant of the Litany for the Dying that was borne out through the open windows on the still night-air; he knew not of the tears that were shed by those who loved and honored him, and who could not, in the presence of death, repress or hide their sorrow. At midnight on Thursday, the 27th of July, the bell of the cathedral tolled out to tell the quiet city that the good archbishop lived no more.
The next day, in the same apartment, the corpse was laid in state, and was visited by hundreds of all creeds and classes, who came to take their last look at all that remained on earth of the wearied worker who had at last found rest. What were the thoughts of many who looked upon that face, now fixed in death? Among the throng were those who had come to him weighed down by sorrow and sin, and had left him lightened of their loads and strengthened in their resolutions of atonement and amendment by his eloquent words of advice. Some had felt his wide-spreading charity; for his ear and heart were ever open to a tale of distress, and he gave with a free and open hand, and his tongue never told of what his hand let fall. The general feeling was one of bereavement; for the great multitude of his people knew not his worth till they had lost him. Who
would take his place? They might find his equal in learning, in eloquence, even in work; but could they find one in whom were united all the qualities that had so eminently fitted him for the position he so ably filled? Perhaps there were others present who had to regret that they had misjudged him, that they had been uncharitable in their thoughts toward him, that they had not assisted as they should have done the great, good, and unselfish man who had worked not to enrich or exalt himself, but who had worn out his life in the struggle for the welfare of his people and the glory of his church.
In his loved cathedral, the unfinished monument of his life, now draped in mourning, the last sad and solemn rites of the Catholic Church were performed by the bishops and clergy who had been ordained by him, who knew him so well and loved him so deeply. He was followed to his last resting-place by the civil and military authorities, by the clergymen of other denominations, and by hundreds of all creeds, classes, and colors, who could not be deterred by the rain, which fell in torrents, from testifying their respect for him who was honored and esteemed by all.
We may add that the late and much-lamented archbishop was ever the sincere and faithful friend of the Superior of the Paulist community. Among the first of their missions was one at St. John; and the archbishop afterwards called them also to his cathedral at Halifax. Both superior and congregation, no less than his own people, owe Dr. Connolly a debt of gratitude which it would indeed be difficult to pay.
The character of Archbishop
Connolly was marked by an ardent zeal for the faith; a magnanimity which, whenever the occasion called for its exercise, rose above all human considerations whatever, even of his own life; and a charity that was not limited either by nationality, race, or religious creed.