[The following pitiful letter, which appeared in “The Catholic” for December, 1905, shows how a poor Romanist dreads death, for he knows only the religion of despair―nothing of “peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Dear Father Connellan, ―I am writing to you in great agony of mind, in hopes that you may be able to help me. I have heard of you, and I have sometimes seen “The Catholic,” and it struck me that you were the proper person for me to write to and tell my troubles. I am sure there are many like myself-burdened with anxious thoughts, who know not where to look for relief, and you may be a help to others besides myself. My troubles began ten years ago, in April 1895, and I thought that in time my anxiety would pass away, but on the contrary it has grown worse and worse, and unless I get relief, I feel that I shall go out of my mind.
The fact is, I am horrified at the prospect of spending eternity in hell. I have been led to believe that my religion can give a man no sure hope of salvation. Strange to say I was first awakened to this belief by words spoken by my Bishop at the funeral of the late Lord E-. The Bishop in his sermon gave a full account of the life of this nobleman telling all he had done to save his soul, and concluded in words which I am unable to forget: “When I spoke to him of the God to whom he was going, and the Kingdom of Heaven to which he was so near, he replied: ‘Ah! if I were only sure of the lowest place in Purgatory.’”
Now I know the Bishop mentioned this in order to show the humility of the dead man, but that was not the way the words struck me. They stung me to the quick. They kindled a fire in my brain. They have tortured me night and day ever since, for, said I when I heard them, this man had no hope in his death. Remember, Lord E―had sacrificed everything for the Catholic Church. He was a convert from Protestantism, he was known to be the most devout of Catholics, and yet, according to his own words, died without the slightest hope of Heaven. This thought has filled my mind with horror, that if the Catholic religion gave no hope to such a one as Lord E―it can give no hope to a poor man like me. If this man showed from his dying words that he had no hope of even the lowest place in Purgatory, what is there before me but the misery of the damned, where there is weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth forever. Can you tell me, Sir, is it possible to have a bright hope of Heaven when we come to die; or is it impossible to know in this life where we are to spend our eternity? I am always thinking of the case of poor Lord E―. The Church could do no more for a man than was done for him, and yet it did not save him, for the Bishop assured us that his dying words were, “Ah! if I were only sure of the lowest place in Purgatory.”
The Bishop at the funeral sermon summed up the hopes of the dying man in these words: “He gave his life to the promotion of Catholic interests at home and abroad; he was looked up to with the deepest respect and the most unbounded confidence by the leaders of the Catholic thought. He had no equal, and there was no one to take his place.” And yet he died with words of despair upon his lips. My God! what is to become of me? He was a Tertiary, and wore the habit of St. Francis. He also wore the cord of St. Francis and the scapular of the Blessed Lady, and yet he had no hope in his death of even the lowest place in Purgatory. Furthermore, the Bishop told us that when he was dying, he made the Bishop sprinkle holy water upon him to keep away every evil influence. He had a crucifix placed at the foot of his bed that it might be the last object upon which his dying eyes would be fixed. He had a cross, which the Pope had blessed, placed upon one side of him, and a crucifix containing a relic of the true cross placed upon the other side. There was also another crucifix which had been blessed by the Pope, and this he requested might be placed between his hands when the end came. Yet no ray of light came to him in that dark hour, and apparently his soul went out into the blackness of eternal night. It is a terrible thing to write about, but this man testified with his dying breath, that with all these advantages, they gave him no hope of even the lowest place in Purgatory. More than this, he had the benefit of the sacraments of the Church, he had been fortified by its last rites, and had the Viaticum administered, and yet the gloomy darkness never departed from his dying bed. And this was not all. Lord E―had something which I can never hope to have. Two hours before his death, there arrived from Leo XIII, from one who, the Bishop said, had power to bind and to loosen souls—there arrived from the Vatican a final blessing and a special indulgence. But the blessing of the Pope brought no light to the dying man, and the special indulgence gave no relief to his burdened soul. His last words were, “Ah! if only I had hope of even the lowest place in Purgatory.”
Dear Father Connellan, can you give me any hope? I shall never be able to obtain anything like the help that Lord E—enjoyed, and yet they gave him no real hope for eternity. What, then, is to become of me? How is a man to escape the damnation of hell? Can we know where we are going to when we die? Can anyone tell us where our fathers and mothers and friends are—in Heaven, or Purgatory, or Hell? How is it that all these things failed to give comfort to Lord Ein his dying hour? I confess I never thought much about these things till the Bishop practically made the humiliating confession, that all the aids and helps that the Catholic religion could give a man, had failed to give Lord E― a hope of even the lowest place in Purgatory.
I have spoken to a few friends now and again of these trembling thoughts, and I have been told that good Protestants die without dread, and often with joy and gladness; that they say they know their sins are all forgiven, and are happy at the prospect of meeting their Heavenly Father. Is it so? Then let me die such a death, and let my last end be like this.
These painful subjects fill my thoughts by day and my dreams by night. I dream that the day of Judgment has come, and I stand with a multitude of terror-stricken souls who have been called out of their graves. We stand upon ground that is burning and cracking beneath our feet, sulfurous clouds fill the air, and flames are all around us. The Archangel sounds the trumpet which strikes terror into my heart, shrieks of agony are heard everywhere, and we try vainly to hide from the wrath of God. I awaken in a state of unspeakable horror and say, “Thank God, it was only a dream.” But is it only a dream? I feel it is the voice of God warning me of a great reality. I am almost distracted at times, as the terrible truth forces itself upon me, that the Catholic Church can give a man no sure and certain hope in the hour of death. If Lord E—, who had used every means that the Church had to offer, and received every blessing it was able to bestow, had no hope of even the lowest place in Purgatory in his last moments, then I must confess there is no hope for me, and so far as I am concerned, the Catholic religion is to me a religion of despair.
Dear Father Connellan, can you help me?
An Unhappy Catholic.
Limerick, November 7th 1905.