Death of a Cardinal

Special police slowed down traffic. Streetcars crept at a snail's pace past the archiepiscopal residence. Inside, on his deathbed, lay an 84-year-old Prince of the Church. The fingers of one hand clutched a crucifix. Weakly the prelate raised the crucifix, gave his last blessing to those kneeling around his bed. Thus to His Eminence William Cardinal O'Connell, Archbishop of Boston, fortified by the last rites of the Church and consoled by Pope Pius' cabled message of "eternal affection," death came in Boston last week.

A priest for 60 years, a bishop for 43, a cardinal for 33, the prelate's life was a series of successive honors conferred by his Church. Born in Lowell, the eleventh and youngest child of poor and pious Irish parents, young O'Connell began his career in a textile mill. But after one hour's work he heard God's voice: "Child, this is not thy place." His place, he decided, was in the Church.

An autocrat to his finger tips, Cardinal O'Connell was a remote figure to most of the 23 million U.S. Catholics. But they heard him often. He thundered against Hollywood ("the scandal of the nation"), Albert Einstein's theories ("authentic atheism, even if camouflaged as cosmic pantheism"), radio crooners ("whiners crying vapid words"), mercy killings ("suffering is the discipline of humanity"), morals in general ("women are becoming masculine and the men effeminate"). He denounced immoral styles, told his priests they might refuse Holy Communion to women with lipstick.

When he died last week, he was the dean of the U.S. Catholic hierarchy. His death left the U.S. with only one other cardinal, Dougherty of Philadelphia.

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