Lamy of Santa Fe. Paul Horgan

capital, all of which would take six months.

      By 21 September Lamy’s plan to follow the second of these routes was known. Not everyone thought this a wise decision. Archbishop Blanc of New Orleans wrote to Archbishop Purcell—both had been promoted—assuring him that Lamy would be well received in New Orleans, but he could not imagine why Lamy had chosen the longer and more complicated road over the shorter and swifter. In any case, he must be given all possible assistance, and Blanc wrote also to Bishop Odin at Galveston to send helpful details of how Lamy should plan his journey to San Antonio, and how to meet supply requirements for the further approach to Santa Fe. It seemed that a certain officer had arrived from Cincinnati with a hundred soldiers, some of whom were destined for Santa Fe; and he advised that Lamy would do well to buy at New Orleans the mules he would need for the overland passage, as they cost much more at San Antonio. Did Odin agree that this was so?

      Meanwhile the solemnities planned for 24 November 1850 were taking form. It was always moving to see within daily circumstances the extraordinary acts of elevation by which, in any society at any epoch, the high priests were brought to be dedicated to their office. Ancient ways, preserved through empowering ritual, were let into the common day, not only as an act of the affirmation of a person—but also as a celebration of a collective need above personality.

      Cincinnati in 1850, as seen from Lamy’s Covington, where St Mary’s steeple rose a few blocks from the river front, was a far greater city than that which the new arrivals from France had seen in 1839. Tall industrial chimneys by the dozen gave out announcements of progress into the otherwise clear air. The river was densely busy with every sort of craft—the ferries from Cincinnati to Covington, sailing sloops, steam tugs, barges in tow, the great house-like paddle-wheelers with their towering stacks. On the Cincinnati shore, the city had spread widely across the hills which met the river, and two great buildings stood out in the panorama. One of these, on the highest hill, was an astronomical observatory dedicated in 1843 by President John Quincy Adams, and the other was the new St Peter’s Cathedral which had been dedicated in 1845.

      The cathedral was a monument to that American mood which from the beginning had seen the nation as an offspring of the classical learning of Greece. Purcell had built it. “The Cathedral I would propose,” Purcell had written to the Ohio architect Thomas Spare of Somerset, “to have about 70 by 100 feet, grecian style of architecture, with portico and colonnade in front, with vestibule, all about 30 or 40 feet deep, and with a steeple carried up from the foundation.… These specifications, I presume, will be sufficient.” They were enough for Mr Spare, and by 1850 all was complete in hard Dayton limestone except for the portico, which still had to be built. But the centered steeple rose in six diminishing octagonal blocks to support the high thin needle. Corinthian columns supported the clerestory and the coffered ceiling within; a pair of marble kneeling angels flanked the altar. They had been commissioned by Purcell from the American sculptor Hiram Powers, who at eighteen had been manager of Dorfeuille’s “museum” at Cincinnati but was now living abroad in Florence. Above the tabernacle was a large painting of St Peter in Chains, which was another gift to the Church in America by Napoleon’s uncle. Modern times brought additions and other changes to St Peter’s in Cincinnati, but it remained a moving testament to the energy, taste, and style of frontier America. It was, in effect, the ecclesiastical capitol of interior America between Baltimore and St Louis. So many bishops were consecrated there—to the number of twenty-one, most destined for new dioceses to the Far West, a few assigned to the even farther Orient—that St Peter’s was known among the clergy as “the bishop factory.”

      Here, on 24 November 1850, Lamy entered, following a long procession of religious, priests, bishops, and his consecrators, to endure the second ceremony of commitment to his life’s design. It would take three hours, and he would be at its center as the victim and protagonist of an office which reached him through the centuries by the touch of St Peter. He was, so, the heir of Christ’s own words to the first of the apostles, and himself became on that November day a successor as bishop to symbolic custody of the Rock upon which the Church was built.

      Before the public, and in the presence of many of his peers, he was subjected to an examination of his faith, and then to the act of consecration, and finally to the investiture with the regalia of his office—pectoral cross, mitre, crozier, gloves, and ring. Bishop John Martin Spalding of Louisville was his consecrator, assisted by Bishop James Maurice de Long d’Aussac de Saint-Palais, of Vincennes, Indiana, and Bishop Louis Amadeus Rappe, as co-consecrators.

      Bishop Spalding and his mitred assistants officiated at the central altar. For the bishop-elect a smaller altar was prepared to one side, where as the ritual proceeded he celebrated those portions of the Mass to which, after long and exhaustive passages of the sacral process, the ceremony returned. The event proceeded with a dream-like slowness, woven of countless lights against white stone, and vestments in color brocaded in silver and gold, and figures moving in traditional order from one prescribed position to another in the sanctuary which was clouded with the smoke of censers amidst which the distant voices of the celebrants seemed like disembodied sounds.

      When the members of the procession were all stationed according to their function and rank, seated or standing, Bishop de Saint-Palais rose and approached Bishop Spalding where he was seated on a faldstool in front of the high altar facing the church. “Reverendissime Pater,” he said, presenting the candidate for promotion to the burden of the episcopate, “postulat sancta Mater Ecclesia Catholica ut hunc praesentem Presbyterum ad onus Episcopatur sublevetis.” Speaking, as did all throughout, in Latin, Bishop Spalding asked,

      “Have you the Apostolic Mandate?”

      “We have,” replied Bishop de Saint-Palais.

      “Let it be read.”

      A notary took the papal bull from the co-consecrator and read aloud the text by which Pius IX promoted Lamy to his bishopric. When he was finished, all said, “Thanks be to God.”

      Now Lamy came to kneel before Bishop Spalding to read his oath as a new bishop. He vowed to sustain with all his power the Pope, the Papacy, the Church and its decrees; to attend synods when called and to make his visit ad limina to Rome and the reigning pope every ten years at which time he would account fully for his stewardship, or if prevented from coming by legitimate reason, he would send a qualified representative from among his clergy; and to guard strictly all the Church properties in his care; and “if through me any … alienation shall occur, I wish, by the very fact, to incur the punishments contained in the constitution published concerning this matter.”

      Bishop Spalding sat facing him, holding open the books of the Gospels so that Lamy could see them. Lamy concluded,

      “So help me God and these Holy Gospels.” Saying this, he touched the pages of the Gospels with both hands, completing his oath, and Bishop Spalding said, “Thanks be to God.”

      All now being seated, Bishop Spalding conducted Lamy’s examination. In a preamble, he restated the ancient rule that anyone who was chosen for the order of bishop should be diligently examined, and with all charity, concerning his faith and his fealty to his duties, for the Apostle had said, “Impose hands hastily upon no man.”

      “Therefore,” declared Bishop Spalding, taking cognizance of human frailty, “with sincere charity, we ask you, most dear brother, if you desire to make your conduct harmonize, as far as your nature allows, with the meaning of the divine Scripture.”

      “With my whole heart I wish in all things to consent and obey,” replied the bishop-elect.

      There followed seventeen questions, some humbly concerned with mundanities, others tremendous in their citations of the Deity, all of them requiring an affirmative reply. The examination done, and witnessed, Lamy was conducted to his separate altar where in his first assumption of the bishop’s insignia, he received his pectoral cross, and unlaced his stole so that its bands hung straight down instead of being crossed, as simple priests wore it. After being fully vested, he then began the Mass. At the Alleluia he was again taken before Bishop Spalding, who, wearing his mitre—an act which always signalized that the wearer was performing in his authority as a bishop rather than as a simple priest—said to him,