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xi.

Lamy to France

BY AUTUMN 1847, many concerns were resolved. For the nation, the Mexican War drew to a close when Scott took Mexico City on 14 September. In December, at the call of the United States military governor, the conquered and ceded province of New Mexico held an election to vote on joining the Union as a territory. The vote carried—mostly by the ballots of United States troops stationed there, and the mercantile resident-traders of the Santa Fe Trail. Peace was signed on 2 February 1848, with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo roughly indicating a new boundary between Mexico and the United States. Other sovereignties would be affected by this vast geographical change and soon enough would be dealt with, along with individual destinies linked to it. In Covington, Kentucky, Lamy, the new pastor of St Mary’s, was at work on the tasks he had rehearsed so often before—acquiring land, moulding together a community, planning a church (to stand where the Covington cathedral would eventually be built). He placed the temporal responsibilities of Covington in the hands of a committee, headed by Mr Doyle, father-in-law of Mr McClosky, and including Mr John White and Mr John O’Donnell,’ among others.

As always, it was slow work, but it went along in Lamy’s familiar pace of deliberate, daily steps which reflected his patience with the day and his long view of the future. He could be in closer touch with Purcell now, for it was only a ferry crossing to Cincinnati, in the passage of the river just above the great bend which turned east and then west again between rolling hills which came down to the banks. The affairs of his new charge seemed to proceed rapidly. The fast-growing city across the river from Covington was a source of supplies far different from those of the wooded upper counties, where canals and muddy roads had to haul materials from far away. In the spring of 1848, Machebeuf, in one of his most euphoric moments, wrote to his sister of the “little earthly paradise” where he was working, where a new church was paid for within a matter of two or three years, where begging often produced results beyond expectation, where a presbytery of eight rooms aside from kitchens and pantries and basements was put up, with garden and cistern, as if by magic, and where the cathedral of Cleveland—for Rome had approved the new diocese and Rappe had been consecrated after all—was already two years old: how different it all was from the decaying Catholicism of Europe, France itself, where the “new republic” was established—a word to make any authoritarian shudder. In Covington, Lamy found it possible to make plans for a journey to Europe on family matters calling for settlement since the death of his father.

In May 1848, on his way abroad, he paid a surprise visit to Machebeuf, who decided to see him off on a lake steamer from Cleveland. He gave to “mon cher compagnon et mon cher ami” a list of errands to do for him, and later wrote after him to buy church supplies for him in France. In Cleveland Bishop Rappe also asked Lamy to act for him abroad in finding three or four young priests in Clermont to bring back to Cleveland. Lamy would try. In New York on 29 May he made “a little excursion” to St John’s College, and there found old friends—one in particular—who had taught him in the Jesuit college at Billom. He wrote Purcell that the Catholic churches of New York that he had seen were “not so handsome in my opinion as those of Cincinnati,” though the interior of “the French church” was “very pretty,” and he said Mass there on Sunday. He sailed 1 June on the “fine packet” Duchesse d’Orléans after nine years in America. While he was gone, the question rose again of whether he should be assigned to another parish, possibly in the Cleveland diocese, but the possibility came to nothing when Bishop Rappe wrote to Purcell, “I feel more inclined to let everything in status quo.”

Lamy reached home in Lempdes in early July. Everyone was eager to see the man who had left as a youth, and he had so many visits to make that he had little time so far to stay with his brother Etienne and the family. He thought Etienne had treated him fairly in the matter of their father’s estate, though to be sure the new American offered his brother more than generous terms. “My brother has not been so hard to deal with as I had suspected.” The American Lamy offered all his rights in his share of the father’s estate for at least a third less than they were worth, and moreover asked just now for only half the payment due to him. His sister Margaret—a nun of the order of the Miséricorde at Riom—did likewise. Etienne thus became the sole proprietor of the family land. “In this manner the union and good understanding between relations will be maintained between us and my brother’s family,” wrote Father Lamy. He was happy to add that now he could repay Bishop Purcell a sum on account for what he owed to him for various advances, and asked for instructions—should he deposit one thousand francs to Purcell’s credit in the hands of M. Carrière, treasurer of the Society for the Propagation of the Faith in Paris, from which mission funds were dispensed about the world?

But alas for the dear homeland: France was in a “very uncertain state” under the current republic. Lamy feared insurrections could be expected at any moment, thanks to higher taxes, anti-clericalism, and absolute rule by Louis Eugene Cavaignac, the dictator who was vested with “supreme power.” “It is nowadays a saying,” wrote Lamy, “that in Europe two men are Supreme Masters Nicolas in Russia and Cavag-nac [sic] in France.” He had heard on good authority and he hoped it was true that Cavaignac “approaches the Sacraments.” Even so, “we are far from being in security, everybody is looking from some dreadful explosions …” For himself, Lamy was preparing to return to what he called “my Beloved Ohio.”

Unluckily the seminarians of Mont-Ferrand were on vacation, and he could find no one to pledge to America. But there were others. There was a Father Caron at Boulogne-sur-Mer, a friend of Bishop Rappe, who would come to Cleveland, and a priest in Clermont agreed to come to Cincinnati (though Lamy felt obliged to note with regret that he was already thirty-six years old), an excellent priest who was a “maitre de conference” at Mont-Ferrand in Lamy’s own time. He still hoped to bring two or three younger ones “who could learn English with more facility.”

In early August he wrote Purcell that he was thinking of bringing his sister to America with him—she was hoping to be dispensed by her superior so that she could join the Brown County Ursulines in Kentucky. His niece Marie might come too—to be brought up by her aunt in that Kentucky convent. The little girl was strongly drawn to America and the religious life. On the twenty-seventh he wrote the bishop, “I will not tarry much longer.” He was happy to report that everyone in Clermont remembered Purcell very well and many had congratulated Lamy for belonging to Purcell’s diocese. He would see to the few articles Purcell asked him to buy in France.

Machebeuf, too, had his list of requirements, one of which was word from home. Lamy had written him three times with all the family news. He, whom Machebeuf regarded as his “plus intime et sincere ami” was to beg some financial help from Riom, which was duly sent in the amount of “two or three thousand francs.” This, it appeared, was not enough, but for which, in any case, Machebeuf sent his family his best thanks. Sister Philomène was to send to him by way of Lamy “a pair of dalmatiques, white overall, with sides of different colors and trimmed with galoon, either of real gold or imitation. Also another alb of netting”—all to make it possible at last to celebrate the ceremonies of the Church with “pomp and solemnity.” Lamy had another list.

After these errands, he pursued the more important ones, and ended by finding three Ursulines at Boulogne who would sail home with him, as well as his sister—the bishop of Clermont had approved her going—and his niece, Marie. Julius Brent, from Danville, studying for the priesthood in Europe, had arrived in Clermont, and would lead him to England, where Brent family members wanted to receive them. It was, for Lamy, “a great opportunity to speak English again.” The nuns sailed from Boulogne under the protection of Father Caron, Lamy and Brent went to London, and when the time came, Lamy, with his sister and his little niece, sailed for New York from Liverpool. Years later they still told at Santa Fe how Marie, when the ocean was stormy, would climb up to her uncle’s embrace and hug him for safety against her fear of the sea. He too, now, had made the first of many voyages between America and Europe.

He was home in Covington by early autumn 1848. The work which followed growing immigration was heavier than ever—in Ireland the famine was on, and the diocese was increasing by astonishing numbers. Not only did these desperately poor searchers for comfort and freedom need the attention of their Church, thus heavying the burden upon it, but their coming had an odd secondary effect on the furious attempts of the Church to keep up with its task which required additional revenues: for, finding work, however humble in America, the new Irish Americans made a practice of sending part of their wages to those, hungry and destitute, whom they had left at home.

As soon as he could, Lamy went to see Machebeuf in Sandusky. The two old friends would have much to talk about, eager questions, keenly deliberate replies. Family news. The state of France. And the fulfillment of errands. What had Lamy brought home? One item which required particular care—cuttings of the best grape vines from Auvergne, muscats, Damas, Gamay. Wine was wanted for Mass, and also for the table. Lamy was a lifelong gardener. But more: he brought some fine vestments and six beautiful gilded candlesticks and a chalice of gold-plated bronze, with the cup lined in vermeil. Fine as they were, Machebeuf, poor as he was, later had to go to Detroit to sell them. But “the pity was,” wrote Machebeuf, that Lamy had “forgotten to bring the two white dalmatics” which he had particularly asked for. A disappointment, but there were larger matters to talk about. The railroad had reached Cincinnati, and the flood of middle western settlers from the East and abroad increased even more as a result. It was agreeable to report that a priest could have a pass which would allow him to travel gratis at any time. Only nine years ago, travel had been a matter of jolting along ruts, wet or dry, or breaking through woods, or halting at some forest cabin during blizzard or downpour. Material development was so rapid and widespread and called for such strong measures to meet it that Machebeuf, writing in May 1849, to Sister Philomène, declared that “at the moment when I write these lines, Bishop Rappe and all the other bishops of the United States are gathered at Baltimore” a crucial provincial council. They were to debate the resolution to ask Rome to create new archbishoprics—there were only two—one at St Louis, the other at Baltimore, which was the ranking U.S. see. In their session, these prelates, by their very convening, were creating a national character for the Church in the United States; and among the results of their debates was a decision which neither Lamy nor Machebeuf could have imagined, if they contemplated their futures.