I should never have known that we were living at a
great altitude, if I had not been told, for the equable climate
made us forget to inquire about height or depth or distance.
I listened to old Father de Fourri preach his short sermons in
English to the few Americans who sat on one side of the aisle, in
the church of Our Lady of Guadaloupe; then, turning with an easy
gesture towards his Mexican congregation, who sat or knelt near
the sanctuary, and saying, "Hermanos mios," he gave the same
discourse in good Spanish. I felt comfortable in the thought that
I was improving my Spanish as well as profiting by Father de
Fourri's sound logic. This good priest had grown old at Santa Fe
in the service of his church.
The Mexican women, with their black ribosos wound around their
heads and concealing their faces, knelt during the entire mass,
and made many long responses in Latin.
After years spent in a heathenish manner, as regards all church
observations, this devout and unique service, following the
customs of ancient Spain, was interesting to me in the extreme.
