One’s point of view of the human race out of doors becomes exactly reversed upon going from Brittany to Spain. In the former country one sees the head, with the coif, as a white spot against a background of green; and in the latter the head is black against the landscape. The ideas of modesty are also exactly reversed; for a Breton peasant to show her hair means that she is not virtuous, while the Spanish constantly go about with the head uncovered. The Spanish have no sense of privacy; they stare on every occasion and do not hesitate to go into anyone’s home without knocking—there are no locks on the doors, so one cannot prevent this. They never pull down the shades from any desire of seclusion, and rather think it taking away their privileges if anyone else does. A beautifully dressed woman and daughter will pass you with downcast eyes, but if you turn quickly you will probably see them standing perfectly still, facing you and gaping. The children go about naked, and used to climb upon the grill of our veranda to stare at us and beg to taste our food. A few days after my son was born I noticed something peculiar in the actions of the midwife and the women about. They kept wailing: “Poor little heathen. He will not live. He will not live. Seven-months child. Condemned to the fires of hell.” To tell you the truth, I did not care much at that time whether or not he did live, but for the sake of the nerves of the household, my own included, I was forced to ask them to explain. “Why, he is a heretic!” they said. “What do you mean?” I asked. “He is not baptized.” “Do you want to baptize him?” I asked, rather jokingly. “Will you let us? Oh, Medica, Medica, run, run! We will baptize the little heretic!” I was in for it, so went to my friend Don Paco, who was a very wealthy and influential man, and asked what I had to do. “Oh, _you_ have nothing to do,” he replied. “You do not count. Only the godfather matters, and that will be I.” His duty, besides officiating at the ceremony, was to promise to do his utmost to keep the child in the Catholic faith. Well, I got into the church by fighting, to see one of the worst-looking babies you ever saw held up, entirely naked, by the medica, while four or five big priests crossed the different parts of his body with holy oil—changing a Concord Unitarian into a Roman Catholic! Truly, the reclamation of a heretic. After the baptism they did acknowledge my existence, for I rode in the carriage with Don Paco and the medica, who held the baby. The godfather had to get us out of the church by striking women right and left—a woman does not count for thirty cents in Spain. We rode in a four-seated carriage with two horses, and a brass band going before us. The crowd was so dense (more than twenty-five hundred people on that small street alone) that we could proceed only at the slowest walk, and at that we broke the arm of a small boy who was pushed under the horses’ hoofs.