This leads naturally to the mention of another peculiar usage.  On visiting the Fayal post-office, I was amazed to find the letters arranged alphabetically in the order of the baptismal, not the family names, of the persons concerned,—­as if we should enumerate Adam, Benjamin, Charles, and so on.  But I at once discovered this to be the universal usage.  Merchants, for instance, thus file their business papers; or rather, since four-fifths of the male baptismal names in the language fall under the four letters, A, F, J, M, they arrange only five bundles, giving one respectively to Antonio, Francisco, Jose or Joao, and Manuel, adding a fifth for sundries.  This all seemed inexplicable, till at last there proved to be an historical kernel to the nut.  The Portuguese, and to some extent the Spaniards, have kept nearer to the primitive usage which made the personal name the important one and the patronymic quite secondary.  John Smith is not known conversationally as Mr. Smith, but as Mr. John,—­Senhor Joao.  One may have an acquaintance in society named Senhor Francisco, and another named Senhora Dona Christina, and it may be long before it turns out that they are brother and sister, the family name being, we will suppose, Garcia da Rosa; and even then it will be doubtful whether to call them Garcia or da Rosa.  This explains the great multiplication of names in Spain and Portugal.  The first name being the important one, the others may be added, subtracted, multiplied, or divided, with perfect freedom.  A wife may or may not add her husband’s name to her own; the eldest son takes some of the father’s family names, the second son some of the mother’s, saints’ names are sprinkled in to suit the taste, and no confusion is produced, because the first name is the only one in common use.  Each may, if he pleases, carry all his ancestors on his visiting-card, without any inconvenience except the cost of pasteboard.

Fayal exhibits another point of courtesy to be studied.  The gentleman of our party was early warned that it was very well to learn his way about the streets, but far more essential to know the way to the brim of his hat.  Every gentleman touches his hat to every lady, acquaintance or stranger, in street or balcony.  So readily does one grow used to this, that I was astonished, for a moment, at the rudeness of some French officers, just landed from a frigate, who passed some ladies, friends of mine, without raising the hat.  “Are these,” I asked, “the polite Frenchmen one reads about?”—­not reflecting that I myself should not have ventured on bowing to strange ladies in the same position, without special instruction in Portuguese courtesies.  These little refinements became, indeed, very agreeable, only alloyed by the spirit of caste in which they were performed,—­elbowing the peasant-woman off the sidewalk for the sake of doffing the hat to the Baroness.  I thought of the impartial courtesies shown towards woman as woman in my own country, and