British reverence for the Peerage of your
country, and for its governing classes, who
have done you so much good, you will feel a
thrill of pride and gratification when your
garments are positively brushed on the cliff
by the sweeping moiré antiques of peeresses
in their own right, and the coat-lappets of
hereditary legislators.

You meet everybody on the cliff at Capri.
The Peers and the Sweet Peeresses, and the
Aldermanesses, and the Board of Works.
Her Majesty's ministers in plaid shooting-
jackets, bishops' wives in green uglies,
gouty old generals in wide-awake hats,
archdeacons in waterproof coats, Israelitish
millionnaires (very strong is the wealthy Caucacian
element at Capri: it dwelleth at Hemp
Town in five-storied mansions; it goeth to
town in the morning and returneth to dinner
by express; grand dinner parties giveth it to
the tribe of Benjamin, and of Moses, and of
Levy; handsome daughters with ringed fingers
hath it, and, curiously, it seems to be
continually buying fruit in the market), little city
gents, honest florid tradesmen and their
families, young dandies, used-up men, fast men,
slow men, fellows of their colleges, from
Cambridge, in spectacles; blooming busy lawyers,
with great shirt-frills and watch-chains;
leaders of circuit, in very shabby trousers,
with wig-powder yet on their coat-collars, and
moving the sea for a rule to show cause why
they should not force a transient flush of
health into their pallid, tired countenances.

Have I forgotten—no, but I have as yet
omitted to mention—two of the strongest
classes, and the most constant in their attendance
on the cliff. I allude to the lapdogs, and
the round hats. Every variety of lapdog may
you see, O philosopher, in this Capræan
paradise of puppies. The fat, plethoric, wheezy,
long-eared, lolling-tongued, door-mat of a dog,
with a pink ribbon round his apoplectic neck,
and legs so short that their existence is almost
imperceptible. This animal as surely
belongs to the Dowager Lady Booterstown in
the peerage of Ireland, as yonder yelping rat-
like terrier—or, perhaps, more like a rat that
has stolen and caparisoned himself in a
porcupine's panoply—belongs to the austere old
gentleman with the nonconformist countenance,
who clutches his umbrella as though
he were going to beat some body with it; to
this dog enters your silky Blenheim spaniel,
a lazy little cub, but victorious often in his
passive obstinacy, turning over on his back,
sticking out his short legs, and, with his head
on one side, humorously defying all the
efforts of strenuous footpage, and despairing
young lady, although armed with the poke-
inflicting parasol, to make him move on.
Then comes mincing along daintily, as though
he had patent leather boots on, Monsieur
Caniche—your French poodle, curled, shaven,
trimmed, pink-nosed, and redolent of Naples
soap. And after him, ambling, but shivering
piteously in his plaid paletot, Signor Lungoshanko,
the Italian greyhound. And, sometimes,
—the sight is not often seen by human
eyes, but is manifest occasionally—comes there
sweeping along the cliff some dowager of
ancient days, bearing in her arms the Lost
Book of Livy, the ultimus Romanorum, the
vinegar bible, the Samothracian Onagra, the
blue diamond, the black swan, the pearl
beyond price of dog-wood—the Dutch pug;
you see his coffee-coloured coat, his moist,
short, black nose, his snarling little molars
tor a moment, and tremble. He departs like
a vision, and you ask the wailing ocean,
where you may see such another dog alive.

I should like to linger a great while longer on
the cliff and at Capri, but my time is come, and
to other penal servitude I must betake myself.
You have heard nothing as yet of the famous
pier at Capri, of the pretty horsewomen, of
the bold riding-masters, of the stalwart bathing
women, of the doughty Capri tradesmen. All
these things you shall hear some day, if you
are inclined, and time will serve; likewise of
the first mayor of Capri, and how all the
town-councillors wanted to be aldermen, and
how all the aldermen wanted to be mayor, and
failing, each and every of them in the attainment
of that high office, moved votes of
censure upon everybody, and played the very
deuce with the town of the Metamorphosed
Pagoda.

                CHIP.

    THE COMMUNITY OF GAULT.

THIS community was composed of seven
families, all springing from the same source,
and bearing the same name. Lands, flocks,
and houses belonged to all alike, and the
labour of each went into the common fund.
The daughters who married out of the
community, were paid a marriage-portion of
about fifty-five pounds, but they could come
back again in case of widowhood or desertion.
Those women who married into the
community did not lose their dower in the
common funds, and they could always retake
it if they were left widows, and wished to
return to their own friends. The father left
no private heritage to his children, only the
rights belonging to all the members of the
community. The authority of the chief was
absolute. He and the aide who was to
succeed him, managed the whole affairs of
the association; apportioned the work,
regulated the internal arrangements of a jarring
household, bought and sold, and in all things
exercised unlimited and unquestioned authority.
He eats at a table apart, with his aide;
the rest of the family together in the hall.
Each section of these seven families lived in
a separate part of the house, and the
principal part of their furniture was provided out
of the common funds. Linen, clothes, and
smaller matters came out of the wife's dot,
or any private work they might have done.
The chief used to distribute flax and linen,