I remember little more of what I saw or heard yesterday, except that my uncle remarked as we passed a sheep-walk in our drive home, what an astonishing number of people combine their labours to produce any one manufacture, and how necessary the different trades are to each other. From the grazier, for instance, who rears the sheep and sells the wool, and the various artificers employed in preparing, spinning, weaving, dyeing, and pressing it, up to the retail shopkeeper who keeps the cloth ready for our use. “But in fact,” said he, “these are only a few links of the chain; we must recollect the numerous hands employed in making the machinery, the miner who raises the iron ore, the smelter who converts it into metal, the smith who works it, and the collier who supplies them with coals; the carpenter who constructs the frame-work, and the engineer who contrives the whole. Then come the merchants, and shipwrights, and sailors who bring home from distant countries the articles requisite to colour the cloth, and the dyer, who, by the aid of chemistry, compounds them; and lastly, the farmer who cultivates the humble teasels. See, Bertha, what a prodigious number of heads and hands are thus toiling for the accomplishment of a single object, and, though all impelled by individual interest, yet all co-operating for the general good.”
4th.—As I am still paying for my imprudence, and confined to my room, kind Mary has been entertaining me with the conversation she had heard below stairs, and particularly with Mr. Maude’s account of Venice. Nothing in Italy so much struck his imagination, as the view of that city, with all her towers and pinnacles rising from the sea, where, the poet said,
“Venice sits in state, throned on her hundred isles!”
But now it has a most melancholy appearance: the port, which in times of prosperity was crowded with shipping, is now almost empty; and the muddy canals which intersect the town in every direction, are no longer enlivened by multitudes of gondolas gliding swiftly through the water. The showy palaces which rise from the sides of these watery streets, were once adorned with all that painting and sculpture could perform; but they are now neglected, moss-grown, the habitations of owls and bats, and fast sinking to decay: and many of the great families who had inherited their wealth and honours in direct succession for a thousand years, are now obliged to part with their splendid mansions, or to see them gradually crumbling into ruins, from the want of means to repair them.
Notwithstanding all this, Mr. Maude says that Venice is still a magnificent looking place; and amongst its many beautiful buildings, he describes the cathedral as being most venerable and interesting. It was built so long ago as the ninth century, and enriched with the spoils of Greece and of Constantinople. He once went through the city at night, to see the effect of moonlight on its superb buildings; but the few of them which were still dazzling with lamps, as if enjoying their former glory, made such a contrast with the pale light and dark shade of the moon, and with the general stillness, that the whole scene had even a more deserted appearance than in the day-time. Now and then the gloomy silence was interrupted by the sounds of the harp or guitar, or by the wild and plaintive airs of a few gondoliers, as they kept time to the gentle splashing of their oars.
Mr. Maude, she says, added a great deal about the present government, the state of society, and the remaining commerce of Venice; and my uncle, who was much pleased with his observations, remarked that few of the changes recorded in history, offered a subject of deeper interest, than the long-continued grandeur and present fall of Venice. “It rose,” he said, “as it were, from the waves, when, on the invasion of Italy by the Huns, numbers of people took refuge in that cluster of islands where the city now stands. So early as the year 421, they formed a little state, strong enough to oppose the invaders, or at least to secure themselves from molestation. Commerce soon followed security; and from this small beginning arose that wealth and power which continued for many centuries, and which extended the influence of Venice over all the states with which she was connected. Her foundations were laid in the darkest ages of Italian misery; but she soon became the spectator of the dissolution of the Roman Empire. She witnessed the ravages of many continental wars, and the rise and fall of many nations; till at length she fell in her turn also. Somebody has well remarked, that she was the last surviving witness of antiquity, the common link between the two periods of civilization.
“Her whole history,” continued my uncle, “has a paradoxical and peculiar character. Her romantic achievements in the East; the noble lead she took in the struggles of Christendom with the empire of the Turks; and the heroic defence she made against the attacks of numerous enemies, place her resources and power in singular contrast with the smallness of her territory. On the other hand, her selfish policy; her imperious conduct wherever her influence extended; and her deadly jealousy of the neighbouring republic of Genoa, rendered her the object of universal envy and hatred. While at home the rigorous despotism of her government, which was ill concealed under the mask of republican freedom, and the inquisitorial tyranny of the senate, which silently pervaded every house, and controlled almost the thoughts of every individual, could tend only to alienate her subjects. These are points of deep moral and historical interest; but it may be safely said that her government outlived the age to which it was suited; no timely reform adapted it to the growing changes in the public mind—no concessions to the people united them in common cause with their haughty masters—and the fall of Venice may be ascribed more to her internal vices, than to the overpowering armies of France.”
5th.—I have been so much better all day that I was allowed to go down to tea; and had the pleasure of hearing Mr. Maude describe the fruitiéres in Switzerland. I quite misunderstood that word at first; for I find that it means a kind of dairy, something like that described to us by our Savoyard friends last winter. The person by whom the fruitiére is managed receives their milk daily from all the neighbouring peasants; he sells the cream, and butter, and makes the cheese; and at the end of the season pays the contributors either in cheeses or money. He keeps an exact account, not only of the quantity of milk brought in, but to prevent fraud, such as mixing it with water, he ascertains its quality by a kind of hydrometer, or floating gauge. Persons detected in cheating are struck out of the book, and lose what they had already contributed. The fruitiére man who manages the business and keeps the accounts, is paid by a small per centage on each cheese.
This plan is chiefly adopted in those parts of the country where the cattle are taken in summer to pasture in the mountains; the farmers confide their cows to a man who lives in a chalet, such as Madeleine mentioned, and spends night and day in milking the cows, and in making and turning the cheeses.
The same practice has been introduced into Piedmont and Lombardy. All the dairies in which the Parmesan cheeses are made, are supplied in this manner. The meadows of Lombardy, in the vicinity of the Po, are the most fertile in the world: being constantly watered, they produce three or four crops of hay in the season; but as they are occupied by a great number of individuals, there are few who can support a dairy, because the making cheeses requires a large quantity of milk, the produce of at least fifty cows. To effect this the Lombards have formed societies in order to make their cheese in common; and twice a-day the milk is sent to the principal house, where the dairy-man keeps an account of each person’s share.