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Updated: June 3, 2025
At the foundation of her face, as it were, lies the face of the Burano lace-maker; only the original type has been so refined, so chiselled and smoothed away, that, to speak fancifully, only a beautiful ghost of it remains. That large stateliness of her movement, too, is Italian. You may see it in any Venetian street, and Veronese has fixed it in art.
At S. Pietro on this island a halt was made to give the oarsmen wine, and here we saw the women at their cottage doorways making lace. The old lace industry of Venice has recently been revived. From Burano and Pelestrina cargoes of hand-made imitations of the ancient fabrics are sent at intervals to Jesurun's magazine at S. Marco.
Burano is celebrated for the beauty of its women and the rapacity of its children, and it is a fact that though some of the ladies are rather bold about it every one of them shows you a handsome face. The children assail you for coppers, and in their desire to be satisfied pursue your gondola into the sea.
The Campo Santo The Vivarini The glass-blowers An artist at work S. Pietro A good Bellini A keen sacristan S. Donato A foreign church An enthusiast Signor "Rooskin" The blue Madonna The voyage to Burano The importunate boatman A squalid town The pretty lace workers Torcello A Christian exodus Deserted temples The bishop's throne The Last Judgment The stone shutters The Porto di Lido.
And when, presently, the sun came out in full force, inducing the four more taciturn strollers to retrace their steps, Kenwick felt that blaze of light to be doubly inopportune. A few minutes later the flotilla was again on its way, awnings spread, and flags flying. A breeze had sprung up, and when they were free of the Burano canals, they found the water delicately ruffled.
The world, breathing, living, loving, the world a passion of delight." Their hands touched for a moment. Then she said, hastily: "Too late! There is Caspar. I forgot we were to go to Burano. Will you join us?" A figure in white ducks was coming toward them. His cordial smile seemed to include a comment a mental note of some hint he must give.
But Burano has charms, notwithstanding its dirt. Its squalid houses are painted every hue that the prism knows, and through the open doors are such arrays of copper and brass utensils as one associates with Holland.
Torcello is of a different quality. Burano is intensely and rather shockingly living; Torcello is nobly dead. It is in fact nothing but market gardens, a few houses where Venetian sportsmen stay when they shoot duck and are royally fed by kitcheners whose brass and copper make the mouth water, and a great forlorn solitary cathedral.
Meanwhile in their boats in the canals, or on the pavement mending nets, are the Burano men. Everybody is dirty. If Venice is the bride of the Adriatic, Burano is the kitchen slut. Yet there is an oasis of smiling cleanliness, and that is the chief sight of the place the Scuola Merletti, under the patronage of Queen Margherita, the centre of the lace-making industry.
In the thirteenth century the debris of the river that emptied into the lagoon there began to choke up the wholesome salt canals, and to poison the air with swampy malaria; and in the seventeenth century the city had so dwindled that the Venetian podesta removed his residence from the depopulated island to Burano, though the bishopric established immediately after the settlement of the refugees at Torcello continued there till 1814, to the satisfaction, no doubt, of the frogs and mosquitoes that had long inherited the former citizens.
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