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Updated: June 19, 2025
The villa I am alluding to is in the immediate neighborhood of Varese, on a rising ground above the town, commanding the most magnificent views of Monte Rosa, Monte Viso and the country between the lakes of Como and Maggiore. It is a new creation, and is the property and the work of the Milanese banker, Signor Ponti.
This town of John de Viso stands on a hill like that of Don John, but had been recently burnt, so that there did not remain above six houses standing.
I will not endeavour to delineate my feelings as I contemplated the ruins of the house where dwelt the lady whom the amorous Petrarch immortalised in his verse verse made to move a heart of stone: "Morte bella parea nel suo bel viso" I threw myself with arms outstretched upon the ground as if I would embrace the very stones.
First, on the extreme south-west, Monte Viso, then Mont Cenis, between them the less lofty Superja; near Turin, Mont Blanc, the great St. Bernard, Monte Rosa most conspicuous of all; to the left of these last, the Matterhorn, then the Cima de Jazi, Streckhorn near the Mischabel, Monte Leone near the Simplon; away to the north the summits of the St.
Gilly says, "There is nothing fit for mortal to take refuge in between San Veran and the eternal snows which mantle the pinnacles of Monte Viso." The village is 6,692 feet above the level of the sea, and there is a provincial saying that San Veran is the highest spot in Europe where bread is eaten. Felix Neff said, "It is the highest, and consequently the most pious, in the valley of Queyras." Dr.
They say they cannot read Dickens. When Mr. Pickwick's adventures are presented to the modern maid, she behaves like the Cambridge freshman. "Euclide viso, cohorruit et evasit." When he was shown Euclid he evinced dismay, and sneaked off. Even so do most young people act when they are expected to read "Nicholas Nickleby" and "Martin Chuzzlewit."
Forty-eight years after he himself set forth beyond seas, he passed on to young John Milton "in procinct of his travels," his favourite bit of wisdom, learned from a Roman courtier well versed in the ways of Italy: "I pensieri stretti e il viso sciolto."
There, in the west, about thirty miles from where you stand, is a tall pyramidal-shaped mountain, towering high above the other summits. That is Monte Viso, which rises like a heaven-erected beacon, to signify from afar to the traveller the land of the Waldenses, and to call him, with its solemn voice, to turn aside and see the spot where "the bush burned and was not consumed."
I will not endeavour to delineate my feelings as I contemplated the ruins of the house where dwelt the lady whom the amorous Petrarch immortalised in his verse verse made to move a heart of stone: "Morte bella parea nel suo bel viso" I threw myself with arms outstretched upon the ground as if I would embrace the very stones.
In the meantime night advances, the noise ceases by degrees a profound silence succeeds, and there only remains of this evening the confused idea of a dream, in which the people had forgotten for a moment their labour, the learned their studies, and the nobility their idleness. "Ah!" answered she, "Il più bel viso è il mio;" Mine is the most beautiful face.
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