Rev. John Codman

Lizzie's father, Rev. Dr. John Codman (1782-1847)

1782 - Born, August 3rd.
1813 - Married to Mary Wheelwright, January 19th.
1826 - Daughter, Elizabeth Codman, born December 10th.
1847 - Died, December 23rd, Dorchester, Mass.

1800's - worked as a minister/preacher.

Monday, October 30th 1854 ~ Chamonix

Hotel de Londres ~ We were called at six and a half this morning and breakfasted at seven. After breakfast bid the girls good bye (I kissed Alice at parting) and started off for Sallenches. The idea was so ridiculous of our going in different directions that it put us into fine spirits. We left our trunks to the girls to take care of and at eight o’clock were comfortably seated in the coupé of the diligence and “en route.” This is the best seat. It is front, just under the driver and shut in with glass. It holds just three people and after the first two hours we had it all to ourselves. The early morning was misty so that we saw but little of the country. As we approached Sallenches the view became superb. The great chain of Mt. Blanc coming into sight, the sun gilding its summits and the mist rolling upward from the valley and creeping up the hill sides. At Sallenches, we obtained our second sight of Mt. Blanc (the first was from Geneva). We dined there and the dinner was miserable in the extreme, bad wine, bad meat, bad everything, cold room. It was market-day however and the costumes of the peasants in the great square were very pretty, standing before their booths, ornamented with ribands etc. We dined with a Polish Count and his sister, the widow of a Russian officer, and with them we took a carriage for Chamonix. They had been fellow travelers in the diligence from Geneva. By the way, on the road to Sallenches we met quantities of market people coming from and going to the fair with droves of cattle, shepherds carrying their little lambs and followed by the flock, droves of black pigs, carts of calves, in one a number of dead ones and one standing alive in their midst. The Polish Count was very deaf and did no talking but his sister did enough for both and in very glib French (which was her native tongue) and we had to keep our heads very clear to understand her rattle. She told us she had one son who was in the Russian army and to my question “how do you like the Russians and their rule” she answered with an expressive shrug “je suis Polonaise.” {I am Polish.} That told the whole story and seemed a history of a great nation’s wrongs. She seemed much interested in hearing about America and showed us by her questions that she had read much about us. The country between Sallenches and Chamonny is very beautiful. The road winds between the mountains, now ascending, now descending, passing through deep defiles, by rushing brooks and waterfalls and among snow capt hills. We had a drunken driver, who whirled us down the hills at a pace that threatened to shake the carriage to pieces; still we did not reach Chamonnix until eight o’clock. Our view as we drove through the vale of Chomonix by moonlight passes description. Mt. Blanc and his aiguilles on the one hand and lesser mountains on the other; in the half light they seemed supernaturally high and their glittering summits seemed as if cut out of solid silver. In many places they were so high that the moon rays did not reach us at all, but were arrested on the sides of the opposite mountains, daguerreotyping there the fantastic shapes of the great Alpine range. The road passes close to three arms of the great “mer de glace,” which descends from the summit of Mt. Blanc into the plain, wave upon wave of ice throwing back the moonlight. Just as the moon rose this evening the sun disappeared so that their rays were blended on the great white dome of Mt. Blanc, the moon rising over it, the sun’s last rays gulding it with rosy hues after they had for some time left us in the valley in the shades of night. Oh man, what are thy works compared with Natures wonders! We cannot help asking here “what is man that thou should’st be mindful of him! We took tea with our Polish friends and retired at midnight. We are the only people at the hotel which is about to be closed for the season.

Sunday, October 29th 1854 ~ Geneva

Caesar Malan

The day has been perfectly splendid. Lake Leman unruffled and clear as crystal, and in the distance the white chain of Mt. Blanc presided over by the monarch himself. A little before ten this morning Lizzie and myself sallied out on a voyage of discovery for the chapel of the celebrated Caesar Malin {actually spelled Malán}. He does not seem at all popular in his native place and we found it difficult to hear where he could be found. After many inquiries we discovered his house just out of the city proper and his church in the grounds. We rang at his garden gate and were told by the woman that came that he would not preach until two o’clock so we went back to the English Chapel and heard the service badly read and a sermon so delivered that we could comprehend very little of it. After church we returned to the hotel and in a quarter of an hour set out again for Mr. Malan’s. It is a very plain little building of wood not painted on the inside with a high old fashioned pulpit, narrow and covered by a canopy of green velvet. Mr. Malin is a fine looking old man about middle height with long hair white as snow. His text was from St. John’s gospel “He it was that should betray him being one of the twelve.” His doctrine we found were very severe (Calvinistic), and somewhat peculiar, but his sermon forcible and manner most impressive, voice musical and instinct with deep feeling. In speaking of the love of Christ it faintly trembled. It is needless to say the sermon impressed us all much. It was in French but remarkably distinct and clear. As he descended from the pulpit in his long black robe he extended his hand to one, a stranger, and I took the opportunity to introduce myself and Lizzie whose father he remembered well. The sunset was superb; we saw it returning along the banks of the lake. The giant shadows of the mountains were reflected in the many colored waters. Byron’s description does not now seem over drawn. In the evening before our woodfire we talked over our plans and concluded to separate our party, Mary and Alice passing over the lake to Hotel Byron and meeting us at Martigny and we going by way of Chamonix, Alice not being able to bear the fatigue of this route.

Saturday, October 28th 1854 ~ Geneva

Hotel de l’Eau ~ Mary’s birthday; the sun shines brightly and Mt. Blanc is in full view. I finally decided upon my watch this morning and took it. I then called at the police office rue de la Cite’ and obtained my passport which had been taken from me on our arrival. Nothing of importance transpired. There is nothing particularly to see in Geneva and I have no impressions to write.