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.

Friday, October 20th 1854 ~ Grindelwald

The Wetterhorn in Grindelwald, Switzerland.

Hotel de l’Aigle ~ We engaged horses, one for each of the ladies with two men as guides, and a man to carry the baggage and with them left Meyringen this morning over the great Scheidek Pass at half past nine. Meyringen is beautifully situated between mountains that literally shut it in on every side but one, and from that the high road conducts to Breintz. All these mountains were covered with snow at about halfway up, presenting a strange contrast with the deep green of the valley. And from the summit of one of them descends the glacier of “Rosenlaui”, a brook of ice glittering in the sunlight. Our host and hostess came out to bid us goodbye and wish us a bon voyage, and we were en route up the mountain in single file, the girls ahead on their led horses and I bringing up the rear with a Swiss mountain pole with a pike on the end. And never was such a staff more needed than during the seven hours of incessant walking, or rather climbing that ensued. The path for the greater part was so steep that it would have been a relief could it have been converted into a regular flight of steps. After reaching Rosenlaui it became a little less steep. There we rested and took a little lunch almost at the foot of the glacier, and then in half an hour pushed on in our winding way. The path is open so that it gives at every step fine views of the vale and neighboring mountain. The distance is about 20 miles and the highest elevation of the path above the sea 6000 feet. From Rosenlaui it conducted us almost immediately from verdure trees and flowers into snow, gradually increasing in depth until we stood on the summit of the Scheidek, standing in snow of more than a foot deep and having left all trees and verdure far behind. I shall never forget the view. It was snowing hard where we stood but the sun shone brightly in the green valleys on either side below. Before us lay the Wengern Alp and the great Eiger apparently close to us. The Eiger is 12220 feet higher than the sea. Immediately above us rose, like a wall of rock, snow and ice, the highest peak of the Wetterhorn (11450 feet) crowned by a great glacier which curled over its summit and crept down its sides. While we were looking up, an avalanche of snow came tumbling down from rock to rock until it rested within a gun shot of where we stood in a cloud of spray broken by the rock and air. On the other side of us rose the great domes of the Fanl-horn, the Schwerz-horn and the lesser mountains without number. We took a lunch, on the summit, of bread, meat, and wine in a little log hut uninhabited except by the “cramping wind,” or rather the guides and myself did, for the ladies lunched on horseback outside. We had brought up the provisions from Meryringen. The rarefied air of the mountain gave an additional effect to the wine in raising our spirits and Alice found the scenery far more magnificent than usual for the ensuing hour. At least she seemed to enjoy it more than before. After our halt of fifteen minutes, two hours of descent brought us to the glacier called the Ober where we dismounted (all but Alice, who was thrown off by a misstep) and leaving our horses passed into one of the transparent caves of the glacier. The green walls above and around us recalled the fabled abodes of the mermaids in old Ocean’s dominions. It descends a gorge in the mountains, looking not unlike a foaming cataract, each great frozen wave seems struggling with its fellow which first shall reach the plain, and here they are alike transfixed in Winter’s cold and in Summer’s heat. Another half hour brought us to Grindelwald and to a comfortable hotel. We ordered fire in our rooms. The girls are on the floor, before theirs at full length, much fatigued. I feel tired, not very much so, but shall not try such a walk again.

Sunday, September 17th 1854 ~ Liverpool, U.K.

Queens Hotel ~ We landed at noon today after a splendid sail up the river; we took a towboat outside and came up wind with its assistance, although it was not necessary for the wind was fair for coming in alone. There is an aspect about the harbour unlike America. The river Mercy, a short distance up which Liverpool is situated is straight, wide and regular, and shores low and verdant. It is lined with beautiful beaches on either side, with thin black bathing boxes. Just back of the beaches, are often long blocks or rows of white houses, gentlemans beach residences or resorts for passing a few hours of a hot afternoon, for the gentleman of Liverpool. As we approached land today near enough to see verdure again our delight was extreme, green things never looked so beautiful before to us, who had seen nothing but the ocean for 21 days. It being Sunday we could not land with any thing more than a carpetbag, so shall have to go to the custom house tomorrow. This afternoon we drove over to Doctor McNeil’s church at “Princes Park” but did not hear him. We walked back from there. It is a beautiful walk and the park is beautiful and extensive, decidedly English in style. Mr. Treadwell and myself have taken a parlor between us.