I saw yesterday a picture of Rembrandt's with three lights in it very well managed, at Wallraf's.
Saw R. Simmons' writing in the police-book at Bonn, and wrote to Soane.
[This was John, the son of Sir John Soane, founder of the Soane Museum in Lincoln's Inn Fields.]
The innkeeper makes you put your name—whence—whither—profession and age—every night. Rogues all of them, charging much.
May 11.—We saw the first vines a little before entering Cologne some days ago. We left Bonn at eleven, the town having nothing in particular. The Seven Hills were the first that struck our sight on one of the highest pinnacles in Drachenfels, now a mere ruin, formerly a castle of which many a tale is told. There was by the roadside a monument raised upon the spot where one noble brother killed another. Crucifixes all the way. We had the river on one side, whence rose hills (not mountains) cultivated halfway for vines—and the rest, nuts, shrubs, oak, etc. Towers on pinnacles, in ruin; villages (with each its spire) built of mud.
Cultivation in a high degree; no hedges, ground minutely divided into beds rather than fields; women working in the fields; ox and horse ploughing; oxen draw by their heads alone. Peasantry happy-looking and content. Two points particularly struck us—
