The church of St. Ursula is one of the curiosities of the city. St. Ursula was an English princess who, according to the tradition, when on her return from a pilgrimage to Rome, in the second century after Christ, was barbarously murdered at Cologne with eleven thousand other Christians, most of whom were young women. They were all buried in the same grave. Some time in the eleventh century the grave was opened, the bones taken out, and, on the spot of the grave, the present church was built to the memory of these martyred virgins. These bones form part of the walls of the church; some of them, also, are preserved in glass cases, and placed around in the audience-room. Johnson supposes this is done to inspire in the worshipper a devotional spirit, or, perchance, to remind him of Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones. Near the pulpit is a beautiful monument to Princess Ursula. The statue is of alabaster, with a laurel wreath about her brow and a white dove at her feet. The Rhine is, indeed, a majestic river. Its broad bosom floats hundreds of vessels, laden with the produce of its fertile valley, and thousands of tourists from all parts of Europe and America. At Cologne, we embark on the “Victoria,” and start up the “legendary stream.” As our graceful bark glides off over the smooth waters, we turn our eyes back toward Cologne for a last, long look. And what a pleasing picture it is to behold the city with its “girdle of fortifications,” to see the splendid cathedrals and numerous towers outlined against the sky! Cologne has scarcely vanished from our sight when Bonn appears. Here we disembark. A few hours suffice to go through the University, to inspect the Cathedral, to see the bronze statue, and visit the birthplace of the great musical genius, Beethoven, born in 1770 and died in 1827. After leaving Bonn, the scenery is more picturesque and beautiful. On either side of the swiftly-flowing stream, the overhanging cliffs rise high, one above another, each being crowned with a ruined castle, whose long, winding corridors and pictured walls once resounded with mirth and music. High perched upon these basaltic rocks, and surrounded by almost impregnable walls, feudal lords once held despotic sway. It really seems that the once thirsty swords have been beaten into plowshares, and the spears into pruning hooks, for the fruitful vine now flourishes along the “bloody Rhine,” from its water’s edge to the height of the castled crags. Even the crevices in the high cliffs are planted with the vine. This scene inspired Lord Byron to sing the following beautiful song: