Having embarked in our little vessel, we soon entered a canal, of about twenty-two Italian miles in length, which communicates with the Po, and we were drawn along, at a pretty good rate, by two horses. We passed last night in the vessel, as we shall this; for there is no probability of our reaching Ferrara till to-morrow. The banks of this famous river are beautifully fertile. Finding that we could keep up with the vessel, we amused ourselves the greatest part of the day in walking. The pleasure we feel on this classical ground, and the interest we take in all the objects around, is not altogether derived from their own native beauties; a great part of it arises from the magic colouring of poetical description. The accounts we have had lately of the King of Prussia’s bad health, I suppose, are not true; or if they are, I have good hopes he will recover: I found them on the calm and serene aspect which Eridanus wears at present, which is not the case when the fate of any very great person is depending. You remember, what a rage he was in, and what a tumult he raised, immediately before the death of Julius Cæsar. Proluit insano contorquens vortice sylvas Fluviorum Rex Eridanus, camposque per omnes: Cum stabulis armenta tulit. Dryden translates these lines, Then rising in his might, the King of Floods Rush’d thro’ the forests, tore the lofty woods; And, rolling onward, with a sweepy sway, Bore houses, herds, and labouring hinds away. Rising in his might is happy, but the rest is not so simple as the original, and much less expressive; there wants the _insano contorquens vortice_ sylvas. It is not surprising that the Po is so much celebrated by the Roman poets, since it is, unquestionably, the finest river in Italy.— Where every stream in heavenly numbers flows. It seems to have been the favourite river of Virgil: Gemina auratus taurino cornua vultu Eridanus, quo non alius per pinguia culta In mare purpureum violentior influit amnis. And Mr. Addison, at the sight of this river, is inspired with a degree of enthusiasm, which does not always animate his poetry. Fired with a thousand raptures, I survey, Eridanus thro’ flowery meadows stray; The King of Floods! that, rolling o’er their plains, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, And, proudly swoln with a whole winter’s snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. Notwithstanding all that the Latin poets, and, in imitation of them, those of other nations, have sung of the Po, I am convinced that no river in the world has been so well sung as the Thames.