We arrived at the inn amidst a heavy fall of rain, and every thing felt cold and dismal; our horses and driver were apparently wearied out, although we had only travelled thirty-two miles, and this over a good level road. Placentia, or Piacenza, is a fine city on the banks of the Po, but the state of the weather prevented us from exploring it. On the following morning, our driver did not call us until six o’clock, and then it was accompanied by an intimation, that we should have plenty of time to breakfast, whence we inferred, that he was looking out for passengers to fill his now vacant places; but the real cause soon appeared, for in an hour after he apprized us, with great concern, that one of his horses was quite lame, and, totally unable to proceed; but that he had found another voiture, which would carry us to Milan; and for our fare in which, he would arrange with its driver, so that it would make no manner of difference to us. We were glad to comply with this proposal, although we regretted changing our driver, whom we had found a very civil and attentive man: this inability to proceed, was, undoubtedly, to be attributed to his having driven us too far on the first day, in order to oblige two gentlemen of Ferrara, by getting on the second day to Bologna for breakfast instead of supper. Our new voiture was a much lighter carriage, than the one we had parted from. Before we left the town, we took up an Italian lady and gentleman, who proved very pleasant and respectable people:—the lady about twenty-two, with a pair of such bewitching black eyes, that my friend C⸺ was scarcely able to sustain their glances. The gentleman, who appeared to be her relative, was about thirty, and conversed in a very sensible, but free manner, on the political state of his country, and patriotically anticipated the time when she would be enabled to throw off the yoke of foreign despotism, and assert her liberty and independence: we had, however, only the pleasure of their company as far as Padoglia,—about ten miles. On leaving Placentia, we crossed the Po, on a bridge of pontoons. The stream was rapid, and the breadth of the river much the same as that of the Thames at London-bridge. We were strongly reminded of Addison’s poetical description of this noble river, whose banks, both in ancient and modern history, have been the scene of so many sanguinary contests. “Fir’d 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 swoll’n with a whole winter’s snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where it flows.”