Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the English.
Vernon has been my fate; who is here the same that you knew him—
Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of Trevellyn.
ii. Claude to Eustace.
Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it.
Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppression
Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes me
Feel like a tree (shall I say?) buried under a ruin of brickwork
Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo,
Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots.