“Never was such an age of transition. There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. I’m going to that stupid party at the Vorsack’s to get to the bottom of it. Quite trying of him not to be there when he is wanted. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth.
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