"How we laughed as we laboured together! How well I remember, to-day, Our 'outings' in midsummer weather, Our winter delights at the play! We were not over-nice in our dinners; Our 'rooms' were up rickety stairs; But if hope be the wealth of beginners, By Jove, we were all millionaires! Our incomes were very uncertain, Our prospects were equally vague; Yet the persons I pity who know not the city, The beautiful city of Prague!" If you can imagine the lonely shade of the man who wrote that verse returning to Literary London--where there is no longer a young man who could write it, and merely a few greybeards are left still to understand what it means--I say,…
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