the old-fashioned city of Prague, as might be expected, were tolerably well scoured of their population. A few houseless beggars, making a virtue of necessity, alone braved the fury of the elements, and implored the charitable succour of the honest cits, who might occasionally be seen scudding along to gain the nearest coffee-house, and who, in the plenitude of their wisdom, and the fulness of their stomachs, wondered what could induce a set of idle wretches to stroll about, instead of looking for occupation. Every body, in short, was sheltered, or seeking shelter, except such as had their own reasons for doing otherwise. Amongst others, M. Robert de Schwarz, an honest, and what many thought of greater importance, a wealthy merchant of W——, had housed himself from “the pelting of the pitiless storm” in the Café du Casino. Comfortably seated as near as possible to the stove, which was the central point of attraction, he listened to the howling of the blast, and the patter of the heavy drops against the windows, and between each gust of wind, and each dash of rain, complacently sipped his bowl of rum punch, determined that his inward man
