bandman, and the depot of his wealth and monument of his industry. Still, as we observed before, there was much beauty in that wild lone spot. The sun had now set; its golden rays yet lingered on the water, and sparkled like the dying embers of a watch fire. No sound, beyond those alluded to, broke upon the stillness, save the gay tones of merry voices from some party of pleasure, on the Schuylkill, returning to the city. On the extreme height of the mount there stood, on the evening we have described, a young man whose age may have been twenty, certainly not more than twenty-one. He was leaning against an oak, whose gnarled branches o'ershadowed the spot for many feet around; within its gloom the youth stood, seemingly "impressed with the stern majesty of grief!" As he gazad down into the deep valley, his eye followed the road as it opened its way toward the city; a sigh, deep and heavy, escaped him. "Yes, that will conduct me to Philadelphia, but whither shall I go when there? Without friends and without money, a stranger has a much worse chance of a night's lodging there than he would have here. These spreading branches will be my canopy; this green carpet, nature's growth, my bed. rest, and amid the wild beauties of this murmur of the midnight breeze, forget my sorrows and the cause of wo." As he spake, he stepped out from the shadow of the tree and stood at the extreme edge of the precipice. Beneath his feet rolled calmly on, the waters of the river Schuylkill; a slight murmur arose from its bed, but so soft and plaintive that it sounded more like the notes of the aolian harp than the music of a running stream. No scream of birds, winging their homeward flight, disturbed the harmony that reigned, yet it was musical all. Fairmount was then, as it is now, a glorious spot-rich in all that constitutes Yes, here will I lone spot, and the landscape, with its beauty and utmost grandeur. It grew darker and darker, the air more chilly, the night wind swept over the summit, and—but what is that! In the East there came up a bright light-it radiated far and wide-the whole horizon grew rich in golden tints; the moon, aye, the moon, queen of the night! Silent ruler of the skies, in the absence of a brighter one, is it thou? "Come forth,” exclaimed the delighted youth, as he stood gazing upon it"Come forth in all thy beauty! let me gaze upon thee, and with thee watch away the lingering hours of night.” At his bidding, as it were, the moon came calmly up, showering far and wide its bright rays, and luxuriating in a holy light gleaming from her golden bed. As she advanced, the blood-red hue changed to a silver brightness "As erst on Judah's hills, when joyous throngs The stars, those gilded milestones of heaven, paled before their mighty queen. Lost in the contemplation of the scene, our youth heard not the sound of carriage wheels, nor the crack of the whip, nor saw a splendid equipage as it rolled along the road, nor did he awake from his dream of bliss-for such are the dreams we have amid the beauties and sublimities of nature-until a wild shriek came fearfully upon his ear. He gazed down from whence it came, and, to his surprise, saw a carriage surrounded by men, whose manner of proceeding fully explained their calling. Quick as thought, unconscious of danger, the youth seized -his walking-stick and rushed down the dangerous declivity with a velocity that created some doubts in his mind if there was not a probability of his losing his own life in the chivalric attempt to save that of others. Fate, however, ordained it otherwise. robbers for such they were. "No struggling, old man!" exclaimed one of the band of "No struggling, or d―n me if I don't make short work with yon. Come out, I say?" 66 Spare my life; take my gold, but spare my life?" "Bah! who wants your life? machine, for we must search it." Come out of this gilded They now commenced dragging the old man out, when a scream, the one the youth heard, came forth from the carriage, and a young girl, of some eighteen years old, sprang out, and clasping the old man in her arms, exclaimed, in accents of the wildest terror: "Save-oh! save my father !" The coachman, and a servant who rode behind, made an attempt to protect the old man, but as there were five robbers, their threats soon compelled the faithful attendants to remain silent during the process of robbing their master and his daughter. The carriage was examined. One of the robbers, evidently the captain, was in the act of taking some trinket from the young lady; his sacrilegious hand was already on her bosom, when a blow, from an unseen hand, laid him senseless on the ground. Another fell ere they discovered who it was that came so unexpectedly to the rescue. The attack was as sudden as it was effectual; for the two servants, having seen the approach of the young man, and witnessed his active exertions on their behalf, seconded his measures so effectually that the remaining three villains fled, deeming discretion, in this instance, the better part of valor. "Fear not, sir!" exclaimed the youth, as he raised the old man up; "you are safe now, but there is no time to lose; let me assist you in the carriage;-hold the horses, sir!" addressing the coachman. "Thanks-thanks brave youth; but, my God, my child, where is she?" "I am safe, father; let me, sir, thank—” Thank "No thanks, lady-permit me to help you up. Heaven, I was in time. That scream first attracted my attention." The young lady stood on the top step; she turned round; the moon at that moment poured down a rich flood of light. Oh! what a rich blaze of beauty burst upon his sight! he staggered back; the pure soul of a virgin was in the gaze she cast upon him. Their eyes met! "Young man you must go with us ;—take your seat, my child. The robbers will return; by heaven there is one on his feet! hold !—" The youth heard one wild scream, the roll of the wheels, the crack of the whip, and all again with him was night; he lay insensible on the ground, at the mercy of the robbers! CHAPTER II. THE ROBBERS' CAVE. Many of our readers remember Girard square, in Market street, between Eleventh and Twelfth, but they can form but little idea of what it was in 1765. At that period it was a lone wilderness. Beyond Eleventh street, there was not a solitary house, if we except one that stood at the corner of Twelfth and Filbert streets; this was an oldfashioned building, built by a Swede, and was not long since torn down to make room for the march of improvement. In the centre of this square, or rather field, was a cluster of trees, beneath which, strange as it may appear to modern ears, a gang of robbers had dug out a large commodious cave, in which, for many years, they lived unknown, and were not even suspected by the authorities. At that period, however, their power was seldom called into requisition. Up to as late a period as 1829, the marks of this cave were visible in a deep hollow, near to which, for many years, the late Stephen Girard kept a quantity of lumber, used for the purposes of building; and many times have we visited the square and gazed upon the spot, once the scene of murder, strife and outrage. It was in a room partitioned off from the main hall, so called, of the cave, that our hero, for so we must call him, awoke to consciousness. As he opened his eyes, they rested upon the stern features of a man who was contemplating him with the most intense interest. There was something in his basilisk gaze that made him shudder, not with fear, for that was a feeling unknown to him; but a superstitious dread, somewhat allied to that which we presume one suffers under the influence of an evil eye. "Well, sir, so you have come to your senses at last, after marring as good a night's work as was ever planned?" "I did my duty-nothing more." "Your duty? Aye, so reasons youth and inexperience; when you arrive at my age, youngster, you will then know what it is to talk of duty-bah! boy, duty is a bye-word for the trickster and cheat. To do what we like, and when we like, is the motto of freemen!" 66 It is the motto of thieves and rogues." "Umph! If I did not know you brave, I would call you fool; and because your name is Seymour, the son of John Seymour, of Seymour Hall, I spare your life; nor will I add more bones to those which moulder, and are ground to |