of that period. Cannot you fancy their tickled pride and swelling importance, as courtier after courtier was invited to become, for the nonce, identified with royalty?

Lastly, Mr. Old called my attention to still another old parchment manuscript, measuring twenty-seven by twenty-one inches, and very closely written, that was in stern eontrast with the souvenir we had just examined. Not greater is the difference in the relative subject-matter, than in the characters of those who took part respectively gay voluptuaries for the most part in the one, earnest combatants for religious freedom in the other. The document to which I allude is a "Confession of Faith," signed by leading Scottish Covenanters, when Charles I. endeavored to impose upon them the Liturgy

of the Church of England. Several of these protests and exhortations to resistance, so to say, were signed by prominent nobles and heads of clans, and were then laid out on tables in city and village streets for general signature. Hereupon have signed and pledged themselves-Rothes, Montrose, Cassilis, Elcho, Home, Montgomerie, Lothian, Wemyss, Flemyng, Sinclare, Boyd, Drumlangrig, Loudown, Forrester, Eglinton, Balmerino, Dalhousie, Coupar, Fraser, Balcarres, and many another, in handwriting legible and illegible.

Enough. From these few specimens, the reader will have perceived how wide is the range that lies open to the collector of autographs. He may, perhaps, not wonder that Mr. Old's collection is famous in the small circle of experienced amateurs.

ON a frosty day; a few years ago, the New Haven and New York train was rushing swiftly on, making its noisy salutation to a sister or brother train which was just passing with all its thunder of reverberation and shock of nearness, when the door of the car where I sat swung open, and a little boy made his appearance, with the comical look on his face of one who is calling aloud, straining the muscles of his throat, and starting every blue vein in his face and his very eyes from their sockets, without a whisper being heard -such was the din. A moment later, and I laughed again, for I was shrieking at the very top of my voice, "Shut the door, little boy!" with the same inaudible result. Somebody shut it, the train passed by, the little mouth formed itself again for action, and then indeed the car rung with the cry, "Mamma, mamma!"

I looked around with reproachful surprise at all the motherly-looking women in the car. Was there none to own and take possession of this little waif? No,

they were all looking at me with the same expression of mild disapproval and amazement.

I knew I was nobody's mamma, not even little Daisy's, who was waiting at home for Aunt Madge and the bag of chestnuts, sweet from country woods, she was bringing for the deft little fingers to roast and pare and offer, after our cosy tea was over, on the coming winter evenings, in Daisy's "hour."

Nevertheless, somebody must do a motherly turn for the bright little wistful-faced fellow, who was, deafening us all; so swooping out my arm, I drew him into my seat, and perched him up beside me.

"I want mamma."

"Where is she, my dear? and where do you come from?"

"I've been through two other long cars looking for her," he answered, "and she wasn't there; but anyhow, I came over the platforms all alone." Thereat he cheered up mightily.

"That was frightful," I said. "You must sit here now until your mother

comes for you. She will think you a very naughty boy, I am afraid, for leaving your place, and going over the platforms where you might have been killed!"

"Then she oughtn't to have left me," answered the logical sprite. "I'm too little a boy to be left all alone. Of course, I'd do something wrong."

"If you know it is wrong, you are quite big enough not to do it," I said. "What is your name?"

"Julie Skummun-what's yours?"
"Julie what?"

"Where is your mother, dear? Did she go into another car to speak to somebody?"

"No, she got out, and said she'd be back in a moment; and I waited until I got tired, and then I guess I went to sleep; and when I waked up my head was all bobbing about-and mamma had never come back yet; so I just started to find her."

Here was a pretty state of affairs. Could it be possible that the woman had left this dear little boy, and got rid of him? Or had she stepped out, and been left to follow, of course, in the next train? I resolved to consult the friendly old conductor when he next came through, and meanwhile resumed my inquiries with new zest.

"Where do you live, my dear?"

nurse, and mamma wouldn't send her away just to get a cross old thing in a cap to teach me how to gabble." All this was delivered with fluent condescension. "But this summer I haven't had a bit a good time on Uncle Fred's farm-no boys to play with-and mamma all the time saying, 'hush! don't make any noise.'"

"Tell me about Uncle Fred, Julian.” "Uncle Fred? Oh, he's real cross, nobody likes him! Scolding me if I made a bit of noise, and keeping us all the summer in that poky old place." "Where does he live?"

"Oh, on his farm, up in the country, ever so far from here. And he don't know any more about farming than a mosquito." Here he was quite overcome with his own wit, and giggled with great enjoyment.

"Oh, nothing-just Capen!" answered my wholly unsatisfactory little neighbor.

I fell to musing on the "Uncle Fred" shaft. Clearly, it was obstructed, if not closed entirely, and I must sink a new one into my mine of information.

"Have you a father, Julian?"

"Papa? Why, of course. He's sick too-we are going to take care of him, mamma and I, going 'way to the West. Mamma cried all last night, and I slept in my clothes-and we started when the moon was shining this morning—and I saw the sun rise."

"Was your father very sick?" "I don't know, only mamma cried so, and Uncle Fred said bad words, 'cos he couldn't go too-he's got a fever, you know. He wanted her to leave me behind; but I tell you mamma's bully! and we've promised to stay together always-she's going to stick to me, and I'm going to stick to her. Oh, where's mamma?" Down went the little-velvet cap into my lap, while sob after sob shook the poor little frame, until I was greatly distressed.

"See, Julian, cheer up, dear; we'll find your mamma yet. Here is the conductor, he'll make it all right. Look up, my dear boy!"

The conductor heard our piteous tale with a wry face, and evidently needed more than one glance at the boy's sensitive face and delicately neat, tasteful, and rather expensive dress, to persuade him that it was not a foundling case. However, if the careless mother had stepped off at one of the past stations, and been left, no doubt she would follow as soon as possible. An accommodation-train was due in an hour and a half, which would probably bring her. Very likely, too, a telegraphic message would come from her before that, to make all sure. But at all events, the only thing for the child to do was to stay at 27th-street until the next train arrived.

"But suppose nothing is heard then?" I asked. "What will become of the poor little fellow ? Where must he go?"

"To the police-station, I suppose," was the reply.

"Oh, dear, what a bad place for such a baby! Isn't there anywhere else?"

'Well, you see, ma'am, there's nobody to look after him at the depot. And any telegram would be sent to the police-station. I can't stay, of course, myself, and don't really know what better to do for the poor little fellow."

Julian was still sobbing in my lap. I said at last, with a pull at my heart at the thought of little Daisy's face at the parlor-window: "I will stay with him until the accommodation-train; but you

won't be here, Mr. Brown, and every body else will be so hurried; and so if —just supposing any thing has hap pened to the poor mother, couldn't Julian come home with me for the night? You know who I am, and that I am a responsible person. Here is my address, too."

"Oh, yes, Miss Gaylord, I know all about you; but I can't help advising you not to saddle yourself with any thing of this kind. There's never any telling what may be the truth in these cases, ma'am; and it's easier to keep a person out of your house than to put them out after they once get in."

"Very good advice," I replied. "But still I can't feel it in my heart to leave the poor little fellow alone. However, no doubt his mother will come. I only asked you, so as to know what I might do, in case she didn't."

So we waited, Julian and I, with his little hand fast held in mine, while the passengers hurried into the stationhouse, and hence to their several destinations; and then I sat myself down composedly to wait for the next train. Little Julian looked weary and wan; and, as I was looking at him, all at once turned so white that I was frightened, and opened my bag for my flask of port-wine, and seeing also some crackers, I offered him one. He took it indifferently, saying,

"I think I'm hungry, but I can't

eat."

"My dear boy! what time did you eat your breakfast?"

"I didn't have any. I was asleep, and when I waked up, mamma gave me some bread and butter with ham in it. But I don't like ham, and I don't like crackers either."

I administered the wine and water as quickly as possible; and then, taking him by the hand, set out for a restaurant. And I soon had the satisfaction of seeing a substantial lunch of beefsteak and potatoes, toast and hot milk, bring the roses back to the pinched little cheeks, and the glee to the pretty blue eyes. Then we walked about for half an hour or more, looking in the

shop-windows, and chatting; but by no adroit method of questioning could I beguile my little companion into saying that his name was any thing but Julie Skummun, or that he had a home in any place more definite than "all alongshore."

At last the time drew near for the next train, and, a little tired of my selfconstituted charge, I quickened my steps, and dragged along the little running legs, till we entered the stationhouse quite out of breath, just as the cars were beginning to arrive. The patient horses stood panting and smoking in the keen frosty air, the passengers jumped off, and hurried about, while Julie and I stood scanning each one, I searching for a wild-looking face, haggard with anxiety-yearning for the lost child. But among all that crowd of well-to-do bustling people, not one such face appeared-not one figure to whom Julian could spring and cry, "Mamma!" Poor little boy! how sad he looked, and how he clung to me, as I asked the conductor, and found that all the cars had arrived, and that no such person had been heard of! No other train was due for three hours, and we could wait no longer in this cheerless place. I told the conductor my story, gave him also my address, and then promising myself that I would go back in time for the next train, I turned my steps homeward, with the poor tired little boy still holding my hand; too weary and sad to care for the honor of a little white trundle-bed in the nursery, or even to hear about Daisy's pet canary bird, with the three baby-birds in their cradle-nest.

bewilderment, he was so depressed and gentle that he made no resistance; and I was obliged at last to interfere, and put him up on a peaceful sofa with a picture-book all to himself, where almost immediately the poor child fell asleep, and was carried off by nurse to the trundle-bed, undressed gently, and tucked away safely for the night. Meanwhile I went again to meet the cars, but with no further result, and began once more to fear that, in spite of all outward signs to the contrary, this was really a little deserted child, whose home must henceforth be found in one of those charitable retreats where substantial care and protection would indeed be given, but where home-love, mother's tenderness, and all the possibilities of education and culture, must be forever missed.

The next day and the next passed, and nobody came, sent, or wrote for little Julian. Again and again I went to the cars, and spoke to the different conductors. But their inquiries were all of no avail. Nobody was heard of who had lost a child; nobody knew the name of Skummun; every body was sure that there was no such name. On the fourth day an old friend called to see me, and Betty brought up her name: "Mrs. Schermerhorn, ma'am, is in the parlor." Little Julian shot out of the room like an arrow from the bow, and a moment afterward I found him quivering with passion, sobbing with grief and disappointment, at the parlor-door, and addressing the astonished old lady with the startling words,

"You're not my mamma! How dare you say you are my mamma! "

I put him aside, and greeted and soothed my dear cld friend, whose indignant amazer.ent was very funny.

"What on earth does the child mean? Who is the little imp, Margaret? I never saw him before in all my life; and he flew at me till I thought he was going to scratch my eyes out!"

I tried to explain, as well as I could, who and what the inimical sprite was; but my eagerness at finding any new clue would not brook long delay, so I went

to the entry, and drew in the sobbing child, to try and understand what it all might mean.

“Why, Julian, what were you thinking of, my child, to treat a lady so! This is Mrs. Schermerhorn."

"No, it isn't! I say it isn't! My mamma is Mrs. Skummun. This is an ugly old woman!"

I was so relieved, that I did not wait to reprove his disrespect, while I told Mrs. Schermerhorn more fully all my trouble, and how great a help it was to learn at last what the child's real name was. We tried to learn more, but he was still so indignant at the idea of any body daring to call herself by his mother's name, that he became more rude and violent than could be tolerated, and I was obliged to despatch him to the distant nursery region, and order a repast of bread and molasses to keep his mouth shut and cheer his poor baby-heart a little.

Then I took counsel with my motherly friend as to what to do next: and the result was an advertisement to "any friends of Julian Schermerhorn, aged six, who would find him under safe protection at No. W. 31st-street."

My friend sat thinking a while, and then said,

"I can think of nobody of my name to whom this boy can possibly belong; and yet there is a look about him-you will laugh at me, I know, but I really, fancy that there is a sort of family resemblance of course, it is only my imagination. There was a Henry Schermerhorn, who was living abroad, a distant cousin; but I never heard of his return to this country. He married a pretty young creature, a Miss Bloomfield, of Massachusetts, and they lived in Italy, I believe, or somewhere abroad, because of her delicate health. But it is absurd to try to fix the child upon any of them. I wish I could help you in any way, Maggie. Your advertisement may lead to something; and I will at all events write to Pauline Schermerhorn, and ask what has become of Henry and his wife, and whether they ever came back to this country. I won't

mention this child, of course; it would be too ridiculous."

Day after day passed, and no answer came to my advertisement, and no inquiries came to the station-master as to the poor little waif of the railroad. Mrs. Schermerhorn wrote the letter she had planned, but no answer arrived; and she heard a little later on, that "Cousin Pauline" was off on a little trip to Washington and Richmond. So no doubt the letter of inquiry was safely reposing upon the study-mantel in the old Philadelphia homestead. Every thing seemed to conspire against poor little Julian, and the chief and most aggressive conspirator was the boy himself; for never was such a troublesome, spoiled, wilful child introduced into a peaceful home. Little Daisy stood in such open-eyed admiration of his pranks, that I feared she would soon begin to imitate them; and no doubt she would, had he not developed an overweening scorn and aversion to her, as only a girl," and a tendency to use his inventive powers of mischief for her especial torment.

Now I am by nature a strict disciplinarian of children. I do not mean that I have a little rod in pickle always, a pet cat-o'-nine-tails always lying on the mantel-shelf. I do not believe in the system of education which consists in a perpetual "nagging," and which makes a child's training a series of small slaps, snaps on the fingers, shakes of the head. "Now, Daisy! No, no! don't do that! Naughty girl!" Such is not my plan. I flatter myself that if I had twenty children they would all obey me; the wheels of my machinery are well greased, and hidden from sight, but the whole goes on smoothly and effectually, though without noise. Little Daisy is always docile, has never set up her will against mine since I had her; and yet it is not her nature I fear, for I remember well the spoiled baby she used to seem to me, when her own mother (almost as much of a spoiled baby herself) tried in vain to make her mind, and contended every point with a great show of authority and very in.