About eight o'clock in the morning a loud knocking at the door aroused him from his unrefreshing slumbers. With the instinct of fear still upon him, and from which he had not quite recovered, he sprang out of bed, exclaiming,

"Charlotte-niece-sister, where am I?"

He looked around him, and was somewhat assured to find himself in a comfortable and well-appointed bedroom, and he tried to recollect how he had been brought hither, but his memory, in that particular, was blank and unavailing. His adventures of the previous evening flashed rapidly through his mind, but whether the people with whom he had so curiously been brought in collision were his friends and relations, or mere strangers, he could not determine. He naturally hoped that he was at the end of his journey, and that the room which he occupied was in the house of the friends whom he had set out to visit.

The knocking at his door was again repeated, and somebody called"Mr. Dunderdum-Mr. Dunderdum!"

"I'm here," he answered. "Who wants me?"

"A gentleman below wishes to speak with you-he's very impatient to see you."

"I will dress and be down as soon as possible," he replied.

He had no sooner made the response, than a dark thought instantly occurred to him. For what purpose was he wanted? Was there to be a renewal of his misfortunes of the previous evening?

In less than half an hour he was prepared for the interview about which he had so many misgivings, and opening his chamber door, he descended the stairs arrived at the bottom, he was met by a prim little waiter in black, who said, "This way, sir-this way," and forthwith ushered him into an elegantly furnished room, where-heaven and earth!—he discovered the man whose countenance he had seen reflected in the mirror at the hotel at St. Auburns-the counterpart, indeed, of himself. "Mr. Dunderdum, I believe," said he, rising.

"My name is Dunderdum.'

"And mine is Dunderdum," said the other, firmly.

Mr. Dunderdum looked at him mildly, and bowed.

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"I repeat, sir," he went on, my name is Dunderdum, and when I have said that, you may infer the rest."

"What inference am I to draw from thence ?"

"Outraged honour-blasted reputation-public imposition-treachery -villany!" And the other Mr. Dunderdum strode about the apartment with clenched hands and glaring eyes, as though he meant instant annihilation to the accused.

"I do not understand you."

Then, sir, I shall make myself understood forthwith, and I will very soon send a gentleman to wait upon you." And so saying, he rushed from the room in the most approved theatrical fashion.

As Mr. Dunderdum was seated at breakfast, a little man, in a shabby suit of black, was shown into his presence, and who informed him that he was empowered by his eminent friend, Mr. Dunderdum, to demand an instant apology from him for the audacious manner in which he had dared to impose upon the public, to the great detriment of Mr. Dunderdum's professional reputation.

The old gentleman quietly informed his visitor that he did not understand the nature of the charge made against him; whereupon it was explained to him that he had wantonly deluded the public, and injured the reputation of Mr. Dunderdum, the celebrated actor, by attempting to personate the part of Mr. Foozle in the farce of "The Rival Suitors," at the Prince's Theatre, on the previous evening, the real Mr. Dunderdum having been prevented, by some mischance on his journey, from reaching Haverstock in time to undertake the part. A new light appeared to be dawning upon the bewildered intellects of Mr. Dunderdum. He politely asked his visitor to join him at breakfast, but he declined the invitation, having already breakfasted before leaving his lodging. Mr. Dunderdum having hastily finished his breakfast, he requested his visitor to be seated for a few minutes, and he immediately proceeded to the landlord of the hotel (for he had already ascertained that he was not in a private house), to inquire if he could unravel the mystery in which he had been so unfortunately involved.

The only information that he could obtain from the landlord was, that Mr. Dunderdum, the eminent actor, had, by some mistake at St. Auburns, been put into the wrong coach, and conveyed to Bramford instead of Haverstock, and that he believed that the mistake had arisen from the circumstance of the two coaches leaving the hotel for these places at the same time.

"I see-I see it all!" exclaimed Mr. Dunderdum. stock."

The landlord nodded acquiescence.

"I am at Haver

"It was I that should have gone to Bramford-we have exchanged places, as it were, and the remarkable resemblance in our personal appearance, and perfect coincidence in name, has led to the whole of the misfortunes in which I have been involved. I am obliged to you for the information." And he hastened to join the messenger of the infuriated actor. "It is all a mistake," said Mr. Dunderdum, as he entered the room. "Accompany me to my illustrious namesake, and I will explain the whole affair to his satisfaction."

The little shabbily-attired man readily consented, and together they proceeded to the apartment occupied by the actor, which was in the same hotel. The explanation was happily deemed sufficient, and the wrath of the illustrious actor fortunately appeased, and who, before the interview terminated, smilingly condescended to shake hands with the innocent but unhappy detractor of his professional reputation.

I have already mentioned the object of Mr. Dunderdum's journey. Of course, when he arrived at the house of his sister, which he did without encountering any further misfortunes in the way, the first thing was to relate the extraordinary adventures he had met with at St. Auburns and at Haverstock, the recital of which, I need not say, was listened to with a great deal of curiosity and attention. The next step was to assure himself of the safety of the promised dowry; but lo! when he searched his pockets for that purpose, the 1000l. note was gone! The disappointment of all, except the real lovers, was immense; and when I have stated that the plodding business man, in consequence of the discrepancy of age, difference of taste, &c., consented to waive all further claim to the hand of the young lady, the ground of their satisfaction may very easily be surmised.

A few days after the arrival of Mr. Dunderdum, it was arranged that the marriage should take place, and on that eventful morning came to hand the following epistle-no disagreeable accompaniment, we should conceive, to the wedding breakfast:

"SIR,-After considerable difficulty, I have succeeded in discovering your address, and I hasten to restore the 10007. note which, no doubt either in a state of bewilderment or in a fit of absence, you placed in my hands on the evening that, by a remarkable combination of circumstances, you were mistaken for the celebrated performer Mr. Silas Dunderdum. "I trust the enclosure will reach you in safety, and have the honour to "Yours, very faithfully, "JULIA MONTAGUE.

be,

"To Silas Dunderdum, Esq."

The joy and surprise which the receipt of the above occasioned, may be imagined. The fair actress was not forgotten by Mr. Dunderdum, who sent her a present of no slight value.

Matters being thus so far satisfactorily arranged, there remains little further to be said, except, perhaps, that Mr. Dunderdum ultimately regained his quiet country residence in safety, and that he never took another part in play or farce, or encountered again in any of his travels that celebrated performer and counterpart of himself—Mr. Silas Dunderdum.

FROM DELHI TO CAWNPORE.

IN introducing to our readers' notice a French account of the Indian massacres, recently published by Dr. Maynard, and bearing in mind that the too famous Jessy of Lucknow was but the emanation of a French brain, we feel it but due to ourselves to preface our notice of the work by quoting the author's own introduction as a voucher for our bona fides:

Accident brought it about that I recently resided in an hotel, where I met with a poor English lady, Mrs. Hornstreet, a victim to the mutiny of Bengal. She was one of that procession of widows and orphans brought by the Calcutta steamer every fortnight to Suez. She had landed at Southampton and come to France to find a refuge with her husband's family, who had for a long period resided in Touraine. On her passage through Paris she was taken ill, and I was called in to her. We physicians are, as a general rule, somewhat curious. I inquired of the lady as to the cause of her illness, and she told me in consequence all her sufferings in India, for the cause of her illness was misery, exhaustion, and grief—incurable maladies. I shuddered with horror at the narrative of her long martyrdom. The lady had been rich, and lived happily with her husband, daughter, and son. These are all dead; fortune and happiness are lost the son, a boy of two years of age, was crucified to a wall in his

mother's presence; the daughter, a maiden of eighteen, is mouldering in the well of Cawnpore, after being exposed to the most fearful brutalities from the Sepoys. The father was the least unhappy, for he died first, by a bullet through his heart. His widow buried him with her own hands, lest his body should become the prey of the vulture. I asked Mrs. Hornstreet's permission to publish this lamentable narrative of her sufferings. Many prejudices had to be removed, many doubts settled; at last I succeeded in gaining her consent, and so I now give the story just as I received it from her lips.

Nothing can be more explicit than this; and, as Dr. Maynard's is no unknown name in modern French literature, we consider ourselves justified in regarding the dreadful narrative to which we would call attention as strictly true.

In May, 1857, few persons could be regarded as more blessed with worldly comforts than Mrs. Hornstreet. Heaven had but recently granted her a son, to take the place of her daughter, who was engaged to Lieutenant Hood, of the Engineers, and her husband was making the necessary preparations for the sale of the indigo factory, and their return. to England with an ample fortune. The correspondence this entailed with the agents kept the family au courant as to the various suspicious movements in the Presidency. They heard of the émeute at Barrackpore, and of the mutiny of the 19th N.I. In the same way they were told of repeated incendiary fires in the vicinity of Calcutta, and of the distribution of the chupatties. Still they entertained but slight apprehension; their knowledge of the natives led them to believe that these reports were purposely exaggerated to depreciate the value of the factory, and Lieutenant Hood, a daily visitor, confirmed their views by the utter contempt he revealed for the Sepoys. It seemed, in fact, as if they rushed blindly on their fate, else they would have noticed the warnings they received of insubordination and hatred of the Christians.

One evening in March, we were walking on the banks of the Jumna, a river that runs beneath the walls of Delhi. Ellen was leaning on the arm of her betrothed; my little Will was running before us, or coming back to pluck at my dress. At a place where the path narrowed a fakir had laid himself with his face to the ground, and stopped the road. Will came back to me in alarm, and the lieutenant, as soon as he saw the man, bade him get out of the way. The fakir did not stir. "Lift up the dog and throw him into the water," said the lieutenant, with a wave of his hand to the four men who constantly followed him. The soldiers hurried up, but I did not give them time to execute the order, for it suddenly occurred to me that the poor fellow had laid himself here to beg. "Give him this rupee," I whispered to Will. Will dauntlessly ap proached the beggar, stooped down, and placed the money between his face and the ground. At this moment the fakir rose, and moved on his knees to the edge of the path, and as Ellen and the lieutenant passed him he cried, in a piercing voice, his hands being laid flat on the ground, "The roads will soon be free." My husband and the clergyman, who walked before me, received the following salutation: "The believers in the true faith will triumph to-morrow." When I came up to him with Will, who was now frightened, and tried to hide himself in the folds of my dress, he altered his tone and position, raised his hands heavenwards, leaned back, and whispered the following words, which turned my blood icy cold: Poor child! thou canst not ransom thyself with thy alms." At dinner I repeated the beggar's words, and did not conceal the fact that they had startled me. But every one laughed so heartily at my timidity, and the lieutenant cited so many instances of the impudence and folly of these pretended seers, that I at last joined in the laugh, and soon forgot the circumstance.

journey. Amongst other relatives, he had a sister married to a poor physician, who had had a family by no means in keeping with the meagreness of their resources. Charlotte, the eldest girl, had been offered marriage by two gentlemen. The one was a plodding and thriving merchant, and several years her senior; but the other, a year or two older than herself, had nothing but his profession to depend upon. A little time before our story opens, he had been called to the bar, and was emphatically, and would be so probably for some years, a briefless barrister. The parents of the young lady were anxious that she should marry the wealthy suitor, but the young lady demurred at the choice, and seemed bent upon delivering herself up to the embraces of the man of law. Thus matters stood, when it was deemed advisable to summon Mr. Silas Dunderdum to the scene, who should be empowered to decide between the contending parties, and whose decision should be held to be final. A few miles from Bramford lived the relatives of Mr. Dunderdum, and it was thither that he was travelling.

It was scarcely nine o'clock when Mr. Dunderdum reached the place of his destination for the night, intending to start in good time on the following morning for the residence of his sister. The snow-flakes were falling profusely as he alighted from the coach-an act that he had no sooner accomplished, than a man came up to him, and putting his arm through his, dragged him on to the pavement.

"Mr. Dunderdum's luggage," shouted the stranger, at the top of his voice-carpet-bag, portmanteau, and hat-box."

"What does all this mean ?" thought Mr. Dunderdum. this man be ?"

"Who can

"Carpet-bag, portmanteau, and hat-box for Mr. Dunderdum," again shouted the man.

"Fore-boot!" shouted the guard.

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"Hand out Mr. Dunderdum's luggage, coachman, if you please," said the strange man ; carpet-bag, portman- And he was going on in this way, when he was interrupted by Mr. Dunderdum himself. "In what way are you interested in my affairs ?" asked that gentle

man.

The stranger did not deign the querist an answer, but addressing himself to a cabman that was standing some little distance off, he shouted, "Cab for Mr. Dunderdum."

In a few seconds a vehicle drove up to where they stood. "There, sir-no time to lose-capital house."

"I do not understand you," Mr. Dunderdum said.

"Nothing like a good name for drawing," answered the man; "jump in, sir, if you please-scarcely a moment to lose."

"This is all gibberish to me," said Mr. Dunderdum.

"Step in, sir, if you please," said the man. And so saying, he took Mr. Dunderdum gently by the shoulder, and partially forced him into the vehicle. He closed the door hastily after him, and said,

"The luggage is all right, sir. We shall be there in a few minutes." "There!" repeated Mr. Dunderdum to himself; and finding himself incapable of answering the question, he took off his hat, and thrusting his head out of the window, and which was very soon covered with snow, he shouted, in as loud a tone of voice as he could command,