An eminent American artist relates the following story of a terrible adventure which befell him during his residence in Europe. I was travelling from Paris to Brussels in the diligence On my arrival one evening at a little village near Dieppe —I forget the name of it-I found the village inn so crowded that the landlord could not even give me a bed upon which I might sleep in the house. He undertook, however, to receive my luggage, and give me a lodging in the neighborhood; and with this arrangement I was obliged to be satisfied. After having partaken of a comfortable supper I was waited upon by a servant with a lantern, who was to conduct me to the house where I was destined by my evil stars to pass the night. It was a lone house, of two stories, and quite small, situated on a wide heath, some half a mile distant from the inn. There were but three rooms on a floor ; and on knocking at the door, I was greeted by a melancholy-looking young woman, whose dress and appearance bespoke poverty, although she was neat and tidy. On being conducted into the apartment which served as a kitchen, I found no one there. It appeared that the house was inhabited only by this young woman. Seeing in my countenance a look of wonder and inquiry, she merely remarked, that she was often in the habit of receiving lodgers from the inn when it was full, and that she would endeavor to afford me a comfortable room for the night. As it would have been ill-bred to ask any questions after this I sat looking at the fire for half an hour speculating on the oddity of the thing, when the melancholy damsel went on with her sewing, which she had taken up as soon as I was seated. At last, being quite fatigued with my day's ride,I desired to be shown to my sleeping room. It was of very moderate dimensions, and situated on the ground floor. In fact it was but barely large enough to afford room for a single bed, and a few inches of floor on one side of it where I might undress ; and there was a window opening near the head of the bed. When my hostess had set down the candle, I locked the door and undressed myself, threw my clothes upon the bed, and was soon fast asleep. I suppose I might have slept two hours, so that it was "in the dead waist and middle of night," when I was suddenly awakened by a cold hand, as it might be the hand of a corpse, drawn deliberately over my face, from the forehead to the chin, and so passing off a space downward towards my feet! Horror-struck, I bolted upright, and I shouted in a tremulous but loud voice, " Who's there ?" No answer. I stretched out my hands, and felt all the three walls of the room near the head of the bed, arid found nothing but the said bare walls. I then got upon my knees on the bed, and felt the walls all round the room, as I could easily do, by reason of its exceedingly limited dimensions. I then crept under the bed, and fully satisfied myself that there was no living creature in the room but myself. It was mighty strange, I could have sworn that I had felt that awful cold hand passing over my face. The thing was done so coolly and deliberately, that there could be no mistake about it. Why did I not grasp the hand ? you may say. In fact I was waked out of profound sleep by its touch ; and before I had time to seize it, it was gone. I stood wondering at the strange and incomprehensible nature of the thing for some minutes, and finally arrived at the reluctant admission that I must have been dreaming—that it was my imagination—that it was no hand at all, but the ghost of a hand. In a very confused and unsettled state of mind, I at length got into bed again, and, still unrested from my fatigue, I speedily fell into a doze. Before I had completely lost my consciousness, however, I felt the same appalling sensation as before—that horrible corpse-like hand dragging itself like the body of a serpent over my face. Horror of horrors! I screamed out at the utmost pitch of my voice, " Who's there? Who, what are you? Speak! Avaunt! Begone!" I sprang instantly out of bed, and felt in. the darkness all round the room again. There was no one to be found. There was nothing but empty space as before. I was, to use a homely phrase completely dumb-founded. The former theory of dreams and imaginations would not hold good now. The thing was too real. It was a hand, and nothing but a hand. I could swear to it. It might be and probably was, the hand of a dead man; but it had skin and bones, and muscles and motion; and it had sent, I thought, all the blood in my body, back to my heart, as it passed over my face. It came and went this time more suddenly, so that I had not time to grasp at it, both of my hands being under the bed-clothes. Now I am an indifferently well informed person—something of a philosopher, anal never had been a believer in ghosts or supernatural appearances of any sort or kind. But this thing staggered me. I could not but think, with Hamlet, that "there are many things which are not dreamt of in your philosophy. Where could the owner of the hand be? He was not in the room. That was clear. There had not been time enough for him to escape from it, even if the door had not been locked, which it was, very securely, as I had just proved. There was no fire-place. So he could not have crawled up the chimney. There was no closet or hiding-place of any kind. The thing was utterly inexplicable. I could make nothing of it; and in a desperate state of doubt and bewilderment I once more betook myself to bed, and thought and thought about it Jill my brain ached again but all to no purpose. Fatigue and drowsiness at length overcame me, and I slept till morning without further disturbance. l| had been arranged that I should breakfast at the house where I slept. When I sat down, my melancholy hostess inquired how I had slept—hoped I had a comfortable night. "On the contrary," replied I, "the night was rather ail uncomfortable one for me, such as I never desire to pass again." I then proceeded to narrate the whole affair as it had passed. She listened with fixed attention, only interrupting me with two or three questions. When I had concluded, she said, " It must have been my poor drunken brother. I must tell you, sir," she continued, " that I have an unfortunate brother, of dissipated habits, who lives with me here, since the death of our parents. He often goes away and stays for weeks together, without my hearing a word of his whereabouts. He probably came home in the middle of the night, and not wishing to disturb me, went to the window of his bed-room which you occupied last night, and thrust in his hand in order to ascertain whether any lodger was occupying his bed. He was probably too much intoxicated to take any notice of your exclamations; and having found his bed occupied, he has gone off and found a lodging with some one of his acquaintance." Whether young hopeful came home in the course of the day I never learned; for in half an hour after this conversation I was on my way to Brussels, perfectly satisfied with the melancholy young woman's solution of the dreadful mystery of the Cold Hand.
