I was allowed entrance to this sanctua rium. At last, however, he held me worthy of this favor; for as on one occasion I spoke of a barber who had been executed ten years before, and whose head was preserved in his collection, and asked him whether an expression of pain or any distortion of the features were visible in the face, he replied, "You can see for yourself," and beckoned to me to follow him.

We walked through the hall where his ordinary preparations were arranged, at the end of which he unlocked a door, which led into a small, but lofty vaulted chamber. Leaden chests stood around against the walls, furnished with glass covers in these the heads were preserved. The Anatomist first took out the head of the barber, and placed it in my hands; it was a stout, heavy head, well shaped, and apparently that of a man of thirty years. The color was brownish, the features calm and destitute of every expression of pain, or of even the least distortion.

We then went from chest to chest, from head to head; and among those who had died by suicide we found some hideous visages.

We had reached the last chest; it was not furnished with a glass cover like the rest, but with one of lead, securely fastened with a curious padlock.

"And here?" I asked. The Anatomist glanced now upon me, now upon the chest, and seemed irresolute whether to open it or not. He at last drew a small key from his bosom, and unlocked it. I stepped nearer.

"Gently!" he cried, as I laid my hand upon the cover. "You must first promise me, never, so long as I live, to disclose to mortal man a word concerning this chest, or concerning what it contains. The devil! it might cost me dear! When I am dead, in God's name, then, yes, then you may speak; and to this end I will give you a full history of this head, which you may dress out to your heart's content; although, as I think, this is scarcely necessary, since the said history is singular enough in itself. Well! will you promise to be silent?"

Of course I promised.

The Anatomist now quickly opened the chest, thrust in his hand, and drew forth by its long fair locks a head-a head, at the sight of which my senses nearly deserted me.

The

In vain do I strive after words wherewith to describe to you the charm which beamed upon me from every feature! The form of the face was the loveliest oval, and although its lines were marked with great clearness and distinctness, yet they were blended together in infinite softness and fullness of youth. finely arched brow was of dazzling whiteness, which was rendered the more striking by the color of the eyebrows, which were strangely dark, in comparison with the long fair locks which fell clustering from the head. The eyes were gently closed, and shaded by long, dark lashes. But hideous death itself had not been able to erase a soft, rosy hue from the voluptuously formed halfopened lips-a spectator, in short, might have imagined that he was gazing upon a maiden wrapped in a sweet sleep, except for the torn, loose edges of skin, which, about a hand's breath lower upon the beautifully-shaped neck, proclaimed but too clearly-" This head fell upon the scaffold.""

I know not how the head came in my hands; how long I held it, and with unspeakable pleasure and unspeakable terror gazed upon its fair features. When I was first conscious of myself again, and beheld the Anatomist standing near me, I started, for in the eyes of this man, who was by no means remarkable for his sensibility, there glimmered a tear.

Without uttering a word, he took the beautiful head gently from my hands, enveloped it in its fair locks, and locked it carefully in the chest. He then led me out of the chamber, pressed my hand in his, and told me to wait for him in his study. I tottered thither half senseless. In a few moments he followed me, and related the promised history of

the beautiful Julietta. Every word he uttered was stamped deeply upon my memory, and you will hear it exactly as he told it to me.

THE HISTORY OF JULIETTA.

You know, (began the Anatomist) you know, as well as myself and every true anatomist, that although we do not fear to commune with death, and daily and hourly make close acquaintance with its victims, yet we look upon it as a fearfully serious subject, and are by no means so careless of its terrors as many people seem to believe.

Grave are the enigmas of Life, yet we often succeed in solving them. But who can solve those of the realm of Death?

The ordinary observer beholds the lifeless tenement in the coffin-upon the marble table-perhaps, also, upon the wheel and the gallows; and if he happen to be what is called an esprit fort, or a rude student who has cut and carved through a winter's term, he opens a wide mouth, and speaks: "That is the end of the song! all is vanity.”

In my opinion, however, as little as we know where is the beginning, so little do we know where is the end. The latter commences with the presence of visible death, as little as life commences with the first motions of the embryo. Silently and imperceptibly labor the powers of nature; for creation and dissolution border so closely upon each other, that, with our blunted senses, we are incapable of distinguishing them. With all our toil, with years of untiring industry, we arrive at nothing which approaches to certainty. When after a long and anxious search, aided by the knife and the microscope, we have made a discovery, and prepare to give it a fitting place in our system-a new discovery appears, and throws all our old systems into confusion.

This relation of Life to Death, of the Spirit to the Body, almost turns the brain when we ponder too long upon it. But enongh of this!

I spoke of Julietta's tragic fate as singular. Listen, and then judge whether was right.

It was in the year 1780-I was then just commencing my studies-when it happened that all * * * * (the city where I then lived) was busied about a certain Count Alfred. He was the subject of daily conversation in all the circles of

the fashionable world—courtiers, artists, scholars-all had something to say of him; whether truth or falsehood it was indifferent, so that they had something to relate of him to each other.

Count Alfred was in truth a remarkable character! I do not refer to the peculiarities of habit that distinguished him from other young men of the day; that, in defiance of fashion, he wore his own chesnut hair, falling in natural locks about his head and upon his shoulders; that, railing at the uncomely mode of apparel which then prevailed, he dressed, although expensively, yet simply and naturally; and other things of the kind which attracted the gaze and excited the wonder of the public. But it seemed as if he were destined by Providence to play, at some future time, a distinguished part. Prodigally endowed by nature, both in mind and body, the youngest son of a noble Austrian family, he had been designed for the church. He escaped from home with a trifling sum, went to Italy, and lived for a long time under an assumed name in Rome, where his spirited designs and sketches, as well as his masterly performance upon the violin, excited unusual attention among artists.

Various noble deeds of magnanimity and generosity were related of him, yet still there was something in his manner which repulsed all men from intimate intercourse with him. Each one who endeavored to approach him upon familiar terms, very soon avoided him again; and he avoided all men.

But do not imagine, on this account, that he played the part of a cynic or oddfellow, or demeaned himself like one of our much-admired "victims," who, hunted by fate, and resigning all the joys of life, walk around, clothed in black, with a pale face, exhibiting the traits of mighty scorn and contempt of mankind, without having seen more of the world than Berlin and Kieritz, with perhaps an acid spring and a mineral bath. On the contrary, though he may have felt something like contempt for the petty swarm by which he was surrounded, yet he avoided them no farther than was necessary, in excluding them from his close and intimate friendship. In other respects he led a life of pleasure, such as a man of the world alone is capable of leading, and loved society, wine, women and music beyond measure.

His family had long sought for him in vain. His elder brothers died one after the other; and now the only prop of his house, he discovered his place of retreat to his relatives, became reconciled to them, and his father dying soon after, he was left the master of a large estate.

He now left Rome, traveled around in Germany, and came at last to ****, where he found many of his Italian acquaintances, and among them the Prince himself, who kindly invited him to spend some time at his court.

His fame, which had preceded him from Rome, was soon confirmed in ** both in good as well as in evil, and it was not long before he had as many enemies as acquaintances, especially among husbands, lovers and careful fathers, And perhaps not without cause indeed! for, a second Don Juan, he understood the art of casting his fetters about the hearts of women, so that they were unable to get free, and, maddened by passionate love, of their own choice, completed their own destruction.

He drew many quarrels upon himself on this account; but as he invariably confronted his enemies with impertur bable calmness, and manifested such a contempt of death, as excited the suspicion that he was weary of his life, and wished, perhaps, to get rid of it quickly and easily in a duel, they were careful not to push matters to this extremity, especially as he was considered a favorite of the Prince, and as no law existed in Germany, by which a seducer could be punished, if the victims of his wiles were disposed to favor the culprit. On a sudden, however, Alfred appeared entirely changed. He broke off all his connections which were of a frivolous character; he put an end to his wild revels, and became more mild and confiding toward his nearest acquaintances. This transformation remained for a long while a mystery to the public, until one of his most intimate companionswhom he himself in his good hours called his friend-a young physician, (he is now old and relates this to you,) gave an explanation of it.

Alfred loved!

A young, innocent maiden had won his heart. She was an actress at the Prince's theatre, endowed with remarkable beauty, and of a gentle, amiable nature. Alfred loved her with all the warmth and purity of a first love-and with reason; for he had previously en

deavored to ensnare the heart of Emilia, (thus she was called,) and to lure her from the path of virtue. His purpose long remained a secret to the maiden, and in child-like confidence she resigned herself to the full glow of her emotions; but when he unfolded his designs, accompanying his entreaties by the most splendid offers, she fell weeping into his arms, and exclaimed in despair: "Ah! have you not the least love for me?"

The words darted like a flash of lightning through the night of his soul! She loved him, and he had wished to destroy her. Deeply moved, he clasped her in his arms, and cried in an implor, ing tone: "Forgive me! I love thee! forgive, and be my wife! I will become worthy of thee."

He kept his word! After the lapse of a few weeks, he made known his be trothal with Emilia, and henceforth lived only for her; watched to fulfill her every wish, and tarried impatiently for the day which should unite her to him for ever.

But it was otherwise ordered! Emilia's health began to fail, and on her sixteenth birth-day-it was to have been the day of their union!-she died in Alfred's arms; his name was the last word upon her lips.

Alfred's condition was most fearful. He cursed himself-his fate-his earlier life! He uttered imprecations against Heaven also, whose vengeance, as he thought, had so terribly overtaken him, and in its fury had brought destruction upon an innocent being.

All the consolations of his acquaintances were in vain. He repulsed them, and renewed attempts excited him to fury. The physician alone, to whom he first confided the secret of his love, who abstained from torturing him with empty words of comfort, still maintained some influence over him.

It is true the first storm of his emotions at last abated, but a deep melancholy remained, which seemed permanent and incurable. He passed his nights in the church-yard where his bride" reposed. Her grave became a garden of flowers; her image was found in every sketch of his pencil, and he composed verses upon her love and her death, with all the inspiration, all the wo of a lover, from whom his dearest treasure has been torn for ever.

When autumn came, and its storms beat down the flowers upon Emilia's grave, his own end appeared to be draw

ing nigh. He was attacked by a violent fever, and was somewhat prematurely given up for lost by his physicians, especially as he obstinately refused to follow their prescriptions.

One alone the same friend-remained always near him; watched day and night over his couch, and enjoyed the pleasure at last, when the crisis of his disease arrived, of guiding it to a favorable issue. The beginning of winter found him restored to bodily health.

But did health return to his soul?-who can penetrate the secret? Is it not often the case, that thou art unable to say to thyself with certainty whether thy intentions are honest or hypocritical? Alfred appeared as in the last period of his illness. He remained sunk in deep melancholy, but now and then a spark of waking pleasure flashed through the gloom, such as is often observed in those who have just recovered from severe sickness, so that he no longer obstinately avoided the society of his fellow-men, although it had no power to cheer and enliven him.

This mild frame of mind gained him the sympathy of many who had heretofore avoided him, and this sympathy seemed to benefit him.

Toward the fairer sex alone, he appeared to have grown perfectly indifferent, and he avoided them whenever he was able. So much the more, however, (such is the nature of woman,) did they strive to attract his attention. They approached him with the tenderest sympathy; and he who knows how well they understand the art of administering consolation, (do not blush, young friend, it is no harm if you know it already,) may wonder at Alfred's strength, for he withstood all their endeavors.

He had not visited the theatre since Emilia's death; neither would he now visit it, although his friends daily urged him to go, if but for once, when the celebrated vocalist, Julietta, appeared upon the boards again.

Julietta was born in Italy, of German parents, and in her singing united the Italian warmth and facility of execution, with German expression and German soul. Although but eighteen years of age, yet her acting was almost as perfect as her singing. In addition to this, she possessed extraordinary beauty, so that you may imagine the enthusiasm she excited with old as well as with young without distinction of sex, especially as

she appeared only in the Italian opera, (a circumstance of some importance at that time, since German performers had then many prejudices to contend with in Germany.)

Among the men, the number of her worshipers was Legion; and some maintained that his highness, the reigning prince, headed the list in his own person, while, like all his rivals and successors, he had been obliged to retire in disgrace, for Signora Julietta was as proud as beautiful, and as virtuous as proud.

All this was repeated to Alfred in order to excite his curiosity, but he gave no heed to it, and the winter had almost passed without his having seen, much less heard, the beautiful opera singer.

One day, a placard of the theatre might be read at the corner of every street: "Don Giovanni, osia: il dissoluto punito. Drama giocoso in due atti, posta in musica da W. A. Mozart. Donna AnnaSignora Julietta."

Where lives the man who has once heard the immortal work of the great Mozart, who does not listen to it again with renewed pleasure, so often as he has an opportunity. This opera embraces all which has power to move the human heart-pain and pleasure, mockery and faith, hatred and love-complaint-scorn-despair-fury--happiness

damnation! How all these whirl in a circle with each other, and hurry us forcibly, irresistibly along.

Upon Alfred, also, this music had always exerted its rightful sway, and for this once he did not need the admonitions of his friends to visit the theatre; but he entered it with strange emotions, as if he forboded the consequences.

On this evening, Julietta exerted all her powers to represent the work of this great master in a worthy manner, and her success was unexampled. The rapture of the audience knew no bounds, and after the performance was ended, the cry, "Donna Anna! Julietta!" echoed from every mouth.

But Alfred, without heeding his companions, rushed from the box toward the entrance to the stage, and as she passed by, his burning glance fell upon her eye-her heart.

Why should I make use of many words to relate to you in what way Julietta and Alfred met each other after this evening? Enough-they met; and soon Alfred was seen in the public walks with

the beautiful Julietta upon his armproud as a conqueror.

The heart of man is an inconstant thing; this is a truth which every wise man and every fool may prove by his own. A few months before, who could have believed that Alfred would ever love a woman again? and still he loved Julietta, and more warmly than he had before loved Emilia. Not with greater purity, in truth, for he had essayed the virtue of his old watchword "victory!" upon Julietta, and his consciousness of this was the weak spot which Satan used for his destruction, and for the destruction of the sweet, unhappy maiden who yielded to his suit.

He had broken his faith to the deceased Emilia! This thought startled him from his sweetest dreams in Julietta's arms. He tried to banish it by gaiety, by jest and laughter, but he was unsuccessful. The greater his efforts to tear the poisoned arrow from his heart, so much the deeper did it enter.

He then asked himself the question: "whether Emilia, if he had died the first, would have remained forever true to him?" In this question, to which all answer was impossible, he found, as he imagined, some excuse for his faithlessness. Aye, he found excuse, but with it came suspicion of Julietta and jealousy. If you will confess the truth, you must admit that jealousy is always accompanied by a mixture of the ridiculous, and that this is displayed in a more striking light, in proportion as the jealous person has been known heretofore as possessing more or less good sense. I was unable on one occasion to control my laughter, as I witnessed a masterly representation of that scene in Schiller's Cabal and Love, in which Major Von Walther breaks out in rage against the court marshal, Von Kalb, and the "man of sorrow" endeavors in vain to convince the excellent youth of his innocence, in which every one else would have believed him without an oath. I was obliged to laugh, I say, at the handsome Major, for thinking it possible that this fantastic Kalb could be his favored rival; but terror seized me in the selfsame moment, and I could not avoid uttering the prayer of King Lear: "Oh, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet Heaven!"

Alfred was in a condition almost more unhappy than the Major Von Walther, for he knew not who was his rival. All

his toil and search was to discover him; and both were of course fruitless, for Julietta was faithful and devoted to his happiness. He concealed his inward struggles from her with the greatest care, for he was unwilling to distress her even for a moment, without being certain that his doubts were well founded-a delicacy which was as great a proof of his love for Julietta as of the diseased state of his own mind. To a healthy mind such a situation would have been insupportable.

A condition so unhappy, however, could not be of long endurance in a man like Alfred, and the crisis soon arrived. It must have been a fearful one, so little was it displayed externally; its consequences were soon visible to all.

Alfred became gay-gayer than he had ever been before. An observer could tell from the first glance that this gaiety was the offspring of many losses, or of some one loss of great magnitude. He himself also appeared to be conscious of it. He raised his voice aloud in scoffing merriment against heaven and helland against his own early dreams of happiness.

His wild revels began anew-his amours multiplied from day to day-and still he did not neglect Julietta; on the contrary, his love for her appeared to grow more passionate-he followed anxiously her every glance he hung upon every word that passed her lips: It seemed, indeed, as if he had become unfaithful to her only for the sake of preserving her fidelity.

You may smile at this remark, but it is based upon a deep knowledge of the human heart. It is neglect alone on the part of the man, which so far restores a woman who loves to herself, that out of revenge she can dispense her favor to another. The infidelity of her lover is but a spur which incites her to regain him, and the more passionate her hatred of her rival, so much the more passionate is her affection for the faithless object of her love. This was the case also with Julietta! as Alfred grew more and more fickle and volatile, in the same proportion her love for him grew in strength and ardor.

Notwithstanding this, however, he had miscalculated, for her passion put on an air of anxiety and gloom; and if it was scarcely questionable that a diseas ed excitability of the mind had generated the condition in which Alfred found him