deeds by one so characteristic.

The two pilgrims now hurry from the prison. Had they known how the
former inhabitants of earth were shut up in artificial error and
cramped and chained by their perversions, they might have compared
the whole moral world to a prison-house, and have deemed the removal
of the race a general jail-delivery.

They next enter, unannounced, but they might have rung at the door
in vain, a private mansion, one of the stateliest in Beacon Street.
A wild and plaintive strain of music is quivering through the house,
now rising like a solemn organ-peal, and now dying into the faintest
murmur, as if some spirit that had felt an interest in the departed
family were bemoaning itself in the solitude of hall and chamber.
Perhaps a virgin, the purest of mortal race, has been left behind to
perform a requiem for the whole kindred of humanity. Not so. These
are the tones of an Eolian harp, through which Nature pours the
harmony that lies concealed in her every breath, whether of summer
breeze or tempest. Adam and Eve are lost in rapture, unmingled with
surprise. The passing wind, that stirred the harp-strings, has been
hushed, before they can think of examining the splendid furniture,
the gorgeous carpets, and the architecture of the rooms. These
things amuse their unpractised eyes, but appeal to nothing within
their hearts. Even the pictures upon the walls scarcely excite a
deeper interest; for there is something radically artificial and
deceptive in painting with which minds in the primal simplicity
cannot sympathize. The unbidden guests examine a row of family
portraits, but are too dull to recognize them as men and women,
beneath the disguise of a preposterous garb, and with features and
expression debased, because inherited through ages of moral and