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ruary 18, 1764, and signed by several prominent individuals of the place:

"On the evening of the seventh instant, Febuary, 1764, there was a violent storm of hail and rain; the next morning after, was observed a large breach in a hill on the west side of the old river, (this was a little north of Birmingham, perhaps eighty to one hundred rods,) supposed to be occasioned by some subterraneous wind or fire; the breach is about twenty feet deep, though much caved in; in length one hundred and thirteen feet; about sixty rods of

land was covered with the gravel and sand cast out of the cavity; trees, of about a foot in diameter, were carried one hundred and seventy-three feet distant; some small stones, about the bigness of walnuts, were carried with such velocity, that they stuck fast in a green tree that stood near the cavity; a large dry log, better than two feet in diameter, was carried up so far in the air, that, by the force of the fall, one end of it stuck so fast in the

ground, that it kept the other end up. The narrowest part of the breach is about thirty feet at the surface of the ground, and the bottom of the breach is crooking, winding much like the streaks of lightning."

The village of Birmingham is of decidedly recent creation for a Connecticut town, and was commenced in 1834. Bar

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ber, in his "Historical Collections of Connecticut," says of it: "There are at the present (July 1, 1836) about twenty dwelling-houses and three mercantile stores." The view, at this time published, of Birmingham in the same work, presents a great contrast with the Birmingham of 1857, which appears at the commencement of this article. The water which supplies the mills at this place is taken from the Naugatuck River, and is brought in a canal the distance of one and a half miles.

The sketch which I present of the public square, Birmingham, exhibits the west and a part of the north side of this inclosure. The church which appears upon the right is the Methodist. This church was organized in 1793 by Rev. Jesse Lee. It was originally located near the Derby Landing. The Congregational church, which appears upon the left of the engraving, was organized in 1846. The edifice occupying the center of the cut is the high school.

St. James's Church (Episcopal) is situated upon the east side of the public This church was organized presquare. vious to 1700, and is one of the oldest Episcopal organizations in the country. The present edifice is the fourth constructed by this society, and was built in 1841.

THE OLD MAN'S HOME.

strong contrast to the lines which must have been indented upon it by care and

WAS walking out on the evening of suffering, no less than the lapse of years.

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tention was arrested by a sigh from some observation which I addressed to him: one near me. I turned round, and saw a but it related to the lateness and inclemvenerable old man seated upon a fragment ency of the season, and I was at once of rock by the road-side. His hair was struck by the singularity of his reply. white as silver; his face deeply furrowed, "Yes, yes," he said musingly, "the winand yet pervaded by a general expression ter has indeed been very long and dreary; of childish simplicity, which formed a and yet it has been gladdened, from time

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to time, by a few glimpses of the coming | indeed, traveled a long and solitary jourspring."

I now observed him more closely. There was a strangeness in his dress which first excited my suspicion, and I fancied that I could detect a restlessness in his light blue eye which spoke of a mind that had gone astray. "Old man," I said, "you seem tired have you come from far ?" "Ah, woe is me," he replied, in the same melancholy tone as before; "I have,

ney; and at times I am weary, very weary; but my resting-place now must be near at hand."

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I now imagined that I had judged him hastily, and that the answers which I had ascribed to a wandering intellect proceeded in truth from depth of religious feeling. In order to ascertain this, I asked: "Have you been long a traveler ?"

"Four score and thirteen years," he replied; and observing my look of assumed wonder, he repeated a second time, more slowly and sadly than before, "Four score and thirteen years."

"The home," I said, "must be very far off that requires so long a journey."

"Nay, nay, kind sir, do not speak thus," he answered: "our home is never far off; and I might, perhaps, have arrived at it years and years ago. But often during the early spring I stopped to gather the flowers that grew beneath my feet; and once I laid me down and fell asleep upon the way. And so more than four score and thirteen years have been wanted to bring me to the home which many reach in a few days. Alas! all whom I love most dearly have long since passed me on the road, and I am now left to finish my journey alone."

During this reply, I had become altogether ashamed of my former suspicion, and I now looked into the old man's face with a feeling of reverence and love. The features were unchanged; but instead of the childish expression which I had before observed, I believed them to be brightened with the heavenliness of the second childhood, while the restlessness of the light blue eye only spoke to me of an imagination which loved to wander amid the treasures of the unseen world. I purposely, however, continued the conversation under the same metaphor as before. "You have not, then," I said, "been always a solitary traveler ?"

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'Ah, no," he replied: " for a few years a dear wife was walking step by step at my side; and there were little children, too, who were just beginning to follow us. And I was so happy then, that I sometimes forgot we were but travelers, and fancied that I had found a home. But my wife, sir, never forgot it. She would again and again remind me that we must so live together in this life, that in the world to come we might have life everlasting.' They are words that I scarcely regarded at the time, but I love to repeat them now. They speak to me of meeting her again at the end of our journey."

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"And have all your children left you?" I asked.

"All, all," he replied. "My wife took them with her when she went away. She stayed with me, sir, but seven years, and left me on the very day on which she came. It seems strange now that I could have lived with them day after day without a thought that they were so near their journey's end, while I should travel onward so many winters alone. It is now sixty years since they all went home, and have been waiting for me there. But, sir, I often think that the time, which has seemed so long and dreary to me, has passed away like a few short hours to them."

At this moment, the sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud, suddenly shone forth, and its rays were reflected by a path of gold in the silent waters. The old man pointed to it with a quiet smile : the change was in such harmony with his own thoughts, that I do not wonder at the metaphor it suggested to him. "There," said he, “is the blessing of the mourner! See! how it shines down from the heaven above, and gilds with its radiance the dreary sea of life."

"True," I replied; " and the sea of life would be no longer dreary, if it were not for the passing clouds which at times keep back from it the light of heaven." His immediate answer to this observation proved the image, which he had employed, to be one long familiar to his own mind. "There are, indeed, clouds," he said, "but they are never in heaven; they hover very near the earth; and it is only because our sight is so dim and indistinct that they seem to be in the sky."

A silence of some minutes followed this remark. I was, in truth, anxious that the old man should pursue the metaphor further. But the gleam of light passed away as the sun sunk behind the western hills. His feelings appeared to undergo a corresponding change, and he exclaimed, hastily, "The day is fast drawing to a close; and the night must be near at hand; I must hasten onward on my journey. Come, kind sir, and I will show you where my friends are waiting for me.

I was wondering whether he now spoke metaphorically or not, when my thoughts were suddenly turned into a new channel, and my former painful suspicions returned. As the old man leaned upon his staff, his

wrists became exposed to view, and I saw that they were marked with deep blue lines, which could only have been caused by the galling of a chain in former years.

The poor wanderer observed the look I gave them. A sudden flush of shame overspread his countenance, and he hurriedly drew down his garment to conceal them. It was, however, but a momentary impulse; he again exposed them to my view, and himself gazed sadly upon them as he said: "Why should I try to hide them, when they are left there to remind me constantly of my true condition? For in times past I have borne the pressure of more wearing bonds than those; and though I have been released from them, no one can tell how dark and deep is the stain that they have left upon my soul."

ing objects of sight and sense, he never failed to recognize the images of spiritual things.

We walked on together for a few minutes without speaking; but the silence was suddenly broken by the creaking of a cart-wheel, which grated harshly on my ear; and almost before I could look round, I heard a voice of rude triumph behind me, crying out: "There he is! there he is there goes the old boy! Stop him! stop him, sir! he is mad."

I have no heart to describe the scene that followed the poor wanderer shuffled forward, with a nervous, hurried step; but in a few seconds the cart was at his side; the driver immediately jumped out, and seizing him by the collar, with many a rude word and coarse jest, tried to force Again I was in doubt whether to inter- him to enter it. For a moment, surprise pret his words literally or not; but my and indignation deprived me of speech, for belief now was, that the old man almost I had begun to regard the old man with unconsciously used the language of alle- such a feeling of reverent love, that it algory. Long habit had so taught him to most seemed to me like a profanation of blend together the seen and the unseen holy ground. When, however, he turned world, that he could not separate them. his eyes toward me, with an imploring Life was to him a mirror, and in the pass-look, 1 recovered myself sufficiently to de

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mand by what authority he dared thus molest an inoffensive traveler on his journey. In my inmost heart I dreaded the answer I should probably receive; neither was my foreboding wrong; the man laughed rudely as he replied: "He has been mad, quite mad, for more than fifty years; he escaped this morning from the asylum, and one of the keepers has been with me all day long scouring the country in search of him."

It was in vain that I sought a pretext for disbelieving the truth of the story. I could not help feeling that it did but confirm a suspicion which, in spite of myself, had kept crossing my own mind: for the bright coloring which was shed by faith on the thoughts and words of the old man was not alone a sufficient evidence that they were under the guidance of reason. Yet, of one thing, at least, I felt sure, that, whatever were the state of his intellect, it could be no imaginary cause that now so strongly moved him. My heart bled for him as I listened to the pathetic earnestness with which he implored the protection that I was unable to afford. He even forgot to use the language of metaphor in the agony of his grief. "Indeed, indeed, sir," he said, "they call me mad, but do not believe them, for I am not mad now. There, there," he added, pointing toward the church," my wife and children are waiting for me. It was on this very day that they went away, and we have now been parted sixty years. I have traveled very far to join them once again before I die. O, have pity upon me! I only ask for one little half hour, that I may go in peace to the end of my journey."

Large drops of moisture trembled on his forehead as he uttered these words; his whole face became convulsed with emotion, and he clung with such intensity to my garment, that his rude assailant tried in vain to unloose his grasp. The man himself was evidently frightened by the agitation which his own violence had caused, and appeared doubtful how to proceed, when the scene was fortunately interrupted by the arrival of his companion.

He was the keeper who had been sent from the asylum. His look and manner afforded a striking contrast to those of the first comer, who proved to be merely the owner of the vehicle, which had been hired for the occasion. Immediately on his arrival, he reprimanded him for his rude

treatment of the old man, and insisted on his returning to the cart, and desisting from all further interference. My hopes were greatly raised by this, and I flattered myself 1 should now have little difficulty in obtaining for the poor wanderer the indulgence which he sought. But I soon found my mistake, and, under the irritated feelings of the moment, almost preferred the rude conduct of the first comer to the quiet determination with which his companion listened to my request.

He merely smiled at the account I gave of my own interview with the old man; and when I suggested that it contained no evidence of insanity, shook his head and replied: "You do not know poor Robin. His notions about home are the peculiar feature of his madness; but you are not the first person that has been deceived by them."

He spoke in a low tone, as though he was anxious not to be overheard. But the precaution seemed unnecessary; for, though the old man had mechanically retained his grasp on my garments, he was now looking eagerly toward the village. church, and I could see, from the expression of his countenance, that his thoughts had passed away from the scene around him.

When I found my arguments of no avail, I changed my ground, and besought as a favor that he would make the trial of letting the old man proceed to the end of his journey, and trust to his promise to return quietly from thence. "Sir," he replied, in a louder voice, "I should have no more hesitation in trusting the word of poor Robin than your own. He never deceived me; and, under ordinary cir cumstances, I would at once grant his request; but the hour is late, and, as it is, the night will close in upon us before we can get back. The responsibility will rest upon me, if mischief should arise from any additional delay. I am sure Robin himself would not desire it." As he said this, he turned toward the old man; but his countenance was unchanged, his eye still fixed upon the church, and he either had not heard the words at all, or they had failed to convey any distinct impression to his mind.

After a pause, I again renewed my entreaties, urging that it would at least be a better plan than having recourse to violence, which must eventually produce a

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