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I am now in my seventy-ninth year, and have been a pretty close observer of changes and events that have taken place during my own recollection. And, if anything, a closer observer of what my parents and grandparents told me when I was young, as I was always tought to confide in all they said.

There was one of my grandfathers I never saw. He was killed or wounded unto death in the Revolutionary War. My mother and grandmother often told me what a great, patriotic grandfather I had; of this I will have more to say hereafter. Of course, all sons of Revolutionary sires have a lasting grudge of King George the Third, and a more bitter grudge against the Tories.

I will first give a history of the Barlow side of the house, as handed down from my great-grandfather Barlow. But I have no exact dates. I only know they came from Scotland long before the Revolution and settled in old Virginia. They always claimed that we had Bruce and Wallace blood in our veins.

In those days the crown appointed all the magistrates, who domineered over the people as they saw best. They did not consider the common people had any right that they were bound to respect.

One day great-grandfather Barlow was going to mill with a heavy load of grain on a sled, snow about a foot deep outside of the traveled track. The royal magistrate, with a fine cutter, prancing steeds and jingling bells, came, dashing up in front of the old farmer. With a wave of his hand to turn out of the beaten track, which grandfather failed to recognize, the result was disastrous. The magistrate, cutter and all went over into the gutter. The old gent stopped his big team to assist his royal highness in getting out of his self-made unpleasantness. But instead of thanking the old gent for his kindness, he sprang to his feet, drew his sword and went for the old man. But