Back to the Old Home

The Daily Register, January 6, 1906

After almost thirty years of wandering and absence, I've been back to the old home in Barlow, Ohio.

In Chicago I met and recognized Mr. Peter McLaren. We had a long "crack," lasting into the wee smaw hours a' yont the twial.

Meeting an old and dear friend in Marietta, was so busily occupied in conversation that I forgot to look out of the car window until we reached Fleming, and then I felt at home. Every house and home and hill and rock and road an stream seemed familiar and unchanged. I saw the hills I'd traversed as a boy with a gun in pursuit of the game that always escaped; the hills that I'd climbed when a schoolboy and played hooky, we called it in those days going to the winter-green hill. I looked down the stream on whose banks I sat and fished many a summer day; I saw the swimming pools, the joyous meeting place of us boys on summer evenings long ago. And then Vincent - I hardly recognized it. It has grown and is a beautiful village of comfortable, commodious and handsome homes.

The old Vincent homestead has passed to strangers and the family scattered. Only one of the name, Mr. Caleb Vincent, now resides in the village. At Barlow I missed the genial and hearty welcome of Capt. J. W Merrill. In memory I went back to the war time and recalled the kindness and attention show to a soldier brother, and the thoughtfulness and sympathy for the friends at home. I recalled, too, my first visit to the Barlow House, the morning after the battle of Chickamaugua. It was the saddest duty of my life to carry the message to the wife and mother that the son was wounded and a prisoner. But the next morning I carried another message that Capt. Merrill was exchanged and was coming home. And so in this home I have seen the pendulum swing, in twenty-four hours, from anguish to joy.  Uncle Jim and Aunt Beck are gone, but they live in memory for the many kind deeds done. 

My people were Scotch, and my visit to my kinsfolk was necessarily among the Scotch people. It began with Mr. Thomas Drain's and extended to Mrs. Duncan Drain's. Only a few of the old Scotch are now living - Uncle James McKay, ninety past, Mrs. Daniel Drain, eighty-seven past, Mrs. David Furguson, eighty-five past. They enjoy the present and recall the past. We think of them as in the twilight of life. But they are enjoying the present and waiting for the coming of the eternal morning. It is worth a trip across a continent to see the closing of a busy and a happy career.

A few others of the younger Scotch, of seventy to eighty, are still in their old homes near Barlow. I visited in twenty-five or thirty different homes, and if any of the sons or daughters in all these thirty years have failed to follow in the footsteps of their fathers, it was never mentioned. The highest tribute that Tennyson could pay to the dead prince was: "He spake no evil, no, nor listened to it." And the tribute that could adorn the character of a king must necessarily add luster to the character of the people.

It was quite a change, coming from a section where every home and farm is for sale. These old farms and homes have been occupied by the same families for sixty or seventy years; seemed strange. In some of the homes I've seen four generations of the same name; in others three and two.

What wonderful memories cluster around these old homes. In one I could see the old gray-haired sire sitting by the fireside after his first born son had been killed in battle, and his second son had gone to the front. I saw him again after his third and last son had been sent to the front. I could recall the parties, the pleasures and the hospitalities of the home. These old rooms and homes bring back the pleasures and happiness of long ago, as well as the sorrows and sadness.

The old father died; the son took his place in the home, in the church, in society.

I have never seen more perfect satisfaction and contentment with their lot in life than here in Barlow and adjoining neighborhood. I had only two weeks to spend, and two weeks were entirely too short. My last day I spent with my aunt, Mrs. Margaret Gordon, and Capt. Samuel Harvey spent the day with us at the Gordon home. It was only two weeks, but my cup of pleasure ran over and my only regret when I came to bid adieu was that my time was too short.

M.