a bill for such an entertainment of the French Ambassador and the President of the United States!  Falstaff’s views of the proper proportion between sack and bread are borne out by the proportion between the number of bowls of punch and bottles of port, Madeira, and beer consumed, and the “coffee for eight gentlemen”—­apparently the only ones who lasted through to that stage of the dinner.  Especially admirable is the nonchalant manner in which, obviously as a result of the drinking of said bottles of wine and bowls of punch, it is recorded that eight cut-glass decanters and sixty wine-glasses were broken.

During the Revolution some of my forefathers, North and South, served respectably, but without distinction, in the army, and others rendered similar service in the Continental Congress or in various local legislatures.  By that time those who dwelt in the North were for the most part merchants, and those who dwelt in the South, planters.

My mother’s people were predominantly of Scotch, but also of Huguenot and English, descent.  She was a Georgian, her people having come to Georgia from South Carolina before the Revolution.  The original Bulloch was a lad from near Glasgow, who came hither a couple of centuries ago, just as hundreds of thousands of needy, enterprising Scotchmen have gone to the four quarters of the globe in the intervening two hundred years.  My mother’s great-grandfather, Archibald Bulloch, was the first Revolutionary “President” of Georgia.  My grandfather, her father, spent the winters in Savannah and the summers at Roswell, in the Georgia uplands near Atlanta, finally making Roswell his permanent home.  He used to travel thither with his family and their belongings in his own carriage, followed by a baggage wagon.  I never saw Roswell until I was President, but my mother told me so much about the place that when I did see it I felt as if I already knew every nook and corner of it, and as if it were haunted by the ghosts of all the men and women who had lived there.  I do not mean merely my own family, I mean the slaves.  My mother and her sister, my aunt, used to tell us children all kinds of stories about the slaves.  One of the most fascinating referred to a very old darky called Bear Bob, because in the early days of settlement he had been partially scalped by a black bear.  Then there was Mom’ Grace, who was for a time my mother’s nurse, and whom I had supposed to be dead, but who greeted me when I did come to Roswell, very respectable, and apparently with years of life before her.  The two chief personages of the drama that used to be repeated to us were Daddy Luke, the Negro overseer, and his wife, Mom’ Charlotte.  I never saw either Daddy Luke or Mom’ Charlotte, but I inherited the care of them when my mother died.  After the close of the war they resolutely refused to be emancipated or leave the place.  The only demand they made upon us was enough money annually to get a new “critter,” that is, a mule.  With a certain lack of ingenuity the mule was reported each Christmas as having passed away, or at least as having become so infirm as to necessitate a successor—­a solemn fiction which neither deceived nor was intended to deceive, but which furnished a gauge for the size of the Christmas gift.