My mother, Martha Bulloch, was a sweet, gracious, beautiful Southern woman, a delightful companion and beloved by everybody.  She was entirely “unreconstructed” to the day of her death.  Her mother, my grandmother, one of the dearest of old ladies, lived with us, and was distinctly overindulgent to us children, being quite unable to harden her heart towards us even when the occasion demanded it.  Towards the close of the Civil War, although a very small boy, I grew to have a partial but alert understanding of the fact that the family were not one in their views about that conflict, my father being a strong Lincoln Republican; and once, when I felt that I had been wronged by maternal discipline during the day, I attempted a partial vengeance by praying with loud fervor for the success of the Union arms, when we all came to say our prayers before my mother in the evening.  She was not only a most devoted mother, but was also blessed with a strong sense of humor, and she was too much amused to punish me; but I was warned not to repeat the offense, under penalty of my father’s being informed—­he being the dispenser of serious punishment.  Morning prayers were with my father.  We used to stand at the foot of the stairs, and when father came down we called out, “I speak for you and the cubby-hole too!” There were three of us young children, and we used to sit with father on the sofa while he conducted morning prayers.  The place between father and the arm of the sofa we called the “cubby-hole.”  The child who got that place we regarded as especially favored both in comfort and somehow or other in rank and title.  The two who were left to sit on the much wider expanse of sofa on the other side of father were outsiders for the time being.

My aunt Anna, my mother’s sister, lived with us.  She was as devoted to us children as was my mother herself, and we were equally devoted to her in return.  She taught us our lessons while we were little.  She and my mother used to entertain us by the hour with tales of life on the Georgia plantations; of hunting fox, deer, and wildcat; of the long-tailed driving horses, Boone and Crockett, and of the riding horses, one of which was named Buena Vista in a fit of patriotic exaltation during the Mexican War; and of the queer goings-on in the Negro quarters.  She knew all the “Br’er Rabbit” stories, and I was brought up on them.  One of my uncles, Robert Roosevelt, was much struck with them, and took them down from her dictation, publishing them in Harper’s, where they fell flat.  This was a good many years before a genius arose who in “Uncle Remus” made the stories immortal.

My mother’s two brothers, James Dunwoodie Bulloch and Irvine Bulloch, came to visit us shortly after the close of the war.  Both came under assumed names, as they were among the Confederates who were at that time exempted from the amnesty.  “Uncle Jimmy” Bulloch was a dear old retired sea-captain, utterly unable to “get on” in the worldly sense of that phrase, as valiant and simple and upright a soul as ever lived, a veritable Colonel Newcome.  He was an Admiral in the Confederate navy, and was the builder of the famous Confederate war vessel Alabama.  My uncle Irvine Bulloch was a midshipman on the Alabama, and fired the last gun discharged from her batteries in the fight with the Kearsarge.  Both of these uncles lived in Liverpool after the war.