While genealogical tables are of interest chiefly to the families and individuals whose names are therein preserved, I still deem it not amiss to insert here a brief account of my ancestry. Among the emigrants from England to the New World in 1638, came John Foulsham, then twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, and his wife, to whom he had been married about a year and a half. They came from Hingham, England, to Hingham, Mass., with a colony that probably named the settlement in loving remembrance of the town they had left. They came on account of certain ecclesiastical troubles; their rector, with whom they sympathized, having torn down the altar rails and leveled the altar, an act of irreverence that called down upon them the wrath of their superior, Bishop Wren, and resulted in rector and people selling out their real estate at half its value and emigrating to America. John received a grant of land consisting of four acres and built himself a house, the frame being constructed of sawed oak timber. This house, built in 1640, stood until 1875, two hundred and thirty-five years, when it was taken down and manufactured into canes and chairs, which were distributed as relics to the American descendants of the family. The family, however, had increased so greatly that the supply was not equal to the demand.

The wife of John Foulsham was Mary Gilman. From this couple the American Folsoms and their allies from marriages with the female descendants of the family have sprung. The ancestors of John Foulsham may be traced backward a period of near six hundred years, and many of the family have honorable mention in English history. The earliest mention is concerning John Foulsham of Foulsham, prior of a Carmelite monastery in Norwich, and "prÆses provincialis" of all England. This Foulsham is spoken of in Bayle's catalogue of eminent worthies as "no mean proficient in controversial theology, knowing how, by means of syllogystic tricks, to turn white into black and men into donkeys." He died in the great plague at Norwich in 1348.

A certain John de Foulsham is spoken of in Blomefield's History of Norfolk as an "eloquent, unflinching opponent of the corruptions of the times." It is possible that this may be the Carmelite prior above mentioned, though the prefix de leaves the matter somewhat in doubt.

As to the original derivation of the family name, Hon. George Folsom, of Philadelphia, in one of the manuscripts left by him, says: "It arose upon the adoption of surnames in England, from the town of Foulsham, a village in the county of Norfolk, six or eight miles north of Hingham, in which county the family was seated for many centuries, possessing estates in fifteen different places." Thus John de, or John of Foulsham, became John Foulsham.

The orthography and pronunciation of the name have varied in the family itself, as well as among those writing and pronouncing it. The first Anglo-American bearing the name spelled it "Foulsham." His son, Deacon John, spelled it "Fullsam" in 1709, and it is signed "Foullsam" in his last will—1715. In one instance, in the Hingham town records, it is spelled "Fulsham," but always afterward, "Foulsham." In the Exeter records it is written uniformly "Folsom" with but one exception, when it is written by the town clerk "Foulshame." In the records of the first parish, Haverhill, Massachusetts, it is written "Foulsham," "Foulsam," "Folsham" and "Fulsom." Originally it was doubtless spelled "Foulshame," its etymological significance being the fowls' home, a breeding place or mart. It was probably at first written with a hyphen, as Fouls-hame, but the final syllable was eventually shortened. Everywhere it is now written Folsom by those having the name, and is pronounced like wholesome.

The characteristics of the family have been quite uniform. Far as known they were a religious family, and prominent as such in both Catholic and Protestant circles, with a strong disposition toward dissent from the established order of things. Thus John de Foulsham wrote a treatise quite at variance with the doctrines of the church, advocating the marriage of priests. John Foulsham, the Anglo-American, left England on account of his dissent, preferring a home in the wilderness with freedom to worship God, to dwelling under the rule of a haughty and tyrannical bishop. Many of the family espoused the doctrines of Whitfield. Many of them became Baptists, becoming such at a time when the Baptists were most unpopular, and afterward becoming Free Will Baptists, in which communion more of the family may to-day be found than in any other.

The occupations of the family were mostly, in the early days, mechanical. Many were joiners and millwrights. The children and grandchildren were farmers, landholders and lumbermen. Of the many who removed to Maine, after the Revolution, most engaged in lumbering, but turned their attention also to milling and storekeeping.

The family have also shown a military tendency, and during the various wars visited upon the country since the early colonial times, this family has borne its full share of the dangers, toils and expense.

My father, Jeremiah Folsom, was born in Tamworth, New Hampshire, Sept. 16, 1780, and was married to Octavia Howe, April 5, 1805. My mother was born in Machias, Maine, Oct. 12, 1786. My father was a prominent business man, and was engaged in shipping and mercantile pursuits, he owning vessels that plied from St. Johns to Machias and other American ports. To facilitate his business, St. Johns was his home four years, during which time he was associated with William Henry Carman. This temporary residence and business association account for my being born on British soil, and for the names by which I was christened. According to the record in the old family Bible, I was born at St. Johns, New Brunswick, June 22, 1817. When I was six months old my parents moved to Bangor, Maine, thence to Foxcroft, Maine, thence to Ascot, Lower Canada.

When I was five years old my parents moved to Tamworth, New Hampshire. Young as I was, I am still able to recall events that occurred while I lived in Canada. I remember falling into a well and being badly bruised. I remember also an adventure with a bear. My parents had gone to church, leaving me at home, greatly against my will. I attempted to follow, but missed the road and wandered off into a wood, perhaps three miles away. When my parents returned they were much alarmed, and parties immediately went in pursuit. When I knew I was lost I set up a vigorous screaming, which had the effect of attracting attention from two very different parties. The first was a huge bear in quest of food, and doubtless delighted at the prospect before him. The second was one of the rescuing parties in quest of the lost boy. Both simultaneously approached the screaming youngster and Bruin fought stubbornly for his prey, but was vanquished by the clubs of my rescuers, and I was carried home in triumph. I do not clearly recall all the incidents of this scene, and, strangely enough, do not remember seeing the bear. Perhaps the terror of being lost drove out every other impression. An excuse for the narration of this apparently trifling incident may be found in the fact that but for the prompt arrival of the rescuing party, this history would never have been written.

When I was ten years of age my parents removed to Bloomfield, Maine. While in Tamworth I had excellent opportunities of attending school, which I improved to the utmost. After leaving Tamworth my school privileges were well nigh ended, as I never received from that time more than six months' schooling. My father followed lumbering on the Kennebec river. During the first winter in Maine, he took me to the logging camp as camp boy. During the second winter he hired me to Matthew and Lewis Dunbar as a cook for their wood camp. I cooked for six men and received five dollars a month. I was used very kindly by the Dunbars, but that winter in the woods seemed a long, long winter. The only book in camp was the Bible. There were, however, newspapers and playing cards. In the spring my father used the fifteen dollars received for my three months' work to purchase a cow. I served the Dunbars the third winter, as cook, for six dollars a month, and worked the ensuing summer on farms at about twenty-five cents per day. During the fourth winter I worked for the Dunbars and Timothy Snow at seven dollars per month, and the summer following worked on a farm for Benjamin Cayford at seven dollars. Cayford was a merciless tyrant, and sometimes compelled his men to work in the field till nine o'clock at night. These details of wages paid and work done, uninteresting in themselves, serve to show the value of a boy's work (I was not yet fifteen) and what was expected of the average boy, for mine was no exceptional case nor was my father more exacting than others in his station in life. He was in poor health, and had a large family of boys. We were eight in number, and of these I was one of the most robust and able to assist in the support of the family.

This year I persuaded my father to sell me my time, which amounted to five years, which he reluctantly did, accepting two hundred and fifty dollars as an equivalent. It was my ambition to go West. Horace Greeley had not uttered the talismanic words, "Go West, young man," but I believed that by going West I would be better able to advance my own interests and assist my parents. My father signed the necessary paper relinquishing my time, which was printed in the Skowhegan Clarion. From this time until I was nineteen years old I worked on the river and on farms, worked continuously and beyond my strength. I worked another summer for Cayford, but have no pleasant recollections of him, for on his farm I was sadly overworked, being often called to work before sunrise and kept at work after sunset. I worked two winters cooking in the woods for Capt. Asa Steward, of Bloomfield, one of the best men I ever served, a kind hearted, honest Christian. He gave me good counsel and good wages besides. In the fall of 1835 I went into the woods to work for Capt. Eb. Snow, of Madison. Like Cayford, he was a merciless tyrant and abusive to his men. I left his camp before my engagement closed, not being able to endure his abuse longer. This is the only time in which I failed to keep a labor engagement. I finished the winter with Capt. Asa Steward, but my eyes became so inflamed from the smoke of the camp that I was obliged to abandon cooking.

During this winter occurred an incident that came near having a serious and even fatal termination. There were three of us, Simeon Goodrich, Jimmie Able and myself, who went down the Kennebec to the Forks, a distance of twelve miles from camp. A deep, damp snow had fallen the night previous, and through this snow, reaching above our knees, we trudged wearily till Able gave out. We carried him a short distance, but becoming exhausted ourselves, laid him down in the snow. To remain with him would be to imperil the lives of all; by hurrying on we might be able to send a party to bring him in. We carefully made for him a bed of fir boughs and placed loose garments over him and under him, and as he was sick, weak and faint, gave him a draught of liquid opodeldoc, and leaving the bottle with him, hurried on. We traveled the last mile through an opening. Snow drifted deeply. We dragged our bodies through the drifts in the direction of a glimmering light, which proved to be Sturgis' hotel, which we reached at 11 o'clock p. m. A team was sent back immediately for the lost Able by a road of which we knew nothing. The rescuing party met him trudging along with all his baggage. The opodeldoc had revived him, and he had traveled a full mile when he met the rescuing party. At two o'clock the team returned bringing the lost wayfarer.

Another adventure terminated more disastrously than this. In the spring of 1835 I was employed in taking logs across Moosehead lake. The logs were in booms, and were moved by a capstan and rope. This was before the days of steamboats, and the moving of the booms was no light task. On this occasion a gale of wind struck us and drifted us across the lake. We threw out an anchor, hoping to check the course of the boom and swing it into Cowan's bay. In one of our throws the anchor tripped, or caught fast, and suddenly tightened the line. Our whole crew were in an instant hurled headlong. Some were thrown into the water. One man (Butler) had his ribs broken. All were more or less injured. The capstan went overboard. The old boom swung on and on, and, passing Spencer's bay, broke and went to pieces on the shore. The logs were with great difficulty regathered, but were finally brought to the outlet of the lake July 4th, the last raft of the season.

After river driving in the spring of 1835, I went to the Penobscot river and found employment at twenty dollars a month at East Great Works, building a dam. John Mills, our superintendent, was a good man. There was a lyceum here, the first I ever attended. In December I returned to the Kennebec, and in the spring of 1836 went to Dead river to drive, but an attack of the measles and general ill health, with symptoms of pulmonary derangement, compelled me to abandon the work. I had lived nine years on the Kennebec, years of hard labor and exertion beyond my strength, and in that time had earned enough to pay my father two hundred and fifty dollars. I had been able to purchase a small library, and had two hundred dollars in cash to defray my expenses to the West.

Reminiscences.—He that leaves the home of his youth for a strange land carries with him memories, pleasant to recall, of scenes and incidents, the influence of which he feels to the latest hour of life. There are some things he can not forget. They may not be an essential part of his own life history, but still they have found a place in his mind and seem a part of himself, and he recurs to them again and again with ever increasing delight. There are other things, may be, not so pleasant to dwell upon, which still have a place in his memory and may be profitably recalled. No one who has ever lived in Maine can forget its dark pine forests, its rugged hills, its rushing streams, cold and clear as crystal, its broad lakes, the abundant game of its forests and the fish in its waters. The Minnesota and Wisconsin pioneers, who with the author of this book claim Maine as an early home, will not object to the insertion in this chapter of a few of these reminiscences.

Moosehead Lake.—My first visit to Moosehead lake was in the early winter of 1834. At that time it was still in the wilderness, only two settlers having found their way to its shores. We were going with a six ox team to a camp on the Brasua and our road led us across the frozen lake. Emerging from a beech and maple grove on the margin near Haskell's, our sled plunged downward, and in a moment we found ourselves on the gray ice of the lake, with a wonderful panorama spread out before us. The distant islands and the shores, hilly and mountainous, stood out plainly between the winter sky and the ice covered lake. The mirage added its finishing touches to the picture, increasing the brightness and apparent size of distant objects, or lending them brilliant hues, the whole scene sparkling in the frosty sunlit air, making a vision of beauty that could not fade. On we trudged over the ice, the sled creaking, the ice emitting a roaring sound, not unlike the discharge of a park of artillery, sounds produced by the expansion of the ice. We trudged on past islands and craggy, rock-bound shores, passed Burnt Jacket, Squaw and Moxey mountains in the east, Lily and Spencer bays at the southeast, Misery and other mountains in the west, while far away to the north of east towered white old Katahdin. Before us loomed up the flint rock Kinneo, its perpendicular face fronting west, on the lake; at the base a beautiful maple interval extending toward Spencer bay.

The following spring our boom lay wind-bound at the base of Kinneo, and we seized the opportunity of climbing the vast pile of flinty rocks composing it, and obtained thence a view of unparalleled beauty, including the broad, bright lake, fairy islands, mountains and hills and vast stretches of pine forests. The tourist might seek far and wide, vainly, for a landscape rivaling this.

Moose Hunting.—The lake and surrounding country offer unrivaled attractions to the sportsman. The lake abounds in fish, of which the lake trout is the most abundant in number and delicious in flavor. Specimens are frequently taken weighing from ten to fifteen pounds. The forests at that time abounded in wild animals, chief of which was the moose, the largest and the homeliest of the deer family. With his long, narrow head, small eyes, donkey-like ears, pendant lips, the upper one curling like a small proboscis, with his high shoulders and giraffe-like hips, with his short, round body, long and clumsy legs, he is as distinguished for his want of grace and comeliness as the red deer is for its presence. No animal is better adapted for its own home and mode of life. Their heavy coat of hair adapts them to high latitudes. With their curved upper lip they take hold of the branches of the trees, and with their strong teeth and paws they are able to peel off the tender bark of saplings and small trees. The moose, when attacked, is fierce, resolute, defiant, and defends himself in a masterly manner, striking with his fore legs with such precision that the hunter is obliged to keep at a respectful distance. The male moose wears a remarkable pair of horns of annual growth, to which each year a prong is added. The home of the moose is the northern part of the North Temperate Zone.

Moose hunting is a healthy though laborious pastime. The hunter must be an expert, and it requires years of practice to become skillful. He must build his camp in the wilderness, packing thither his food, blankets, camp utensils and gun. With his pack of dogs he starts out in search of a moose yard. This is generally in some well timbered district. The snow in winter is generally from three to six feet deep, but the moose has broken paths through this to facilitate his movements through the forest, and here he roams about in fancied security, browsing on the young shrubs, but the hunter finds his hiding place. In such case he conceals himself in the snow near one of these paths and waits patiently till the moose passes, when he fires upon him. If the moose is killed at once the hunter waits patiently in his hiding place till another and another comes up to share a like fate. If the moose is only wounded he starts off as rapidly through the snow as his long legs will carry him, pursued by the hunter and his dogs. The hunter has all the advantages of the position, being mounted on snowshoes, thus being able to move with comparative swiftness, while the moose plunges heavily through the snow, and at last, weakened by loss of blood, he is overtaken and easily killed.

Mount Bigelow.—This is a noble, grand, historical mountain, situated on the south side of Dead river, in Franklin county. For years it had been my strong desire to make the ascent, and in May, 1833, the desire was gratified. With six others, I left camp, and by evening reached Green's hotel, where we obtained lodgings for the evening. At early dawn, having supplied ourselves with lunch, tin cup and hatchet, we began the ascent on the northeast side. We soon passed the thrifty timber and aided our ascent of the craggy sides of the mountain by clinging to the shrubs that found roothold in the crevices of the rocks. It may not be amiss to say that we rested, that we rested frequently, for mountain climbing is no light work for those unaccustomed to it. While toiling wearily upward we found ourselves enveloped in mist, or a cloud, from which we soon emerged to find the heavens above us clear and bright, while leaden clouds shut out the landscape below. At twelve o'clock, noon, we were on the summit. By this time the clouds had been dispersed. The air was clear and cold and beneath us lay, as in a beautiful panorama, the lands and lakes of Maine. There are two peaks, about half a mile apart, between which is a valley and a small lake. From the highest of these peaks the view was magnificent. In the far north we imagined we saw Canada. The vast, northern expanse was all unoccupied save by a few farms at the foot of the mountain, and by a few camps of lumbermen, hunters and trappers. Looking to the northeast, we saw in the blue distance, glittering with snow drifts, Mount Katahdin. A little north of the divide line to Katahdin lay Moosehead lake, the largest, most beautiful lake in Maine.

At this season of the year the snow had disappeared from the valleys and hills, but the summits of the mountains were still white. In all directions the scene was grand and inspiring. We could trace the Kennebec river in its windings to the sea and fancied we could see in the dim distance the blue Atlantic. To the southwest mountains seemed piled on mountains, while here and there in intermediate vales bright lakes reflected the blue of the upper deep. In this direction there were farms, but they looked like mere dots on the face of the earth. Lake Umbagog lay coiled in the shade of distant mountains in the southwest. We fancied that we could see the ragged crest of the white mountain still further beyond. The scene had also its historical associations. Along the base of this mountain, on the northwestern side, ere his name had been sullied by the foulest treason in our country's history, Benedict Arnold bravely led the Colonial troops in the campaign against Canada. With him, as an aid, was Col. Bigelow, whose name is given to the mountain. The gallant little army halted on the banks of Dead river at the base of the mountain, and made their camp. While the army was resting at this camp Lieut. Col. Bigelow ascended the mountain and planted his country's flag upon the highest peak, doubtless the first white man who made the ascent, and the mountain is his monument to-day. Around the site of the camp was planted the colony of Flagstaff.

While we were gazing on the magnificent scene, musing upon its varied beauties and recalling its historical associations, the sun set, and reluctantly we set out on our return, a descent the more perilous because it was growing dark. Extreme caution was necessary; nevertheless we made good headway, as we found ourselves sometimes sliding and even rolling down the path that we had ascended with so much difficulty in the forenoon. It was long after nightfall that, tired and hungry, we reached Wyman's hotel on the banks of Dead river.

Lumbering in Maine.—The practical lumberman did not usually start his teams for the pineries until snowfall and the freezing of the lakes and rivers. The first thing was to select a place for operations. This was done in the open season. When the winter had fairly set in the lumberman, with his ox teams, generally six oxen to a sled, the sleds laden with camp plunder, would start for the pineries. The slow ox teams would consume many days making the journey. The crew of men employed for the winter generally met the teams in camp. The snow would be cleared away for the camp, and a fire built. The cook would prepare a supper of fried pork, fritters or pancakes, tea, syrup and New England apple sauce, the crew meanwhile cutting boughs, wood, etc., and preparing for permanent camp. Supper over, the cattle were tied to trees and fed. Water was secured for evening use only. A glowing fire would be kept up, around which the crew would gather to spend the evening in talking over the adventures of the day, discussing plans for the morrow or singing camp songs. Thus the evening would pass merrily and swiftly. At the hour for retiring parties of two would spread their blankets on a couch of fir or cedar boughs, and lie down to rest. Next morning the cook would rise at four o'clock to prepare breakfast, which over, as soon as it was light enough the crew would commence the work of the day. Every man goes to his assigned duties, the boss in charge having the general oversight.

The life of a lumberman is one of exposure to the elements, yet it is not necessarily unfriendly to the development of character. With a well ordered camp and gentlemanly crew the winter may pass away pleasantly, and the young man engaged in the comparatively hard toil of the camp, may, with books and papers and cheerful converse with the more thoughtful of his elders, improve the long evenings spent around the camp fire. Many a Maine boy has received here the greater part of his training for the duties of after life.

Sunday was usually occupied in reading, singing, and doing some of the lighter work of camp, such as repairing sleds, shoeing oxen and making axe helves or visiting neighboring camps. It was a day of rest only so far as the heavier work of the camp was suspended. Sanctuary privileges there were none. The work would often close in the sunny days of March. The men would mostly depart for home. A few would remain to drive the logs with the first water from the melting of the snows late in April.

Driving logs in the rapid waters of Maine is hazardous work. Scarcely a day passes without imminent risk to life and limb of the hardy and venturesome men engaged in the work of breaking log landings and jams, and running boats. Men are exposed to wet and cold from dawn till dark. This work requires active and vigorous men, constitutionally fitted and carefully trained to the work. They are usually sociable, lively and wide awake, these qualities enabling them to endure, and even to enjoy, the life of hardship which they lead, and to which they become so accustomed that they are unwilling to leave it until worn out by its inevitable hardship.