A Bodwell family story · Wales, London and New England · 1538–today

A Family of Genealogists

With thanks to everyone, across four centuries, who wrote our story down, kept it safe, and pieced it back together

In January 1654 a parish clerk at St Botolph Aldgate dipped his pen and wrote one line about a baby from Houndsditch: "Henry Bodwell son to Henry Bodwell & Mary his wife." He was doing his job, nothing more. He could not have imagined that three hundred and seventy years later that line would be read on a screen by the baby's descendants, and that it would help answer a question the family had been asking for generations: who was Henry before the ship?

Every story on this site rests on moments like that one. A clerk wrote a name. A widow made a will. A town recorder took a penny for noting a birth. A schoolteacher in Andover copied old records into a notebook. A college student who hoped to be a writer travelled to Massachusetts and Maine to find his family's roots, then went to war and never came home. A cousin wrote a letter asking whether anyone knew which regiment a soldier had served in. A couple from New Hampshire stood in a Welsh church and photographed a carved stone. None of them could finish the job. Each passed something on to the next.

That is what this page is about. Genealogy is never the work of one person. It is a relay, run by a team whose members mostly never meet, working decades or even centuries apart, each building on what the others left behind. In that sense the Bodwells have been a family of genealogists for a very long time. This page is our thanks to them.

Before there were records remembering by heart

The oldest kind of genealogy was spoken, not written. In early Wales, knowing your pedigree was a matter of law and honour: land, status and kinship all depended on it. Bards and pedigree-keepers learned the descents of the great families by heart and recited them, generation by generation. When those pedigrees were finally written down, from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries on, they included the lists of the "Fifteen Noble Tribes of Gwynedd" that give the Bodvels their descent from Collwyn ap Tangno and their black-and-silver arms.

The forty-eight-generation line of descent in the family papers comes out of that tradition. Its early names are legend, but it is still a kind of record: proof of how badly a family wanted to know where it came from, and of the people who kept that knowledge alive long before anyone could check it.

The first true family historian in our story is a Welshman. Around 1600, Sir John Wynn of Gwydir wrote a history of his own family and its neighbours. It is from him that we have the tale of John Wyn ap Hugh of Bodvel, unhorsed and wounded, holding up "the great standard of England" at Dussindale in 1549. Whether or not every word is true, someone had to write it down. He did.

The record keepers 1538 onward

Most of the people who made this history possible were not historians at all. They were clerks, and they kept records because the law told them to.

5 September 1538

Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII's chief minister, orders every parish in England and Wales to keep a register of baptisms, marriages and burials. Almost every English record on this site exists because of that order.

1553

A royal clerk enrols the grant of Bardsey Island to "John Wyn ap Hugh of Bodwell" in the Patent Rolls, spelling our name the way we spell it now.

1597

The Church orders registers to be copied onto durable parchment, with a yearly copy sent to the bishop. That is why so many London registers from the 1600s survive in such good condition.

1639

The Massachusetts Bay General Court orders every town to keep a record of "the days of every marriage, birth and death of every person within this jurisdiction," along with wills and inventories. The fee was a penny a birth and a penny a death. New England records begin here: those of Newbury, Andover, Haverhill and Methuen are all part of it.

1649–1663

London clerks record a marriage in Southwark, a birth in Aldgate, a burial in Westminster and a remarriage at London Wall. Clerks at the Prerogative Court of Canterbury copy every proved will into great register books, including the one in which Jane Newell leaves "Mary Bodwell twenty shillings."

1653

Under the Commonwealth, each parish elects a "Parish Register" to record births rather than christenings. The clerk at St Botolph heads his page "Borne & Baptized," and writes in Henry.

1678–1745

In Essex County, clerks record Henry's age at the Newbury oath, his marriage to Bethia Emery, the births of his thirteen children, and finally his death "in his 94th year." His will is proved at Ipswich and copied into the county probate books.

We don't know the names of most of these clerks. They wrote in a hurry, sometimes badly, and they got things wrong. Without them, though, we would have nothing but stories. Every "probable" on this site, every name confirmed and every legend tested, comes back to someone in a cold vestry or a town house picking up a pen.

The great age of family history 1840s–1920s

In the nineteenth century Americans fell in love with their own past. The New England Historic Genealogical Society was founded in Boston in 1845, the first of its kind in the country, and began publishing its Register two years later. More than a century on, in 1957, that same journal printed a short note suggesting Henry Bodwell's father had held land near Bishopsgate. Towns wrote their histories, families compiled their genealogies, and states printed their old records so that they would never be lost again. Our family owes a great deal to that generation:

The family compilers 1940s onward

For most of the twentieth century, the Bodwell story lived in scattered places: a library notebook in Andover, a printed genealogy, a handful of family Bibles, and whatever grandparents remembered. Then, one by one, members of the family set out to gather it together. The first of them did it with a notebook and a research trip north, the next generation with typewriters and postage stamps, and only much later with a website.

Once the site was online, a network of cousins, near and distant, grew up around it, writing in with questions and answers. The site's own records name some of them, and their finds, captured in the notations found from that time, merit mention:

And there were others whose names the records don't keep: the cousin who drove out to Norwalk, Connecticut, to photograph William Levi Bodwell's headstone; everyone who mailed in a Bible page or an obituary clipping; everyone who answered a question on a message board.

Strangers who helped the twenty-first century

The newest members of the team are people who have never heard of the Bodwells and never will. Over the past twenty-five years, volunteers around the world have transcribed millions of old records so that anyone can search them from home. The baptism of a Henry Bodwell at Houghton in Sussex in 1623 reached us because Jennifer Litton, a FreeREG volunteer, transcribed that parish register. Henry's London baptism was indexed by FamilySearch. Find a Grave volunteers photograph headstones, and WikiTree's US Presidents Project keeps Henry's profile up to date because of his descendant Franklin Pierce.

Historians and local writers have added more: Russell K. Hickman's life of Rev. Lewis Bodwell in the Kansas Historical Quarterly (1943), Cynthia Burns Martin's study of the Bodwell Granite Company store (2012), and George Emery and Debbie Kasman's history of the Bodwells of Elgin Hall in Ontario (2023).

And behind all of them stand the archivists and librarians who keep the originals safe and make them available:

How the relay works

Look at how Henry's origin story was finally found, and you can see the whole team at work.

A London clerk wrote the baptism in 1654. A Newbury clerk wrote down Henry's age in 1678. The Methuen town clerk recorded his death in 1745, and the 1909 printing put it on library shelves. Albert E. Bodwell wrote down the Welsh tradition a century ago. John Theodore Bodwell traced his line back to Henry in the early 1940s. From 1972, Geoff, Buck and Bessie traded letters, and Geoff gathered the lines into one record. Buck put it online, and the cousins who wrote in kept the questions alive. Susan Towle found Mary Tiffin. FamilySearch indexed the Aldgate register, and Ancestry digitized it. In 2026, someone finally put the 1678 age next to the 1654 baptism and saw that they matched.

Not one of those people could have done it alone. Most of them never knew the others existed. The work only came together because each of them wrote down what they found and left it where the next person could find it.

A rule worth keeping

Write down what you found, where you found it, and how sure you are. Then leave it somewhere the next person can find it.

The next hands

The relay isn't over. Plenty of questions are still open: who Henry's father really was, whether the Welsh line holds, why Mary's second husband sent a boy across the ocean, and dozens of smaller puzzles on the Family Mysteries page. The answers are probably sitting in a London will, a Sussex register, a Bible in somebody's attic, a box of John Theodore Bodwell's notes, or the memory of someone reading this now.

If you have anything at all, a photograph, a letter, a name, or just a family story you were told as a child, please share it. Today's small find is how the next generation's breakthroughs begin. And if you send something in, your name belongs on this page too.

Four centuries ago a clerk in a London church wrote a line he would never think about again. Eighty years ago a young man who wanted to be a writer filled his notes with the names of his ancestors, then went to war and did not come back. In 1972 two cousins began writing letters to each other, and soon a third joined them. Somewhere between them stand hundreds of people, most of them nameless, who wrote things down and kept them safe. We are the family they were working for, whether they knew it or not. To all of them: thank you.