The Climate Was All That Could Be Desired (Part I)
"Laboring for posterity" in the nineteenth century...and today
J. F. Meginness, from the frontpiece of History of Lycoming County, Pennsylvania
What do we mean when we say “posterity”? And why is it so important to us as Americans?
Posterity refers, literally, to the people of the future, as well as our actual descendants. The word dates back to the Middle English, the earliest use being around 1410, in the Polychronicon, a Medieval text by the Benedictene monk Ranulf Higden—and that’s only in English. The word has its origins in earlier French and classical Latin terms.
To give something for or to posterity refers to bequeathing an inheritance, the giving of something for the good of future generations. This is one of the usages with which we’re all too familiar: What is it you will do in this life that will benefit the future? One thinks of the markings on gravestones that memorialize the good that people have done in their time on earth. Think of Andrew Carnegie’s gift of libraries to cities across the country.
If we think strictly in terms of family lines, then for someone, you are that posterity. What did your ancestors bequeath to you? Likewise, if you have children, someone will be posterity for you. What is it you’re leaving them? What do you want that legacy to be?
It strikes me now that the root of this question is simply this: How do I want to be remembered?
One way to achieve posterity is to be a writer. And you don’t need to be Shakespeare to do that.
Beginning in the nineteenth century, there was a boom in books about local American history, a great deal of them written by what we might call “amateur historians.” Some were genealogical—and I’ve made use of those collections in my research—and others were what we would think of as straightforward history texts, only relegated to specific areas—for instance, Lycoming County, Pennsylvania. Ever heard of it? Chances are, probably not (unless you’re one of my readers from there!).
Many of these books come after the Civil War and during the Industrial Revolution, a time of massive changes for the country’s sense of community and home. Many people were losing both, with the economy uprooting families and forcing them to move. In Lycoming County, for example, the landscape had been irrevocably changed by the lumber industry by the end of the nineteenth century. Williamsport had grown to be a major mill town, where the raw logs ended up after being floating down the West Branch of the Susquehanna River. The railroads, too, had spread in an intricate network across the Allegheny Plateau, carrying not only passengers but coal and lumber, too. These history books helped memorialize family lines and regional histories that the descendants of early settlers could take pride in—never mind the frequent errors in such books. The books gave them a sense of location, of centeredness. Of roots.
In the course of my family research, I came across the book History of Lycoming County, Pennsylvania by J. F. Meginness, published in Chicago in 1892. John Frankilin Meginness mentions my ancestor, Jacob Tomb (whom he first mistakenly refers to as Jacob Lamb, however, most likely a spelling confusion) and offers his version of the history of this somewhat remote county. One day, I got interested in Meginness himself; who was this person? How did he come to write a history stretching over 1,200 pages in length?
The most helpful way to learn about J. F. Meginness? To read a book by J. F. Meginness: The Origin and History of the Magennis Family.
His great grandfather, Samuel McGinness (like my own family name, Tomb (also Thome/Tome/Dome, etc.), you’ll right away notice all the discrepancies in spelling over generations) came from Ireland. He married in 1764 and settled in Newcastle, Delaware. He was a soldier in the Revolutionary War, and “served in the Commissary department under Washington,” Meginness writes. “He participated in several battles, and saw much hard service.” After the war, he settled in Chester County, Pennsylvania to the life of a farmer, dying in 1801.
His grandfather, James McGinness, was born on May 26, 1767 in New Castle County, Delaware, but grew up for the most part on the Pennsylvania farm of his father. As a young man, he settled in Lancaster County, which had a substantial Irish population, in the township of Colerain, which was then “new and thinly settled.” Sometime around 1786, he married Anne Fordham, “an English Quakeress, of Philadelphia,” born sometime around June, 1763. She was known for her needlework, some of which survived and was passed down through her family.
In 1796, McGinnis bought a farm that he lived on for more than forty years. He also worked as a freighter, crossing the Alleghenies with pack trains to Pittsburgh. In 1823, he was appointed a Justice of the Peace, a post he held until he died on the first of November, 1839, of “cancer on the lip.” He was buried in the Penn Hill Burial Ground in Lancaster County. In his will, he left his son, Benjamin, one dollar.
Benjamin McGinness, courtesy of Find A Grave (thanks to Cristy and Ronald Sheehan)
Their son, Benjamin, would be the father of the Lycoming history book’s author. He was born May 3rd, 1803 in Colerain Township. In 1825 he married Sarah Johnston, and they had eleven children (John Franklin, our J. F., was the oldest, born on July 16, 1827). Benjamin is described as a “hard-working and industrious man”—high praise in this culture, of course, and certainly at that time—and his education was accomplished “in schools which were taught by the subscription plan.” Despite these beginnings, it turns out that Benjamin was to have lived a life of disappointment.