Norwich Past & Present - Old Randall Homestead

The Past & Present of Norwich

S.S. Randall

The Old Randall Homestead

Chenango Telegraph, January 7, 1875

Nearly two centuries of recorded time have elapsed since (according to a veritable tradition handed down from generation to generation, and sustained by ancient records recently brought to light by one of the most intelligent and worthy young scions of the race residing in your village) three brothers of the name of Randall, found their way from England to this continent, and after many devious wanderings, effected settlements in the territory of New England--one in Rhode Island, and the two others in Connecticut.  John Randall, the first of that name, early in the last century [1700s], fixed his residence at North Stonington, near the present or late dwelling house of Darius H. Randall of that town, a descendant, it is presumed, of the race.  John Randall, second of the name, born in 1730, became the father of John, the third, in 1754, and afterwards of Roswell, in 1756, Jedidiah, 1758; William, 1768; and Dudley, 1772.  This John, the third in direct succession, according to this genealogy, it was who, through his intermarriage with Mary Swan, daughter of John Swan, of Haverhill, Mass., gave origin to the innumerable tribes of Randall, who have for nearly a century past, swarmed through the flourishing valley of the Chenango, and even extended their borders to the city and suburbs of New York.  I cannot undertake to answer for the strict genealogical accuracy of this table of descent, least of all, to trace it down in all its involutions and evolutions, to the present date.  I only propose on this occasion to take a brief survey of the original settlement of Capt. John Randall, third of the name, at the commencement of the present century [1800s], on the old farm, then known as "the (Indian) Castle," about one mile south of the present village of Norwich [Chenango Co., NY], on the bank of the Chenango River.

 

From a statement made a few years previous to his death, by the late Deacon Randall, to the compiler of Childs' "Gazetteer of Chenango County," it appears that his father, Capt. John Randall, came from Stonington, Conn., where he had previously resided, to the present town of Pharsalia, in Chenango county, in the autumn of 1797, that after the erection of a log house, and the clearing up of a small patch of ground, during the fall and winter, he removed his family, consisting of a wife and ten children, to his new home in the wilderness, in the spring of 1798, his son Charles, then eighteen years of age being employed during a period of three entire weeks, in driving an ox team of three yoke of oxen from Hartford to Pharsalia, crossing the Hudson at Catskill, and terribly annoyed by wolves on the Plymouth hills, as he neared his destination, with provisions for the family, over which a furious battle raged for hours with a pack of these ferocious animals, terminating in a hard won victory for the young emigrant and the forest allies, and that in the ensuring year, 1799, he erected the first frame house in Pharsalia, afterwards occupied by his son, Denison Randall, Judge Hezekiah Read, Charles Browning, B.H. Wheeler and others, and now probably demolished. The next year, 1800--the last of the century, he purchased of Avery Power, the "Castle" farm, of about two hundred and eighty-six acres, lying on both sides of the river, for the sum of about $4,000, and again transferred his family to their new and for a long time permanent home.

 

Avery Power was one of the earliest pioneers of the Chenango Valley, having settled himself as a "squatter" on this tract of land, then a dense wilderness inhabited only by Indians of the Oneida tribe in the year 1788, and afterwards purchasing his farm of the State, at the rate of about seventy-five cents per acre, paying for it by assisting the State surveyors and boarding and lodging their hands.  Here, in a little hut erected by him, was born his daughter Lucy, the first child born in the town, and two other daughters, all of whom, the "delight of his eyes," died in their early infancy, within a few weeks of each other, leaving his lonely wilderness home desolate.  Their little coffins were deposited in a grave upon the present or late Burlingame farm, on the east side of the river and after advantageously disposing of his property in 1800, the stricken and bereaved mourner, again took up his pilgrim staff, and with his childless mate buried himself in the deep recesses and hitherto unexplored regions of the "far west."

 

Fifty years ago this present winter [1825], I spent several pleasant weeks on this old farm, in the family of my uncle Charles York, who, after his retirement from mercantile business in the village, had taken up his residence there, having become the owner by devise, descent or purchase, of about one third of the original property--Col. John Randall succeeding to another third, south of that allotted to Judge York, both on the west side of the river, and Deacon Charles Randall to the remaining third, lying wholly on the east bank. The "old homestead," situated about half way between the highway and the river.  In the midst of surrounding meadows and fields in a high state of cultivation, was at this time, a long, low rambling, story and a half cottage, unpainted, much dilapidated and bearing manifest traces of the wear and tear of a quarter of a century's occupation.  Since the death in 1816, of the good old patriarch, who may be regarded as its founder, it had been temporarily occupied for a few years, by Col. Sam Randall and his family, and perhaps by others, previous to the occupancy of Judge York. The later, after the labors and supervision  of the farm during the day, was accustomed to spend the long winter evenings, up to a late hour, in the midst of his family circle, arranging official papers connected with his Supervisorship of the town, reading, and cheerful, social conversation, and here I first became acquainted with and deeply interested in "Zimmerman on Solitude," "Henry's Meditations,: "Children of the Abbey," and similar popular works of the period.

 

A quarter of a century then passed over.  the venerable patriarch had long been in his grave, and of those ten children transported through the wilderness, all save two, had grown up to men's and women's estate, and were flourishing and happy.  John, the eldest, was a wealthy citizen and farmer.  Denison cultivated a large farm in Pharsalia, and had represented his county in the State Legislature. Charles was an independent farmer on the "old homestead," and a respected deacon of the church.  Paul had emigrated with his sister to Ohio, from whence her husband, James W. Gaxlay, had been sent to Congress, by a political triumph over William Henry Harrison.  Leroy was County Clerk, and had also represented his county in the Legislature. Sam was a well to do farmer; Hannah was with her friends in Ohio; Esther was the beloved wife of Charles York, also domiciled in the "old home," and Roswell was a merchant in Pharsalia.

 

Fifty additional years have gone by, and "all, all are gone--the old familiar faces."  The last, Deacon Charles Randall, and Esther York, only within the past few years, were gathered in by the Great Harvester, "like shocks of corn fully ripe." in a good old age, far prolonged beyond the limited "three score years and ten."  The places that so long knew them shall know them no more forever. Their memories will ever be green.  The "old homestead" has passed into the hands of strangers, the old fields are cultivated by others; the old, rambling, moss-covered cottage, which so often resounded with the busy tread of young feet, has forever disappeared, and a new generation has arisen to beautify and adorn the old consecrated paths.  So must it ever be, as the years and centuries roll on.  So has it ever been since the first ages of recorded or unrecorded time:  "One generation cometh and another generation goeth, and by turns this vast inn-- the world, is evacuated and replenished by troops of succeeding pilgrims."

 

Let the passing traveler, as intent on business or pleasure, he wends his way past the "Old Randall farm" pause to reflect for a moment on its eventual history.  Here, less than one hundred years since, the "castle" of the Oneida sachems and braves resounded with the terrible Indian war whoop, or witnessed the deliberations and decisions of the Great council.  Here came the solitary pioneer, Avery Power, to plant fearlessly the first seeds of civilization and here his little ones in their infant innocence and loveliness and beauty were laid in their little graves.  From out his desolate log cabin in the wilderness, the strong man, who had braved so many perils, confronted so many wearisome labors, and enjoyed so many happy hours and days of domestic bliss, broken hearted gathers up his remaining strength and traverses anew the pathless wilderness towards the setting sun.  Here, in his stead, came another, wanderer from the far east, who after a long sojourn in a dense wilderness, planted here his standard and here deposited his household goods; and here were trained up the future fathers and mothers of a more advanced and rapidly expanding civilization.  Modern romance has few more elements of strange, vicissitude and change--of wild and stirring adventure--of solemn pathos--and tragic incident than may here be found in the sober and unexaggerated annals of frontier life.  Nor let it be forgotten that in the deep recesses of many another of the hills and valleys which encircle the quiet and silvery stream of the Chenango, similar experiences abounded where now peace, plenty and prosperity diffuse their innumerable and priceless blessings.