Rensselaer Republican, Volume 17, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 August 1885 — THE MYSTERY OF EASTHAMPTON [ARTICLE]

THE MYSTERY OF EASTHAMPTON

The time has come when lam at liberty to make public one of the strangest storios ever given to the world—a story so strange and so romantic that if it were not absolutely true it would be pronounced unlikely to the verge of impossibility. Its most minute details have been known to me for more than four years, but for several reasons it has not been permitted me until now to narrate them. I. It was April, 1840, forty-five years ago. It was six years before the Mexican War. Where San Francisco, with its 350,000 inhabitants, now stands, was then, and for nine years later, the little Mexican settlement ot Yerba Buena, whither a young man who wrote Two Years before the Mast went in a Boston ship for hides. Denver, -with its 50,000 inhabitants, was founded nineteen years after.

We “make history” so. fast in this country that forty-five years with us count for more, indeed, in the world’s progress “than a cycle of Cathay.” In this sleepy corner of Long Island, however, there has been precious, little change for the better, and Eastkampton was a more important place than now in this month of April aforesaid. It was perhaps on just such a day is this—the sea as blue, the air as clear, the sails of the old windmills as active—that a high-bred, dignified gentleman, about fifty years of age, walked up to the little inn, followed by an attendant. In a pleasant voice, and with a Scotch accent, he asked if he could have accommodations. The landlord looked at him with a certain hesitation. “Is that man your servant?” he ask6d. “He is," was the reply. “Well, he must eat at the same table with you.” “1 shall conform to your customs and regulations,” was the smiling answer.

For five long years did this courtly gentleman sleep in the cramped chambers, breakfast, dine, and sup at the frugal board of this humble hostelry. Then he became an inmate—fortunate enough was he to find Buch good friends—of the home of the Huntington family, and in that substantial house (it is the fourth from the old Presbyterian Church, going south) he spent about twenty-five years more. He "was a man of marked piety and benevolence, of charming manners and address, of extreme culture, of rare social qualities. He had been the friend and associate of Jeffrey and the literary giants of his day. He had ample means, and remittances dame to him through"a chain of banks, ending in a •well-known New York house, who denied any knowledge of his personality or belongings. He led a blameless, a lovely life, in this quiet town. He was the friend of all, the comforter of the afflicted, the helper of the needy. Books and magazines in large store came to him. He' versified the Psalms and taught Latin to the boys. A blameless and lovely life indeed; but a martyrdom, a living death, one would have said, to a man of his tastes and antecedents. Think of it! He remained, an exile, in this town for nearly thirty-one years—from early in his fiftieth to the end of his eighty-first year. In all this time he never saw the face of a relative or an old friend. He went at first on Sundays to the Episcopal Church at Sag Harbor, seven miles distant, but he Was instrumental in the building of the little one in Easthampton which we just passed; he contributed largely to its support, and he was made a lav reader, and for a long time conducted the services himself. With the exception of this church-going at Sag Har-. bor, the only time in thirty-one years that this remarkable man passed the limits of the little village was on the occasion of a single trip to Southampton, twelve miles distant The servant, a Scotch valet, went to the West, and married. He made his appearance at intervals, evidently to ex'ort money from his old master. During his entire life in Easthampton this man successfully defeated all attempts to discover his identity. When he entered the little inn in April, 1840, the name he gave was John Wallace; John Wallace lie yas to the end; add John Wallace is the name which you wiU find, under a cross and anchor, on the plain white marble slab in that southern cemetery over which the old windmill watches. To the excellent family with whom he lived, and whose kindness to him while on earth and tender regard for his memory are altogether lovely, he, waking or sleeping, stalwart or failing, in the close intimacy of three decades, gave no word. The inhabitants of the village, his neighbors and beneficiaries, accepted his kindness and constructed theories

about him. With the perverseness of potor human nature, they constructed them to his detriment. He was a Bishop of the English Church--“an-otker good man gone wrong." He was a murderer. He was—Heaven knows what he was not! As years passed by. and the place was more and more frequented in summer by “city folks,” curiosity spread, and grew apace. The most strenuous efforts were made to discover who John Wallace was. One man, bearing an old New York name, and since dead, had the ill grace, to threaten l)im. He told him that tho “census marshal" was coming, and that unless ho told that functionary just who he was, he would be put in prison. After this interview the late excellent Dr. Huntington found the poor old gentleman in a pitiable sta‘e, and learned of the threat just made. “Give yourself no concern,” said he. “The ‘census marshal’ has been here. Pe asked your name. I told him, and lie has gone.” But on the night of the 3(Jlh or 31st of December, 1870, there came to the door a census marshal who could not be barred out, a messenger who brought at once a summons and a release. Mr. Wallace raised himself fibm his peaceful pillow—there was not even time for him, like Colonel Newcome, to say “Adsum”—his head dropped, and his eighty-first year, his lonely life, and the year of our Lord 1870 came to an end together. One can almost fancy that even in the solemn moment when His soul left tho weary body there may have come to him a flash of satisfaction that he had baffled all the curious, intrusive disturbers of his peace. In the expressive language of Shakespeare, “he died and made no sign.”

Often during his life in the village he would come from the post-office holding a letter in his hand, and remark, “This is from my lady friend in Edinburgh.” When he had passed away, Mrs. Huntington, with rare good taste and pathetic kindness, wrote a letter describing his last moments. She addressed it to “Mr. Wallace’s Lady Friend, Edinburgh,” and sent it through the chain of banks through which the old man’s money had come. In due time a reply arrived—cold, formal, unsympathetic. Ityvas signed "Mr. Waitace’s Lady Friend .” ii. “Who was Mr. Wallace?” I see the question in you* eyes. "T went to Easthampton in the autumn of 1878, and did my best to find out. I talked with Miss Cornelia Huntington (author of a charming little monograph anent Easthampton apd its ways in days gone by, celled “Sea Spray”) and I should count a pilgrimage fruitful which gave me the pleasure of their acquaintance. I found them at' the time of my last visit enjoying a green old age, loved and respected by all. They told me much of great interest about Mr. Wallace, and among other things they spoke of finding copies of his accounts (of charities in his native land) with the headings torn off. One had been carelessly torn, and on it I found a name. 1 sent this name with a mass of notes to my late accomplished friend Bokest Mackenzie, Esq., of Dundee, Scotland, author of A History of the Nineteenth Century, and other interesting works. In a few weeks he wrote me that he was “on the trail.” In a few weeks more he sent me what he properly called “a very tantalizing letter.” Said he, “I know the mystery to tlia very bottom, but— I may not tell you!’’ Not a little disappointed, I communicated this information to a circle of equally disappointed friends. Oqe of them, a distinguished divine, told me that “it made his flesh creep like one of Wilkie Collins’ stories.” Then I went to Scotland? No—to Colorado, of all places in the world, and at the foot of Pike’s Peak, in the summer of 1879. I found out all about the poor exile. As living persons are concerned in the manner of my discovery. I may not rightly publish the details thereof; but they are among the strongest happenings of any life. Suffice it to say that on my return 1 held all the clews, proof, and facts in my hands, and that only now am I permitted to tell the truth about John Wallace.

ir* hi. Perhaps some of you know how distinguished and important a judicial officer is tho High Sheriff of a great Scotch county. Such distinguished and important officer was, in 1840, Sheriff W resident of Edinburgh. He was a bachelor of 50 years of age. He was famed for his benevolence and his good works. He was the friend to the poor", the widow, and the orphan. His services to the State had earned him a public testimonial. He had “honor, love, obedience, troops of friends.” He was a founder and ardent supporter of Sunday-schools. People flocked from cultured Edinburgh homes to hear his weekly addresses to the children. One day, at the height of his fame, there was made against hin} the subtle charge of a grave and mysterious erime. At G o’clock in the evening the Lord High Advocate went to a mutual friend. “Go to Sheriff W at once,” said lie, in sad and measured tones, “and tell him that when I go to my office at 10 o’clock to-morroW morning a warrant will issue for his arrest.” That night Sheriff W died out of Scotland. He had just time to say to a friend that he was not guilty of more than an indiscretion, but that he could not face even the shame of that.

His disappearance is mourned in Edinburgh after all these long years, and tears come to the eyes of old friends when it is mentioned. The man who so patiently bore the long crucifixion of a self-imposed exile, the man who endured the penance of thirty-one years among strangers in a strange land, the man who read the beatitiful service in the little Easthampton Chnrch, was no J6hn Wallace. Under the white marble tablet in the old Easthampton cemetery sleeps the scholar, the great jnrist, the courtly gentleman, the "humble Christian—Sheriff W .—A A. Hayes, in Harper’a Magazine.