Part 1

[Illustration: JACOB K. HUFF

Deceased]

The Philosophy of Jake Haiden

(_Late JACOB K. HUFF_)

SELECTED FROM THE COLUMNS OF THE READING TIMES, READING, PENNSYLVANIA

WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL APPRECIATION BY HIS FRIEND Henry W. Shoemaker (President of Reading Times)

“A link is broken that bound us to the infinite.”

[Illustration: 1911]

Copyright, 1911 The Reading Times Publishing Company

READING, PA. =The Reading Times Publishing Company=

Biographical Appreciation

Sudden death, in the midst of productive work, throws into bolder relief a career destined for immortality. The cessation of a train of brilliant and helpful ideas creates a want, and causes a careful examination of all that has been previously done, and a just estimate of its worth. These alone can be the consolations for the taking off of a genius like the late Jacob K. Huff, known to his readers as “Jake Haiden,” “Faraway Moses,” and “Finnicky Finucane.” After a long struggle against obscurity and adverse circumstances he had emerged into an open country where kind words of appreciation and growing fame greeted him on every side. His message, which the modern life in this country, with its growth of class distinctions, a self-constituted aristocracy, a rapidly developing governing class, a contempt for the lowly born, a forgetfulness of gentleness, a striving for self-advancement, and the train of kindred evils, rendered imperative, was checked, but its echoes will be felt through the years. He seemed to be the one voice strong enough and fearless enough to do battle with the injustices of the big world, yet he viewed it all from the porch of a modest cottage in a hamlet where there was no railroad, no trolley, and few strangers ever penetrated. His vision entered palaces of the supercilious rich, into the inner sanctums of capitalists, of cringing editors; into the homes of neglectful parents, undutiful children, designing wives, white slavers, and other evildoers. His kindly words soothed the tired spirits of the unfortunate, and as he never preached, and seldom condemned, he offered a loophole for improvement, rather than promising punishment to the so-called “wicked.” He was always ready to forgive, to lend a helping hand, and though his infinite mind grasped all the depths of sin and sorrow in the world, he believed in the innate goodness of his fellow beings. The modern world was learning to walk along cleaner and better pathways, and he acted like the careful parent, assisting the unsteady youngster in its course. His writings do not contain a single word of rancor; it is amazing that a man who fought so much oppression and crime could do so without descending to invective or abuse. That was the secret of his success. If clergymen could follow in his footsteps many an empty tabernacle would be crowded on the Sabbath.

In a sense, the biography of a writer discloses the hidden springs and motives for the development of his career. It would be difficult for a writer not springing from the people to fight the people’s battles with the pen. A man of the people like Abraham Lincoln represented them thoroughly because he was of them, and at no time in his life did his opportunities or tendencies cause him to forget his original environment. Jacob Huff was born among the “great mass of humanity” and his development came like Lincoln’s through struggles and disappointments, aided by perseverance and hard work, until his voice, clear and sympathetic, was heard above the multitude. Some day an appreciative state will seek out and mark the lowly cabin in the Pennsylvania mountains where he first saw the light. Like Plato and many another wise man of the past, his message will live in his disciples, and grow brighter, and more necessary with the advancement of time. It was in such a cabin that Lincoln was born in the Kentucky wilds that Jacob Huff was ushered into being in Clinton County, Pennsylvania, on January 31, 1851. His father was John Huff, a typical backwoodsman, sturdy, brave, and good natured. His mother was a German girl, Eve Kalmbach, whose parents had left the Rhine country and cleared a homestead high among lonely Pennsylvania hills. His father’s mother was Elizabeth Walker, of Scotch-Irish ancestry, and from her came the strain of humor, and perseverance that did so much to weld his destiny into a successful whole. His mother is described as kindly and intelligent, with a mystic side to her nature, observable in her distinguished son’s traits of sentiment and tenderness. From earliest youth Jacob Huff knew little but the most grinding toil. His first occupation, however, was rather pleasurable, and he always liked to reminisce on the subject. In 1864, Colonel James Williams Quiggle, of McElhattan, directly across the Susquehanna from Jacob’s mountain home, had conceived the idea of starting an “American Tea Industry.” It is a known fact that the Pennsylvania mountains produce a tea plant that rivals in flavor the choicest product of Japan. Thousands of acres of wild lands were either bought or optioned, and a tea house after a Japanese design was erected on a plateau back of the smaller of the two McElhattan mountains. Men and boys in considerable numbers were engaged to pick, sort, and dry the leaves, and little Jacob hearing of the work, tramped down from the high mountains and started for the “tea camp,” his first situation away from home. Darkness had come on soon after he reached McElhattan, and he spent the night with a family who lived at the “X Roads,” there meeting the black-haired, black-eyed young girl with the cameo face who played such an important part in the life of his dear, though older friend in years, the gifted poet, Montgomery Quiggle. He was given a chance at the tea camp, which was often visited by the genial Col. Quiggle. This was probably the first man of education he had met at close range, and his interest and politeness to the small tea-picker lingered as one of the pleasantest of his earlier memories. Col. Quiggle, it may be said, was a fine type of the old fashioned gentleman of Scotch-Irish stock, always brimming over with good humor, but with that undercurrent of seriousness inherent to his race. Winter coming on, the work was suspended, and the merry company back of McElhattan mountain was forced to separate. Once on his own responsibility, the desire to earn money and see the world led the young lad to occupations of various kinds. Once he trudged many miles to Leetonia, having heard of work in a lumber camp, but was rejected because he was too young. He did not idle around the shanties, but immediately started for home. A snowstorm began, and evening closed in on him. He saw what he thought was a huge blackened stump, and leaned against it for much needed rest. There was a grunt and a growl, and a four hundred pound bear shook him off, and he sprawled in the snow. Another time he had worked in a logging camp at the head of Young Woman’s Creek, and with his purse of savings, was on his way to Youngwomanstown, now misnamed North Bend. It was sunset, and he heard a screech like a tormented woman, far up on the steep slope of one of the denuded mountains. His quick eye showed it to come from a panther, skulking along in search of its evening meal. Jacob walked faster, and as he did so the animal quickened its pace. For miles it seemed to trail him, but lacked the courage to come down from the ridge. Finally with the lights of the settlement in sight, it uttered a despairing yell, and was heard from no more. At other times he worked in lumber camps, bark jobs, on railroads, highways, farms, and gardens. Every man or woman he met had a life story that interested him, these were the romances he read. His retentive mind became stored with a mass of unusual facts and impressions, which he thought over and over, figuring out the whys and wherefores when his companions were asleep. He had not gone to school a full term in his life, but his teachers, Charles Hamilton and Benjamin Langdon, were worthy men and he absorbed much from them. Despite his brief schooling he could feel the harmonies of words and sentences like a trained rhetorician. He longed to express himself, but he was too shy for general conversation, and there seemed no opportunity to write. In Lock Haven, the county seat of Clinton County, was a local paper called “The Enterprise.” It had a correspondent in Gallauher Township where Jacob was living, but he fell sick, and the editor looked about for a substitute. Jacob applied for the position, and in February, 1876, in his twenty-fifth year he had the pleasure of seeing his first communications in print. They were well done, even for an old correspondent, and later he made bold to intersperse them with jokes, and pathetic little verses. He was so satisfactory that the regular correspondent never resumed the work, and he continued with increasing reputation, until in 1880 he took up the same task for the “Clinton Democrat,” a Lock Haven paper, which is still a power in the county. About this time love had entered his life, and he married Clara Bryan, a frail, pretty girl of sixteen, of Scotch-Irish stock, the ceremony taking place September 25, 1881. But the happy romance was to be short-lived, a girl baby, whom they called Rena, was born on April 7, 1883, and the young mother’s health failed rapidly afterwards. She died on July 26, the same year, and the motherless infant followed her to the grave on October 7. Jacob Huff never spoke much of this early bereavement, but some of his verses on taking Myron, his son, by his second marriage, to the graves of the first wife and child, are as beautiful and touching as exist in our language. In 1885 that enterprising and widely-read newspaper “_Grit_,” published in Williamsport, having long noted the humor and pathos of his work, engaged him to write weekly articles. He adopted the _nom de plume_ of “Faraway Moses,” and the results were overwhelmingly successful.

He was a clever artist, like so many writers, and drew the sketches each week for the illustrations. These were “worked up” by the staff illustrators and engravers, and became an important feature of the stories. Jacob Huff as a humorist was inimitable, but his immortality will rest with his serious work, his “human interest” articles. The popularity of “Faraway Moses” soon passed the bounds of the State, and his trite and witty sayings were quoted by staid farmers in their shacks in Kansas and the Dakotas. Meanwhile he established a modest “syndicate” and furnished short stories, verses, and jokes to a number of rural publications under various pen names. He conceived the idea of going West, and his travels took him into many States, where his experiences were varied, though he finally settled in Colorado. The results of this change of abode, which did not last long, found immortality in a small book of verses, published in 1895, by the Grit Company, entitled “Songs of the Desert.” Unfortunately the little book was not fully appreciated at the time, though it is destined to rank with the choicest productions of Eugene Field or James Whitcomb Riley. Meanwhile a great and ennobling influence had come to him, his romance and marriage with Charlotte Crawford, the brilliant daughter of Captain William H. and Priscilla Brown Crawford, of Chatham Run, Clinton County, who also for a short while resided in Colorado. The Crawfords were among the earliest settlers in the West Branch Valley, where they ranked high in social and political life. They had intermarried with the Whites, Allisons, Stewarts, and Quiggles, and each generation had added fresh lustre to the name. Jacob Huff’s marriage to Charlotte Crawford occurred at Grand Junction, Colorado, on October 11, 1892, and soon afterwards the happy couple returned to their beloved Pennsylvania. The influence of his devoted wife was broadening and inspiring, leading him into a wider sphere, and to the association with persons of distinction and rank. He had tasted life in all its bitterness, had mingled with the lowly, henceforth he was to see the brighter phases of existence. He never forgot the past, it had burned itself in too deeply. He saw the injustices and wrongs with an even clearer vision now that he understood how happily it was possible to live.

One son, Myron Reed Huff, named after the great liberal preacher, Myron Reed, whom Jacob warmly admired, was born on June 22, 1895, to bless the union. This boy, who is a happy blend of his talented parents, is himself an artist and author, and now contributes articles to the _Reading Times_ under the name of Jake Haiden, Jr. And now comes the story of his connection with the _Reading Times_, the last important event of his life, in whose service he was at the time of his untimely demise. Early in May, 1908, the writer of this article received an autograph copy of “Songs from the Desert,” and it quickened the desire, which he later learned was mutual, to meet the famous philosopher. At McElhattan on Memorial Day, of that year, he waded across a muddy road in front of the home of a mutual friend, Mrs. Anna S. Stabley, since deceased, and shook the hand of “Faraway Moses,” Jacob Huff. A long conversation ensued, and they became warm friends. The writer at that time was President of the _Daily Record_, at Bradford, Pa., and soon after his new associate began contributing short articles of timely interest to that paper. In September of that year, he assumed the same position with the _Times_, of Reading, and with the first issue under the new management began the celebrated “Jake Haiden” articles. They were instantly successful, and their appeal to all classes, their liberality, their toleration, their humanity, their pathos, made them noted and quoted all over the State. It is pleasant to recollect that Jacob Huff paid several visits to Reading while contributing to the _Times_. He was there on New Year’s Eve, 1909, and for New Year’s Day prepared an exceptionally strong editorial, for he also wrote many editorials, called simply “1910,” which attracted widespread attention. His last visit was late in January, 1910, when the management of the _Times_ entertained him as guest of honor at a dinner at the Wyomissing Club. The guests included the _Times_ staff, the publishers of the _Reading Telegram_, Capt. Henry D. and Herbert R. Green, who were always appreciative of his work, John D. Mishler, and others of equal note. There were after dinner speeches of a brief character, and the guest of honor closed the evening with a few remarks which seemed to come directly from his heart. With the early summer, the _Times_ conceived the idea of sending “_The Reading Times_ Philosopher,” as he was becoming generally known, to the far west in order to gain fresh impression for his powerful articles. Accompanied by his loving wife and son, and a close friend Prof. Betts, he started away gaily. From letters and postcards he must have enjoyed himself, and his note-book shows he had jotted down ideas for five hundred and fifty new articles or editorials. The party returned to Chatham Run on July 20, where the philosopher maintained a comfortable home, and on the night of July 31, 1910, he was seized with heart failure and died a few hours later. Prompt medical aid from Dr. Joseph M. Corson, his friend and neighbor, was of no avail, and the giant intellect and friendly spirit returned to its original source. His funeral was the occasion of a tremendous outpouring of people, interment being made at Jersey Shore. The press of the entire State echoed the grief of his relatives and friends and the great loss to the literary world. The religious beliefs of such a man are always interesting. His can be summed up in the final sentence of the little speech he delivered at Reading, “We look around and in everything we see God.” It was the religion of humanity, the creed of helpfulness and good cheer. He lived up to the letter of his faith, for when he died he left a host of friends and no enemies. He had steered his bark through the perilous waters of life without hurting anyone, or sullying himself. It was a beautiful life, but to those who knew him comes the ever recurring regret “Why could not he have been spared a few years longer?” There was so much to do, the world was crying for his help. Maybe the publication of this book containing some of his most characteristic opinions will give renewed energy to his disciples and send them into the thickest of the fight for the betterment of mankind. If he had a motto it must have been “I want to leave the world a little brighter, a little better, a little happier than when I came in it.” Who knows, to what extent he succeeded! Time alone will measure the fulness of his fame, but he should rank as a nature lover with Henry D. Thoreau, as a humanitarian with Theodore Parker, and as a poet with Eugene Field.

It is hoped his friends will get together and erect a memorial fountain or statue to his memory in Lock Haven, Jersey Shore or Williamsport, in the West Branch Valley whose people and scenery he loved so well.

HENRY W. SHOEMAKER.

September 4, 1911.

I PLEAD GUILTY

Before the law I stand a confessed criminal; before God I am only a weak man trying to do good toward my fellow man. I am guilty of helping a convicted man escape the clutches of man-made law. I couldn’t help it. The love I bear humanity welled up, when the young man told his story, and flooded my reason with the sunshine of sympathy; and I helped him get away.

Early one morning I went to my wood shed to get kindling to build the kitchen fire. In the dim light I thought I saw a man crouching in one corner. A second look convinced me that it was true—there was a man crouching there.

At first I was frightened, and thought of flight. It’s the first impulse that comes over me at sight of possible danger. And a strange man, in a strange place for that man to be, is danger enough to startle even a brave man, like my wife, for instance.

But on looking closer, and catching a full glance of the startled eyes, that looked up to me in fear and wild, beseeching hunger for something his heart yearned for, I changed my mind. Fear gave way to curiosity and sympathy. I said, “Good morning, brother—can I do anything for you this morning?”

At the sound of friendly words he stood up, and I recognized in him the young man who was tried and found guilty of forgery, and sentenced to 15 years in prison.

“I’ve escaped from jail, you see,” he said with a quiver in his voice, while his boyish blue eyes looked away down into my soul (if I still had it with me).

“So I see,” I replied. “And now, what are you going to do?”

“You heard me telling my story on the witness stand last week, didn’t you?” I nodded in the affirmative, and he went on. “Well, nobody believed me. They thought I was lying to save myself from prison. I told the court that in my confession, when first arrested and sent to jail, I had plead guilty to the charge of forgery, to save another man, because the father of that other man promised to get me out of prison if I would assume the crime and save the honor of his family.

“Before God that story is true. But the family I was bribed to save has no honor. From the moment that confession was wheedled out of me, I was forsaken, and left to the mercy of a jury whom I could not convince that I was innocent. Not one amongst them would believe that I had honor enough in my soul to assume the crime of another, because I am a cobbler’s son. Neither could I convince them that the rich merchant on B—d street had played false to me.

“I do not blame them. I could not believe it of that merchant myself, were I not the victim of his perfidy.

“This morning I concealed myself in a barrel of ashes and other trash and was hauled out of the jail yard by the darkie who drives the refuse cart. When we got safely away from the jail I rose up out of the trash barrel and scared that black man half to death. I took advantage of his fright and told him if he informed the officials of my escape I would swear that he was guilty of helping me away, for a price, and because I couldn’t pay him he would not let me off. He promised to keep quiet, so I ran through the fog and came here.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Because I know you appreciate life and love humanity. I knew you would believe my story, or at least believe enough of it to awaken your sympathy and think of the long time fifteen years must be—fifteen years taken out of my life! The time is too long, even if I were guilty. Won’t you try to think of how long fifteen years must seem to one so young as I, and then hide me for a day, and then help me get away tonight? Won’t you, for the love you bear humanity? Won’t you do so for my mother’s sake?”

“For God’s sake, stop!” I cried; and then I sat down on the chopping block and buried my face in my arms and tried to think. “Fifteen years is a long, long time to take out of a boy’s life! Fifteen years, without sight of a mother’s face, without flowers or the songs of birds; without sunshine and the dews that fall from heaven for all. Fifteen years shut up between black walls, and away from the smiles of women and little children. God, the sentence is too hard, the punishment too great! We can’t reform men by treating them as wild animals.”

I looked into his frank blue eyes and asked: “Tell me once more, truthfully, are you innocent?” And he answered: “Before God I swear that the story I told you is true!”

I plead guilty to helping a prisoner escape, and I feel no pangs of regret. Fifteen years between black walls is a long, long time, and the boy had a mother.

RELIGION OF HUMANITY

Near my home lived a poor, hard-working, but improvident man. He had a wife and seven children. The oldest was thirteen, and the baby but ten months old. They were poor. The husband and father was working only half time. There is a cause for the dull times, but the man did not know what it was. Those who do know are afraid to tell, for fear it may injure their business. “Great is Diana!”

One month ago the wife and mother was taken suddenly ill, and died in less than twenty-four hours. Everybody was shocked. It seemed so cruel and hard of Providence to remove that poor woman at a time when she was needed most. Many would have blamed Providence of cruelty, but they are afraid to do so.

No one knew the reason why this death was ordered. Some thought it was even a sin to make a study of the case, “lest they offend Providence.”