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.