That story says John Mason’s father was a Quaker, living in Philadelphia, an old acquaintance of James Jenkins, Jr., at Turtle Creek, opposite the town of Northumberland, at the base of Blue Hill, who said to him one day, speaking of his son John, that he was a restless fellow and wanted to go to sea, and that it would be the death of his mother. “Can’t thee take him out with thee?” Jenkins replied that it was a wild place and not likely to suit the taste of one who wanted to go sea-faring.
But John Mason did go up into the wilderness, engaged in the mercantile business for a time at Northumberland, then moved his stock of merchandise to the western side of the river and opened a store at Turtle Creek.
John Mason never recognized or became intimate with women. One evening at the Jenkins home, Mason came in as was his custom from the store, about 9 o’clock, and seated himself by the ample fireplace to read a book. There was a number of young people in the room, who were playing pawns and forfeits. One pretty girl was condemned in a whisper, to kiss John Mason. He was apparently paying no attention to the others, but, as she slyly approached within reaching distance, he raised the tongs between them, saying, “Not one step nearer.”
Jenkins and he went alternately to Philadelphia to buy goods. Mason always walked there and back. He lived to an extreme age and was buried on his hill-top.
So much for that story. It is generally accepted that John Mason was of English origin, born in Philadelphia, December 7, 1768, and died on the farm of Colonel Meens above the present city of Williamsport, April 25, 1849.
During his life at the Blue Hill home, it is told of him that he was a sterling athlete, and could skate to Harrisburg in half a day; that he often walked to Williamsport, always carrying an old umbrella. His eccentricities were much talked about in his day.
During the winter following his death his remains were removed by friends, on a sled and carried to the scene of his hermit life, and buried under the wide spreading branches of a chestnut tree a few yards in the rear of his leaning tower. A neat marble tombstone, properly inscribed, was erected to mark the place of his burial.
This grave has long since been so trampled upon by curious visitors, that it was entirely obliterated[obliterated] many years ago. Relic hunters so defaced the stone that it was removed to a neighboring farm house for preservation. This is all that remains by which to remember John Mason, “The Hermit of Blue Hill,” the builder of the “Leaning Tower.”