The initiation of Mr. Holcombe into the game of faro was an epoch in his
life. He was so fascinated with it, and saw so much money in it, that he
now finally and deliberately gave up all attempts at any other business
or occupation, and, removing again to Louisville, in partnership with a
gambling friend he "opened up a game" or established a house of his own
for playing faro in that city. He sent for his family thinking he was
settled for life. Alas! how little he knew of that heart of his that
knew so little of God. He found out later what St. Augustine has so
beautifully said for all humanity: "Thou hast made us for Thyself and
our hearts find no repose till they repose in Thee." It was not long
before he had lost all his money and was "dead broke" again. It was
about this time and during this residence at Louisville, that,
uncontrolled by the grace and power of God, and untouched by the love
that can forgive as it hopes to be forgiven, he committed the greatest
crime of his life.
A young man was visiting and courting a half-sister of his at
Shippingsport, and, under promise of marriage, had deceived her. When
Mr. Holcombe found it out, he felt enraged, and thought it his duty to
compel him to marry her. But knowing himself so well, and being afraid
to trust himself to speak to the young man about it, he asked his two
older half-brothers to see him and get the affair settled. They refused
to do so. Mr. Holcombe then got a pistol and looked the man up with the
deliberate intention of having the affair settled according to his
notion of what was right, or killing him. He met him at Shippingsport,
near the bank of the canal, and told him who he was--for they scarcely
knew each other. Then he reminded him of what had occurred, and said
that the only thing to be done was to marry the girl. This the man
declined to do, saying: "We are as good as married now." He had scarcely
uttered the words when Mr. Holcombe drew his derringer and shot him.
When he fell, Mr. Holcombe put his hand under the poor man's neck,
raised him up and held him until a doctor could be called. He was
touched with a great feeling of pity for his victim, and would have done
anything in his power for him. But all his pity and repentance could not
bring back the dying man. He went into a neighboring house and washed
the blood from his hands, but he could not wash the blood from his
conscience. In after years the cry of another murderer, "Deliver me from
blood-guiltiness, O, God!" was to burst from his lips, and faith in the
blood of a murdered Christ was to bring the answer of peace to his long
troubled soul. But alas! alas! he was to add crime to crime and multiply
guilt manifold before that time should come.
He was soon arrested and taken to jail, where, after some hours, he was
informed that the man was dead. Some time afterward he was tried by a
jury and acquitted, though the Commonwealth's Attorney, assisted by
paid counsel, did all he could to procure his conviction. But no human
sentence or approval of public opinion can quiet a guilty human
conscience when awakened by the God whose sole prerogative of executing
justice is guarded by His own solemn and awful words, "Vengeance is
mine; I will repay," saith the Lord. When the conscience is pressed with
a great sense of guilt, it seeks relief by the way of contrition and
repentance, or it seeks relief by a deeper plunge into sin and guilt, as
if the antidote to a poison were a larger dose of poison. There is no
middle ground unless it be insanity. Nor did Mr. Holcombe find any
middle ground, though he declares that he never allowed himself to think
about the killing of Martin Mohler, and could not bear to hear his name.
He had to _keep very busy_ in a career of sin, however, to _keep from_
thinking about it, and that is exactly the second alternative of the two
described above.
"After this," says Mr. Holcombe, "I continued gambling, traveling around
from place to place, and at last I settled down at Nashville and dealt
faro there. I took my family with me to Nashville. I gambled there for
awhile, and then came back to Louisville, where I opened a game for
working men. But when I looked at their hard hands and thought of their
suffering families, I could not bear to take their money. Then I turned
my steps toward the South and landed in Augusta, Georgia. I went to
Augusta in 1869 in connection with a man named Dennis McCarty. We opened
there a big game of faro, where I did some of the biggest gambling I
ever did in my life. On one occasion I played seven-up with a man and
beat him out of five thousand dollars, which broke him up entirely."
Let us now take a peep into his home-life: Mrs. Holcombe says that in
Augusta he was in the habit of staying out for several days and nights
at a time, a thing which he had never done before. They lived in Augusta
something over two years, and during all that time she had not one day
of peace. He was more reckless than he had ever been before. She
suffered most from his drunkenness and his ungovernable temper.
Sometimes he would come into the house in a bad humor and proceed to
vent his wrath on her and the furniture; for he was never harsh to his
children, but on the contrary, excessively indulgent, especially to his
sons. During his outbursts of anger, Mrs. Holcombe always sat perfectly
still, not in fear, but in grief; for she knew as little of fear as he.
Many a time he has come into the house in a bad humor and proceeded to
upset the dining-table, emptying all the food onto the floor and
breaking all the dishes. On one occasion he came home angry and found
his wife sitting on a sofa in the parlor. He began to complain of her
and to find fault with her, and as her silence seemed to provoke him, he
began to curse her; and as she sat and wept in silence, he grew worse
and worse, using the most dreadful oaths she ever heard. When he had
fully vented his passion, he walked out and stood awhile at the front
gate as if in a study. Then he walked back into the house where she sat,
still weeping, and said, in a mild and gentle tone: "Well, Mary, I was
pretty mad awhile ago, wasn't I?" Then he began to apologize and to
tell her how sorry he was for having talked to her so harshly, and wound
up by petting her. He was at times almost insanely jealous of his wife,
and if he saw her even talking with a man, no matter whom, it put him in
a rage which ended only when he had vented it in the most abusive
language to her.
On another occasion, while they were living in Augusta, an incident
occurred which illustrates at once her unexampled devotion and his
unexampled depravity. On the night in question she had gone to bed, but
not to sleep. About midnight he came staggering in and fell full length
on the floor at the foot of the stairway. She tried to help him up, but
he was so dead drunk she could not lift him. She left him lying at the
foot of the stairway and went back to bed. But, though she was very
tired, she could not endure the thought of lying in a comfortable bed
while her husband was on the floor. She got up, therefore, and went down
stairs again and sat on the floor beside him in her night-dress till
morning. Then she left him and went up stairs to dress, that she might
be prepared for the duties of the day. When, some time afterward, she
came back to where he was lying, he abused and cursed her for leaving
him alone, and, before his tirade was ended he was sorry, and tried to
smooth it over by saying: "I did not think _you_ would leave me."
Mrs. Holcombe says concerning her life at this period: "I usually walked
the floor, after the children were in bed, till past midnight waiting
for him to come home. One night in particular, between eleven and
twelve o'clock, I heard a shot fired and I heard a man cry out not far
from the house. I thought it was Mr. Holcombe, and my agony was almost
more than I could bear while waiting for day to come, for I was sure
somebody had shot him. But between three and four o'clock In the morning
he came in, and his coming brought me great relief." "Then another
time," she goes on to say, "I was sitting by the window when an express
wagon drove up with a coffin in it. The driver said to me, 'Does this
coffin belong here?' I understood him to say, 'Does Mr. Holcombe live
here?' I thought it was Mr. Holcombe and that he had been killed and
sent home to me in his coffin. The driver repeated his question twice,
but I was so paralyzed I could not answer him a word."
From Augusta Mr. Holcombe removed with his family to Atlanta, where he
made a good deal of money. Mrs. Holcombe says concerning their stay in
Atlanta, "My life at Atlanta was no better than it had been at Augusta.
Much of my time was spent in walking the floor and grieving. Often in my
loneliness and sorrow my lips would cry out, 'How can I endure this life
any longer?' I had not then become a Christian and did not know what I
do now about taking troubles and burdens to God. And yet I believe that
it was God who comforted my heart more than once when my sorrow was more
than I could bear. I cried to Him without knowing Him. All these years I
tried to raise my children right, and I taught them to respect their
father. I hid his sins from them when I could, and when I could not, I
always excused him to them the best I could." But Mr. Holcombe instead
of aiding his wife's efforts to bring up their children in the right
path, often perversely put obstacles in her way and increased her
difficulties, though he did try to conceal his drinking from them, and
would never allow his boys to have or handle cards. So in many things he
was a combination of contradictions. He could not endure, however, for
his wife to punish the children, and especially the boys. On one
occasion he came home and the younger son was still crying from the
punishment inflicted by his mother for wading in a pond of water with
his shoes on. Mr. Holcombe asked him what was the matter, and when he
found out, he was so angry he made the boy go and wade in the pond again
with his shoes on. And yet Mrs. Holcombe's love for her husband "never
wavered," and she loved him "when he was at his worst."
While Mr. Holcombe was living in Atlanta he attended the races in
Nashville, and while there, two men came along that had a new thing on
cards, and they beat him out of five or six thousand dollars--broke him,
in fact. After he was broke, he went to one of the men by the name of
Buchanan and said, "I see that you have got a new trick on cards, and as
I am well acquainted through the South, if you will give it away to me,
we can go together and make money." The man, after some hesitation,
agreed to do so. They went in partnership and traveled through the South
as far as Key West, Florida, stopping at the principal cities and making
money everywhere. At Key West he and his partner had a split and
separated. From Key West Mr. Holcombe crossed over to Cuba, and spent
some time in Havana. In seeking adventures in that strange city he made
some very narrow escapes, and was glad to get away. On landing at New
Orleans, though he had a good deal of money, the accumulations of his
winnings on his late tour through the South, he got to playing against
faro bank and lost all he had. But he fell in with a young man about
twenty years of age, from Georgia, on his way to Texas, and became very
intimate with him. Finding that this young man had a draft for $1,050,
by the most adroit piece of maneuvering he got another man, a third
party, to win it from him for himself, and gave this third party $50 for
doing it. Then he took charge of the young man in his destitution and
distress, paid his bill for a day or two at a hotel in New Orleans, and
gave him enough to pay his way on to Texas. The young man departed
thinking Mr. Holcombe was one of the kindest men he had ever met. The
gentle reader, if he be a young man who thinks himself wise enough to be
intimate with strangers, might learn a useful little lesson from this
young Georgian's experience as herein detailed.
From New Orleans, Mr. Holcombe went by river to Shreveport, Louisiana,
where he met again with his former partner, Buchanan. They made up their
differences and went into partnership again, and were successful in
winning a good deal of money together. But afterward their fortunes
changed and they both lost all they had. This soured Buchanan, who had
never cordially liked Holcombe since their quarrel and separation at Key
West. Mr. Holcombe himself shall narrate what took place afterward:
"During this time we had been sleeping in a room together. Buchanan knew
that I had two derringer pistols. He got Phil Spangler to borrow one,
and I feel satisfied he had snaked the other. A friend of mine, John
Norton, asked me to deal faro bank, and I got broke, and the night that
I did, I put the box in the drawer pretty roughly, and made some pretty
rough remarks. Buchanan was present, but took no exception to what I
said that night. The next morning, however, in the bar-room he began to
abuse me, and we abused each other backward and forward until I had
backed clear across the street. During this time I had my derringer
pistol out in my hand. He had a big stick in his hand and a knife in his
bosom. When we got across the street I made this remark, 'Mr. Buchanan,
I do not want to kill you,' He was then about ten feet from me, and made
a step toward me. I took deliberate aim at his heart and pulled the
trigger, but the pistol snapped. He walked away from me then. I ran up
to the hotel where Aleck Doran was, knowing that his six-shooter was
always in good condition. I borrowed it and started to hunt Buchanan up,
and when I found him, he came up to me with his hand out. We made up and
have been good friends ever since. After we left there, these parties
with whom we had been playing, got to quarreling among themselves about
the different games, and the result was that John Norton killed Phil
Spangler and another one of the men. And such is the life of the
gambler." And such is too often, alas! the death of the gambler.
From Shreveport he went back to Atlanta where his family, consisting now
of his wife, two sons and two daughters, had remained. But he could not
be contented at any one place. It seemed impossible for him to be
quiet, no matter how much money he was making. Indeed, the more he got
the more disquieted he seemed, and yet it was his passion to win money.
Sometimes he would go to his home with his pockets full of it and would
pour it out on the floor and tell the children to take what they wanted.
He was so restless when he had won largely that he could not sleep; and
his wife says she has known him to get up after having retired late and
walk back to the city to his gambling house to find somebody to play
with. He seemed to want to lose his money again. In fact, he seemed
happier when he was entirely without money than when he had a great
deal.
Not contented, then, at Atlanta, he went from there to Beaufort, South
Carolina, to gamble with the officers of the navy. He got into a game of
poker with some of them and won all the money. Then he was ready to quit
and leave the place, but he got into a difficulty with a man there whose
diamond pin he had in pawn for money lent him, and though it be at the
risk of taxing the reader's patience with these details, yet, in order
to show vividly what a gambler's life is, we shall let Mr. Holcombe give
his own account of the affair:
"This man was the bully of the place. I had his diamond pin in pawn for
seventy-five dollars, and another little fellow owed me eighteen
dollars, or something like that, and I wanted him to pay me. Instead of
paying me, however, he began to curse and abuse me; and I hit him on the
nose, knocked him over and bloodied it, and he was bleeding like
everything. He got over into the crowd; and under the excitement of the
moment, I drew my pistol and started toward him. This big bully caught
me gently by the vest, and asked me quietly to put up my pistol. I did
so. Then he said, 'You can't shoot anybody here,' I said 'I do not want
to shoot anybody.' I then asked him to turn me loose. He again said 'You
can't shoot anybody here.' I then said, 'What is the matter with you?
Are we not friends?' And he said 'No,' and made the remark, 'I will take
your pistol away from you and beat your brains out.' I struck him and
knocked him over on a lounge, but he rose up and came at me, and we had
quite a tussle around the room. The others all ran and left the house,
and the barkeeper hid.
"When we separated, the big fellow had quite a head on him; was all
beaten up. He then went into the other room and sat down, and the
barkeeper came in where I was. I was willing to do or say anything to
reconcile this man, and I said to the barkeeper that I was sorry of the
difficulty, as I liked the man, which was a lie, and a square one, for I
hated him from the moment I saw him. When he heard what I said, he came
sauntering into the room, and I said to him, 'I am sorry this occurred,
but you called me such a name that I was compelled to do as I did. You
know that you are a brave man; and if any man had called you such a
name, you would have done just as I did.' He called me a liar, and at it
we went again. We separated ourselves every time. I got the best of the
round. After that he stepped up to the sideboard and got a tumbler; but
I looked him in the eye so closely that he could not throw it at me, and
he put it down. After a little more conversation, he started to lift up
a heavy spittoon of iron. I stepped back a foot or two, drew my pistol,
and told him if he did not put that down, I would kill him. He put it
down. I then told the barkeeper he must come in there and witness this
thing, because I expected to have to kill him. After the barkeeper came
in, the man went out, saying, 'You had a gun on me to-night, and I will
have one on you to-morrow.' Feeling satisfied if I remained, one of us
would have to be killed; and feeling that I did not want to kill him,
neither did I want to get killed on a cold collar, I concluded to walk
out of the place. I got the barkeeper to promise to ship my trunk to
Atlanta, and walked through the swamps to a station fourteen miles away,
arriving there some time next day." Other such experiences Mr. Holcombe
had enough to fill a volume perhaps, but these are sufficient to give an
impression of what a gambler's life is and to show what _was_ the life
of that same Steve Holcombe who now for eleven years has been a pattern
of Christian usefulness and zeal.
After spending a short time at Atlanta, he went to Hot Springs,
Arkansas, and then again to Louisville, where he opened a faro bank and
once more settled down for life, as he thought. _At any rate for the
first time in his life he thought of saving a little money_, and he did
so, investing it in some houses in the West End. Poor man! he had
wandered _nearly_ enough. He had almost found that rest can not be
found, at least in the way he was seeking it, and the time was
approaching when he would be _prepared_ to hear of another sort and
source of rest. Until he should be prepared, it would be vain to send
him the message. To give the truth to some people to-day would be to
cast pearls before swine, to give it to them to-morrow may be
re-clothing banished princes with due tokens of welcome and of royalty.
To have told Steve Holcombe of Christ yet awhile would probably have
excited his wonder and disgust; to tell him a little later will be to
welcome a long-lost, long-enslaved and perishing child to his Father's
house and to all the liberty of the sons of God.
So _he thought_ of saving a little money and of investing in some
cottages in the west end of Louisville. And God was thinking, too, and
He was thinking thoughts of kindness and of love for the poor wicked
outcast. He was _more_ than thinking, He was getting things ready. But
the time was not yet. A few more wanderings and the sinning one,
foot-sore, heart-sore and weary will be willing to come to the Father's
house and rest. Truth and God are always ready, but man is not always
ready. "I have many things to say to you, but you can not bear them
now."
His income at Louisville at this time was between five and seven
thousand dollars a year. He had a large interest in the bank and some
nights he would take in hundreds of dollars. But he could not be
contented. The roving passion seized him again, and in company with a
young man of fine family in Louisville, who had just inherited five
thousand dollars, he set out on a circuit of the races. But in
Lexington, the very first place they visited, they lost all they had,
including the young man's jewelry, watch and diamond pin. They got more
money and other partners and started again on the circuit and they made
money. At Kalamazoo, Michigan, Mr. Holcombe withdrew from the party,
just for the sake of change, just because he was tired of them; and in
playing against the faro banks at Kalamazoo he lost all he had again.
Then he traveled around to different places playing against faro banks
and "catching on" when he could. He visited Fort Wayne, Cleveland,
Utica, Saratoga and New York. At New York he was broke and he had become
so disgusted with traveling around and so weary of the world that he
determined he _would_ go back to Louisville and settle down for life. He
did return to Louisville and got an interest in two gambling houses,
making for him an income again of five thousand dollars a year.
During all these years his faithful wife, though not professing to be a
Christian herself, endeavored in all possible ways to lead her children
to become Christians. She taught them to pray the best she could, and
sent them to Sunday-school. After her first child was born she gave up
those worldly amusements which before she had, to please her husband,
participated in with him--a good example for Christian mothers. She was
in continual dread lest the children should grow up to follow the
father's example. She always tried to conceal from them the fact of his
being a gambler. The two daughters, Mamie and Irene, did not, when
good-sized girls and going to school, know their father's business. They
were asked at school what his occupation was, and could not tell. More
than once they asked their mother, but she evaded the question by
saying, "He isn't engaged in any work just now," or in some such way.
Mrs. Holcombe begged her husband again and again not to continue
gambling. She says, "I told him I was willing to live on bread and
water, if he would quit it." And she would not lay up any of the money
he would give her, nor use any more of it than was necessary for herself
and the children, for she felt that it was not rightly gotten. And
because she would neither lay it up nor use it lavishly, she had nothing
to do but let the children take it to play with and to give away. Under
the training of such a mother with such patience, love and faith, it is
no great marvel, and yet perhaps it is a great marvel, that Willie, the
eldest child, notwithstanding the father's example, grew up to discern
good, to desire good and to be good. While he was still a child, when
his father came home drunk, the wounded and wondering child would beg
him not to drink any more. Mrs. Holcombe says of him further, "When
Willie would see his father on the street drinking, I have seen him,
when twelve years old, jump off the car, go to his father and beg him
with tears to go home with him. And I never saw Mr. Holcombe refuse to
go."
In this way the boy grew up with a disgust and horror of drunkenness and
drinking, and when in the year 1877 the great temperance movement was
rolling over the country and meetings were held everywhere, and in
Louisville also, though the boy had never drunk any intoxicating liquor
in his life, he signed the pledge. He took his card home with his name
signed to it, and when his father saw it, he was very angry about it.
And yet, strange to say, on that very evening the father himself
attended the meeting; and on the next evening he went again, in company
with his wife. During the progress of the meeting he turned to his wife
and said, "Mary, shall I go up and sign the pledge?" Concealing her
emotions as best she could, lest the show of it might disgust and repel
him, she replied, "Yes, Steve, Willie and I would be very glad if you
would," and he did so.
Some time after that, Willie asked his father and mother if they would
accompany him to the Broadway Baptist church in the city to see him
baptized. While witnessing the baptism of his son, Mr. Holcombe made up
his mind that he would quit gambling, and as he went out of the church,
he said to his wife, "_I will never play another card_."
Some friend of his who overhead the remark said to him, "Steve, you had
better study about that." He answered, "No, I have made up my mind. I
wish you would tell the boys for me that they may count me out. They may
stop my interest in the banks. I am done."
His wife, who was hanging on his arm, could no longer now conceal her
emotions, nor did she try. She laughed and cried for joy. God was saying
to her, "Mary, thy toils and tears, thy sufferings and patience have
come up for a memorial before me, and I will send a man who will tell
thee what thou oughtest to do, and speak to thee words whereby thou and
all thy house shall be saved."
Mr. Holcombe was as good as his word. He did give up gambling from that
time. But he had had so little experience in business that he was at a
great loss what to do. Finally, however, he decided to go into the
produce and commission business as he had had some experience in that
line years before in Nashville, and as that required no great outlay of
money for a beginning. All the money he had was tied up in the houses
which he had bought in Portland, the western suburb of Louisville. He
was living in one of these himself, but he now determined to rent it out
and to remove to the city that he might be nearer his business.
One day in October, 1877, a stranger entered his place of business, on
Main street, and, calling for Mr. Holcombe, said: "I see you have a
house for rent in Portland."
"Yes," said he, "I have."
"Well," said the stranger, "I like your house; but as my income is not
large, I should be glad to get it at as low a rent as you can allow."
Mr. Holcombe replied: "I am rather pressed for money now myself, but
maybe we can make a trade. What is your business?"
"I am a Methodist minister, and am just sent to the church in Portland,
and you know it can not pay very much of a salary."
"That settles it then, sir," said Mr. Holcombe, with that abruptness and
positiveness which are so characteristic of him, "I am a notorious
gambler, and, of course, you would not want to live in a house of mine."
He expected that would be the end of the matter, and he looked to see
the minister shrink from him and leave at once his presence and his
house. On the contrary, the minister, though knowing nothing of Mr.
Holcombe's recent reformation, yet seeing his sensitiveness, admiring
his candor and hoping to be able to do him some good, laid his hand
kindly on his shoulder and said:
"Oh no, my brother; I do not object to living in your house; and who
knows but that this interview will result in good to us both, in more
ways than one?"
Mr. Holcombe's impression was that ministers of the Gospel were, in
their own estimation, and in fact, too good for gamblers to touch the
hem of their garments, and that ministers had, for this reason, as
little use and as great contempt for gamblers as the average gambler
has, on the very same account, for ministers. But he found, to his
amazement, that he was mistaken, and when the minister invited him to
come to his church he said, not to the minister, yet he said:
"Yes, I will go, I never had a good man to call me 'brother' before. And
he knows what I am, for I told him. I am so tired; I am so spent. Maybe
he can tell me what to do and how to go. If Sunday ever comes, I will go
to that man's church."
And when Sunday came the minister and the gambler faced each other
again. With a great sense of his responsibility and insufficiency the
preacher declared the message of his Lord, not as he wished, but as he
could. To the usual invitation to join the church nobody responded.
After the benediction, however, Mr. Holcombe walked down the aisle to
the pulpit and said to the minister: "How does a man join the church?"
He had not attended church for twenty-three years, and had been engaged
in such a life that he had forgotten what little he knew. The minister
informed him.
"Then," said he, "may I join your church?"
"You are welcome, and more than welcome," replied the minister, and the
people wondered.
"From the day I joined his church," says Mr. Holcombe, "that minister
seemed to understand me better than I understood myself. He seemed to
know and did tell me my own secrets. He led me into an understanding of
myself and my situation. I saw now what had been the cause of my
restlessness, my wanderings, my weariness and my woe. I saw what it was
I needed, and I prayed as earnestly as I knew how from that time. I
attended all the services--preaching, Sunday-school, prayer-meeting,
class-meeting in any and all kinds of weather, walking frequently all
the way from Second street to Portland, a distance of three miles,
because I was making too little to allow me to ride on the street-cars.
But with all this, I felt something was yet wanting. I began to see that
I could not make any advance in goodness and happiness so long as I was
burdened with the unforgiven guilt of forty years of sin and crime. It
grew worse and heavier until I felt I must have relief, if relief could
be had. One day I went in the back office of my business house, after
the others had all gone home, and shut myself up and determined to stay
there and pray until I should find relief. The room was dark, and I had
prayed, I know not how long, when such a great sense of relief and
gladness and joy came to me that it seemed to me as if a light had
flooded the room, and the only words I could utter or think of were
these three: 'Jesus of Nazareth.' It seemed to me they were the sweetest
words I had ever heard. Never, till then, did the feeling of
blood-guiltiness leave me. It was only the blood of Christ that could
wash from my conscience the blood of my fellowman."
As in his case, so always, in proportion as a man is in earnest about
forsaking sin, will he desire the assurance of the forgiveness of past
sins, and _vice versa_. But Mr. Holcombe did not find this an end of
difficulty and trial and conflict--far from it. Indeed, it was the
preparation for conflict, and the entrance upon it. Hitherto, in his old
life, he had made no resistance to his evil nature, and there was no
conflict with the world, the flesh and the devil. But such a nature as
his was not to be conquered and subjected to entire and easy control in
a day. His passions would revive, his old habits would re-assert
themselves, poverty pinched him, people misunderstood him, failure after
failure in business discouraged him. Hence, he needed constant and
careful guidance and an unfailing sympathy. And he thus refers to the
help he received from his pastor in those trying days:
"Seeing the great necessity of giving me much attention and making me
feel at home in his presence and in the presence of his wife, he spent
much time in my company, and with loving patience bore with my
ignorance, dullness and slowness. In this way I became so much attached
to him that I had no need or desire for my old associations. He led me
along till I was entirely weaned from all desire for my old sinful life
and habits. I think he gave me this close attention for about two years,
when he felt that it was best for me to lean more upon God and less upon
him."
Mr. Holcombe received continual kindness and encouragement from the
minister's wife also, who not only had for him always a cordial greeting
and a kindly word of cheer, but who took great pleasure in entertaining
him frequently in their home. It was a perpetual benediction to him to
know her, to see the daily beauty of her faithful life, to feel the
influence of her heavenly spirit. With quick intuition she recognized
the sincerity and intensity of Mr. Holcombe's desires and efforts to be
a Christian man; with ready insight she comprehended the situation and
saw his difficulties and needs, and with a very Christlike
self-forgetfulness and joy she ministered to this struggling soul. Not
only Mr. Holcombe, but all who ever knew her, whether in adversity or
prosperity, whether in sickness or in health, admired the beauty and
felt the quiet unconscious power of her character. As for Mr. Holcombe
himself, his mingled feeling of reverence for her saintliness and of
gratitude for her sisterliness led him always to speak of her in terms
that he did not apply to any other person whom he knew. He could never
cease to marvel that one of her education, position and tender
womanliness should take such pains and have such pleasure in helping,
entertaining and serving such as he. A few years only was he blessed
with the helpfulness of her friendship. In 1885, when she was just past
the age of thirty-one, her tender feet grew so tired that she could go
no further in this rough world, and Christ took her away. Few were more
deeply bereaved than the poor converted gambler, and when he was asked
if he would serve as one of the pallbearers on the occasion of her
funeral, he burst into tears and replied, "I am not worthy, I am not
worthy." If those who knew her--little children of tender years, young
men and women, perplexed on life's threshold and desiring to enter in
at the strait gate, people of rank and wealth, people in poverty and
ignorance, worldly-minded people whom she had unconsciously attracted,
experienced Christians whom she unconsciously helped, and, most of all,
her husband and children who knew her best--if all these should be
asked, all these would agree that St. Paul has written her fitting
epitaph:
"Well reported of for good works;
If she have brought up children,
If she have lodged strangers,
If she have washed the saints' feet,
If she have relieved the afflicted,
If she have diligently followed every good work."
It was not long after Mr. Holcombe's conversion before his entire family
became members of the church. Though this was to him cause of
unspeakable joy and gratitude, it did not mark the limit of his love and
zeal. From the time of his conversion he had a deep and brotherly
sympathy for all who were without the knowledge and joy he had come into
the possession of, but he felt a special interest in the salvation of
the wretched and the outcast, and of the men of his own class and former
occupation who were as ignorant as he was of these higher things and as
shut out from opportunities of knowing them. So that from the very
beginning of his Christian life he undertook to help others, and when
they were in need, not stopping to think of any other way, he took them
to his own house. This, with the support of his own family, increased
the cost of his living to such an extent that he was soon surprised and
pained to find that he could not carry on his business. He had taken to
his home, also, the father of his wife, whom he cared for till his
death. And in a short time he was so pressed for means that he had to
mortgage his property for money to go into another kind of business.
When it was first reported that Steve Holcombe, one of the most
successful, daring and famous gamblers in the South, had been converted
and had joined the church, the usual predictions were made that in less
than three months, etc., he would see his mistake or yield to
discouragements and return to his old life of self-indulgence and ease.
But when men passed and repassed the corner where this man had a little
fruit store and was trying to make an honest living for his family,
their thoughts became more serious and their questions deepen Steve had
got something or something had got him. He was not the man of former
times. And most of his friends, the gamblers included, when they saw
this, were glad, and while they wondered wished him well. But there was
one man engaged in business just across the street from the little fruit
store, who with a patronizing air bought little fruits from Mr.
Holcombe, and then spent his leisure in discussions and arguments to
prove not only that he had made a big blunder in becoming a Christian,
but that religion was all a sham, the Bible a not very cunningly devised
fable and that Mr. Ingersoll was the greatest man of the day, because he
had shattered these delusions. Mr. Holcombe patiently heard it all, and
perhaps did not frame as cogent or logical an answer to this man's
sophistries as he could do now, but he felt in his own heart and he saw
in his own life that he was a new man. He felt a profound pity for his
friend who knew not nor cared for any of these things, and he lived on
his humble, patient, uncomplaining Christian life. It may not be out of
place to add as the sequel of this little episode that the testimony of
this man across the way, who was such an unbeliever and scoffer, is
given elsewhere in this volume, and doubtless will be recognized by the
reader. Mr. Holcombe's life was too much for his logic.
When Mr. Holcombe had failed in every kind of business that he
undertook, his property was forced on the market and nothing was left
him from the sale of it. Christian men of means might have helped him
and ought to have helped him, but for reasons known to themselves they
did not. Perhaps they were afraid to take hold of so tough a case as
Steve Holcombe was known to have been, perhaps they saw he was not an
experienced business man, perhaps they felt indisposed to help a man who
was so incapable of economy and so generous in entertaining his friends
and helping the needy. Greatly pressed, he went at last to his
half-brother with whom in former years he had been associated as partner
in business, and putting his case and condition before him asked for
employment. But his half-brother declined on the spot, giving as his
short and sole reason that he believed Mr. Holcombe was a hypocrite and
was making believe that he was a Christian for some sinister purpose.
This was "the most unkindest cut" of all and for days the poor wounded
man felt the iron in his soul. During his former life he would have
cared nothing for such treatment. A ruined character is benumbed like a
paralyzed limb, but a revived and repentant soul is full of sensitive
nerves and feels the slightest slight or the smallest wound. He found
out months afterward, however, that his half-brother was already losing
his mind and was not responsible for this extraordinary behavior. He
tried and his friends tried everywhere and every way to find employment
for him, but he could get nothing to do. His money was all gone, his
property was all gone, he sold his piano, he sold his Brussels carpets,
he removed from place to place, following cheaper rent till at last he
took his family to a garret. It was now two years since his conversion.
During these two years he had done nothing to bring reproach on his
profession or to give ground for a doubt of his sincerity. He had not
only lived a consistent life himself, he had striven earnestly to help
others to do so. He assisted in holding meetings in Shippingsport, and
the people marveled and magnified the grace of God in him. But he was
with his family on the point of starvation. When at last everything had
been tried and no relief was found, in his desperation he thought of the
improbable possibility of finding something, at least something to do,
in the West, and he decided to go to Colorado.
In Louisville, where he was suffering and where his family was
suffering, he could have returned to gambling and have been independent
in a month. He could have been living in a comfortable house; he could
have had, as he was wont, the best the market afforded for his table, he
could have decked himself with jewelry and diamonds, he could soon have
been once more in position to spend, as he had regularly done, from two
to ten dollars a day for the mere luxuries of life. He could have done
all this and he could do all this even yet; for even yet he is in the
prime of life and power. But he did not, and he does not. He did not
turn Christian because he had played out as a gambler. He did not turn
to Christianity because fortune had turned away from him. But he turned
away himself from fortune when he was fortune's pet, in order to turn to
a better and worthier life.
When he had decided to go to Colorado, he went to his pastor and told
him. The pastor was astonished, alarmed. After two years and more of
faithful and self-denying service was his friend and brother about to
give away? Was this a plan to get away into a "far country" where he
might turn again to sin? He reasoned with him, he appealed to him, he
besought him. He tried to picture the perils of the journey and the
perils of the place. He reminded Mr. Holcombe of the condition, as far
as he knew it, of his family. But all to no purpose. He committed his
friend trustfully to God and gave it up.
"But," said the pastor, "how are you going to get there?"
"I am going to walk from place to place and work my way out. I can not
stay here, I can get nothing to do and I must try elsewhere. I am
desperate."
"Then," said the pastor, "if your mind is made up and you are going, I
can let you have some money. I have about sixty-one dollars in bank
which I laid aside when a single man, to use for Christ, and if that
will pay your way out, you can have it. Christ has called for his own."
He accepted it with tears, left a few dollars of it with his wife and,
with the rest, started for Leadville.
When he first landed at Denver, he met an old friend, John Chisholm,
with whom he had gambled in Atlanta. This man had left Atlanta on
account of having killed somebody there, and had made a considerable
amount of money in California. He had now come to Denver and opened a
game of faro. When he saw Mr. Holcombe on the street, he said: "You are
just the man I want. I have opened a game of faro here, and I am afraid
I can not protect myself. I will give you a good interest if you will go
in with me."
Mr. Holcombe replied: "Yes, John; but I am a Christian now, and can not
deal faro."
"I know," said the man, "you were a Christian in Louisville, but you are
a long ways from there."
"Yes," Mr. Holcombe said, "but a true Christian is a Christian
everywhere."
Notwithstanding, he insisted on Mr. Holcombe's going to his room to see
another old Atlanta friend. He did so, but felt so much out of place
there that he did not remain ten minutes.
From Denver he concluded to go to Silver Cliff instead of Leadville.
When he arrived in that strange village, his money was all gone and he
lacked fifteen cents of having enough to pay the stage-driver. "It was
about sundown," says he, "when I got there. I did not know a living
soul. I had not a cent of money. My courage failed me. I broke down and
wept like a child."
Having a good trunk he knew he would not be asked to pay in advance, and
he went to a hotel and spent the night. In the morning he walked out
after breakfast to see what sort of a place he had gotten into. As he
stood at the post-office, he saw across the street what he recognized as
a gambling-house, "everything wide open," no attempt at concealment or
privacy. He asked some one out of curiosity who was the proprietor, and
found that two of his old acquaintances were running the house. He could
easily, and at once, have gotten a situation with them, and could soon
have had money to relieve his own wants and the wants of his family. But
he had already stood severe tests, and had now arrived at a point where
he had no inclination whatever to gamble and felt no temptation to
procure money in that way or from that source. He did not even look for
the proprietors of the establishment or let them know he was in the
village. But while he was standing there, thinking of his condition and
wondering what he should do, he overheard a man say that a dining-room
waiter was wanted at the Carbonate hotel, the one at which he had spent
the night. He went at once to the hotel, made application for the place,
and was accepted at a salary of twenty-five dollars a month and board.
He was filled with thankfulness and joy, and he has declared since, that
though, on one night during his gambling life, he had won three thousand
dollars in money, the satisfaction which he felt then could not be
compared with that which he felt now when the hotel-proprietor gave him
this position of dining-room waiter _at a salary of twenty-five dollars
a month_. He entered at once upon his duties. To his great surprise he
found several Louisville gentlemen stopping at the hotel, some of whom
had known him in other days and circumstances, and whom he had boarded
with at hotels where he paid five dollars a day, with two to four
dollars a day, extra, for wine and cigars. But, notwithstanding that, he
was not ashamed of his present position. On the contrary, he was very
thankful for it and happy in it. He did such faithful service there that
the proprietor became interested in him and showed him much kindness.
During his stay at Silver Cliff he did not neglect any opportunity of
doing good to others.
One day, when he was standing in the door of the post-office, a man,
whose name he afterward found to be James Lewis, came in, got a letter
and sat down on the step right under Mr. Holcombe to read it. As he read
it, he was much affected and tears were running down his hardened face.
Mr. Holcombe became so interested that he read the man's letter over his
shoulder. It was from his wife, who, with her three children, had left
her husband on account of his drunkenness. Mr. Holcombe made up his mind
he would see if he could do something for the poor man to better his
condition, and, if possible, bring about the reunion of the family. He
did not like to approach him then and there. He watched him till he got
up and moved away and started down through an alley. As he emerged from
the alley, at the farther end, Mr. Holcombe, who had gone around another
way, met him. Little did the man suspect that the stranger who accosted
him knew his trouble and his family secrets. Mr. Holcombe, with that
tact which his knowledge of men had given him, spoke to him kindly, but
in a way that would not arouse his suspicions. He told him, after a
little while, his own condition in that far-off land away from his
family and friends. He found out from the man where he stayed. He went
to see him, found that he slept in a stable, provided him with some
things he needed, and then got down on his knees there in the stable and
prayed for him.
Finally, when the proper time had come, Mr. Holcombe showed him a Murphy
pledge and asked him if he would not sign it. He told him what he
himself had been before, and what he had become, since signing that
pledge. The man gave Mr. Holcombe his confidence, unbosomed himself to
him and eagerly sought counsel. He signed the pledge also and said he
would, by God's help, give up his sins that had separated him from a
loving wife, and would try to live a better life. Mr. Holcombe wrote to
the man's wife informing her of the change in her husband and the effort
he was making to do right. She came at once to Silver Cliff and Mr.
Holcombe had the pleasure of seeing them reunited and ate with them in
their humble cabin.
When he had been some time at the Carbonate hotel, he found a position
where he could make more money and worked there till he had saved enough
to buy an outfit for "prospecting" in the mountains. This outfit
consisted of a little donkey, several "agricultural implements for
subverting _terra firma_" such as spade, pick, etc., and provisions for
two or three weeks. Having procured these and packed his burro, as the
donkey is called out West, he and his partner started for the
mountains. Mr. Holcombe kept a sort of diary of this part of his Western
trip, and we give it here, including the time from his leaving Silver
Cliff to his return to Denver.
DIARY.
Tuesday, May 27, 1879.--I entered into partnership with a man by the
name of J. E. White from Wisconsin for prospecting in the mountains. He
had some blankets at Oak Creek, a distance of thirty miles from Silver
Cliff. We walked out there one day and returned the next. The road was
very full of dust and gravel. My shoes would get full of it. Every
little mountain stream we came to I would stop and wash my feet, which
was very refreshing. This made me think of the blessed Son of God and
why, when he was a guest at different places, they brought him water for
his feet,
"Those blessed feet
Which, eighteen hundred years ago, were nailed
For our advantage on the bitter cross."
Wednesday, May 28.--After having bought a burro and a two weeks'
grub-stake, J. E. White and myself started for the Sangre de Christo
mountain, a wild, high range of the Rockies. We paid for our burro
twenty-one dollars, and for our grub seven dollars. It consisted of
flour, coffee, sugar, bacon, salt, pepper, potatoes and baking powder.
We had a coffee-pot, frying-pan, tin cups. We used our pocket-knives
instead of table-knives. We had a butcher-knife and some teaspoons. With
these and some other things we packed our burro and started. It was a
funny sight. It all looked like a house on top of the poor little
animal which was not much larger than a good sized Newfoundland dog. But
it was strong, faithful and sure-footed and could go anywhere in the
mountains that a man could. We traveled this first day about ten miles
and camped in a gulch at night. Had a hard storm. Our only shelter was a
hut made of boughs of trees, Indian fashion.
Thursday, May 29.--We moved up the gulch as far as we could for the
snow. Did some little prospecting of which neither of us knew very much,
and, of course, we found nothing. Every once in awhile, White would pick
up a rock, look at it wisely and say "This is good float. I think there
is a paying lode up on this mountain somewhere." Up the mountain we go
about 9,000 feet above the sea level. We turned over all the stones and
dug up the earth every now and then and toward night we went to work to
make our hut which we got about half finished. During the night snow
fell about three inches. We were on the side of the mountain. Could
hardly keep the fire from rolling down the side of the mountain. Could
hardly keep our victuals from upsetting. This and the snow made me
weaken considerably, and I did say in my heart I wished I was back home.
Friday, May 30.--We prospected the second ridge, south of Horn's Peak,
going up about 300 feet above timber line, or about 12,000 feet above
the sea-level. There were no indications of minerals. About five miles
off we could see a beautiful lake. I was very anxious to go to it, but
White objected. Said it would be dangerous, might be caught in a
snow-storm. The sun was shining brightly. Weather was very pleasant. I
could not conceive of a snow-storm on the 30th of May. So I persuaded
him to go. After we had gone some distance, all of a sudden it began to
blow up cold and in a little while to snow. We turned our faces toward
camp. Just then we saw one of those beautiful Rocky mountain spotted
grouse. We were so hungry for something fresh to eat, we took several
shots at it with White's pistol. But the blinding snow made it
impossible for us to hit it. We had no grouse for supper.
It grew cold very rapidly and in a very short time it seemed to me as
cold as I ever felt it in my life. My moustache froze stiff. At last the
storm got so heavy, and, the evening coming on, we could hardly see our
way. The side of the mountain was full of dead timber, which was slick
like glass and, as everything was covered with snow, we could not always
see where to put our feet down, and to have slipped would have been
almost certain death. Once White did slip and but for having the pick
and sticking it in a soft place, he would have been killed. We got lost
and wandered about over the mountain side till late in the evening when
we providentially struck on our camp. We were hungry, tired and wet. Our
bedding was covered with snow. Before going to bed I read the first
chapter of Romans.
Saturday, May 31.--Cloudy morning. Four inches of snow. No wind. Felt
very well. We moved our camp. Stopped at a deserted cabin. Found a
grindstone and ground our hatchet. We pitched camp about three miles
South-east. Built a hut of boughs. We got wet. I had but one pair of
pants and one pair of socks. My feet were soaking wet. At bedtime I
read Romans, second chapter.
Sunday, June 1, 1879.--Snowed Saturday night. When I awoke our blankets
were wet. I had symptoms of rheumatism in knees and wrists. I read
Romans, third chapter, and we had prayer together. White sang "Tell Me
the Old, Old Story" and "Safe in the Arms of Jesus." It made me think of
my family so far away, of my dear pastor, Brother----, and the dear old
Portland church, and the tears streamed down my face. Spent the day in
camp.
Monday, June 2.--Woke up very cold. Our hut of pine boughs was not
sufficient to keep us warm. So much snow on the mountains that we
prospected the foot-hills and found what we thought were indications of
mineral. At night read Romans, fourth chapter. Much encouraged by
Abraham's faith. So cold I had to get my hat in the night and put it on
my head to keep warm. Dreamed that I was at home with my precious wife.
Tried to wake her up, but she was dead. What awful feelings!
Tuesday, June 3.--A beautiful bright morning. Read Romans v. Partner
wanted to go deer hunting with a pistol. Seemed to me so foolish I would
not go. I stayed at camp and was very lonesome.
Wednesday, June 4.--Bright, clear morning. Read Romans vi. Had our
breakfast, bread, bacon, coffee and potatoes, early, so as to prospect
on third mountain south of Horn's Peak. Started for the mountains. Went
up above timber line. Ate lunch up there. Too much snow to go any
higher. Found what we thought were indications of mineral. Saw a gray
eagle sailing around. It looked very grand away up above that lonely
mountain. Suppose its nest was near. In evening returned to camp very
tired. Read Romans vii., and it did me a great deal of good.
Thursday, June 5.--Clear morning. Prospected some around the foot-hills.
Found nothing. Began to get disgusted with prospecting. Struck camp
about ten or eleven o'clock A. M. Packed our burro and crossed valley
about fifteen miles. Very hot crossing. Pack slipped out of place
several times. Very troublesome. White got out of humor. Was inclined to
quarrel, but I would not quarrel with him. After getting across the
valley we had trouble finding a place to camp convenient to water, but
found it at last. While we were unpacking a big rabbit jumped up. White
fired three or four shots at him with his revolver. Followed him up the
side of the mountain. At last he killed him. He came down the mountain
swinging old Brer Rabbit, and I think he was as happy looking a man as I
ever saw. No doubt a smile of satisfaction might have been seen on your
Uncle Remus' face, too, when I saw that rabbit. That was the first thing
in shape of fresh meat we had had for about ten days.
SUPPER--BILL OF FARE.
_Fried Rabbit, Fried Bread,
Potatoes, Coffee._
After supper we raised a few poles and threw our blankets over them for
shelter. Read Romans viii., and went to sleep, feeling satisfied that if
I died before morning, I would wake up in heaven.
Friday, June 6.--Bright morning. Fine appetite. Good breakfast. Read
Romans ix. We moved from the foot-hills and went up into the mountain.
White went prospecting while I built us a hut for the night. When he
came back he said he had found some very good float. Very cold night.
Our burro got loose in the night and made considerable noise moving
around. We were sure it was a mountain lion, but, of course, we were not
afraid. I had my hatchet under my head and he had his pistols. Of
course, we were not afraid.
Saturday, June 7.--Very cold morning. Prospected. Found a lode of black
rock. Felt sure we had struck it rich. Dug a whole in the ground and
staked a claim. Read Romans x, at night. Slept cold. Got to thinking.
Thought it was easier to find a needle in a haystack than a paying mine
in the Rocky mountains.
Sunday, June 8.--Morning clear and bright. Owing to the disagreeable
place in which we were camped, we thought our health justified us in
moving even on the Lord's day. Found an old cabin. It was worse than any
horse stable, but we cleaned it out. Made a bed of poles, which we cut
and carried some distance. This was on the Pueblo and Rosita road.
Monday, June 9.--Bright, cold morning. Ice on the spring branch. After
breakfast we started prospecting. Found nothing, except another old
deserted cabin of the Arkansaw Traveler's style. Returned to camp in the
evening. Read Romans xii. and xiii. and slept like a prince.
Tuesday, June 10--Another bright, clear, cold morning. We prospected
some. Staked off a claim, more in fun than anything else, for we knew it
was worth nothing. The locality is called Hardscrabble. And it was the
right name. Our provisions had about given out, and it was a hard
scrabble for us to get along. Concluded to return to Silver Cliff, go to
work, get another grub stake, and take another fresh start. In the
afternoon we rested. Read Romans xiv., xv. and xvi.
Wednesday, June 11.--Another beautiful Colorado morning. Read 1 Cor., i.
Started for Silver Cliff about 7:00 A. M. I carried White's pistol. On
the way I killed two doves. Had them for dinner about 3:00 P. M. How
sweet they did taste! Arrived at Silver Cliff about dark.
Thursday, June 12.--Concluded the best thing I could do was to get home
as soon as possible. We sold our burro for $15.00, and with my part
($7.50) I started with a friend by the name of Hall for home. We got a
cheap ride in a freight wagon from Silver Cliff to Pueblo. The country
through which we passed is the wildest and grandest I ever saw anywhere
in my life. Hardscrabble canon is one of the most picturesque in the
world, and then the beautiful mountain stream all the way, winding like
a serpent down the valley. We crossed and re-crossed it several times.
That night we slept in the wagon. I never neglected praying any day
while I was on the prospecting tour.
Friday, June 13.--Arrived at Pueblo about 2:00 P. M. Had a little money.
Got a bite to eat. At that time there was a railroad war. Men were
killing each other for three dollars a day for corporations. The
excitement about this, and the moving bodies of men all anxious for
news, kept me from thinking of my condition till night. At night I went
out to the commons, on the edge of the city, and, with other tramps,
went to sleep on the cold ground.
Saturday, June 14.--Had a little money. Some others of the tramps had a
little. We pooled it, bought a little grub, and at 12:00 o'clock started
on a tramp to Denver, a distance of about one hundred and twenty-five
miles. I felt fresh and strong. We walked about six miles and slept on
the ground at night.
Sunday, June 15.--Got up early. Had a little breakfast. Started about
6:00 A. M. Walked about three miles when, two of our party having such
sore feet, we stopped. I had a voracious appetite. Went to cooking. We
had some canned tomatoes and canned syrup. I cooked some tomatoes and
ate them. Then I went to a ranch, bought a nickel's worth of milk, fried
some cakes, ate them with the syrup, drank the milk and was--sick. Did
not feel strong again all the time. I had had no experience in tramping
and tried to carry too much luggage. My feet got sore. Every day's tramp
after that was a drag. One of the party left us and went on ahead by
himself. We never saw him again. Another was so broken down we had to
leave him. Hall and I went on sick and tired. About dark we went up to
the house of a ranchman, and I told him my story. He took us in. I found
out he was a professing Christian. I read Romans vii., and prayed with
the family. His name is John Irvine, El Paso, Colorado.
Monday, June 16.--Left John Irvine's soon after breakfast. Walked five
miles to a water-tank where the train had to stop for water. We waited
till the train came along, and boarded her. The conductor did not see
us till we had passed Colorado Springs some distance. When he did see
us, I made the appeal of my life on account of myself and my friend,
whose feet were so sore he could, with difficulty, hobble along. I told
the conductor my own condition, and of my anxiety to get home to a
suffering family. When I saw he would not believe what I said, I offered
him my pocket-knife, a very fine and costly one, to let us ride a short
distance further, but he was like a stone. At the next stop he put us
off without a cent of money or a bite to eat. We walked about six miles,
lay down on the ground, with the sky for a covering, and slept like
logs.
Tuesday, June 17.--We started about daybreak, without anything to eat.
Walked about eight miles to a little place called Sedalia. Saw a German
boarding house. Sent Hall in to see if we could get anything to eat. Had
no money, but told him to tell her I would give her a butcher-knife and
a silver teaspoon, which I had brought from home, for something to eat.
She said to him so I could hear her: "Breakfast is over, but I will give
you what I have." That was enough for me. In I went. Sat down to a real
German lunch, and never did a breakfast taste sweeter to me than that.
God bless that good old German woman, not only for her good breakfast,
but for her kind, motherly words to two strangers in want. It taught me
a lesson which I have not forgotten yet, and I pray God I never may.
I left Sedalia feeling comfortable. Walked about four miles. Hall was
about done. He could go no further. While we were sitting there, a
Christian man by the name of Jennings came along, took pity on us, took
us in his wagon, gave us something to eat and brought us to Denver. We
arrived there about 6:00 P. M., without one cent, nothing to eat, no
place to go. Slept that night in a stable-yard under Jennings' wagon.
Wednesday, June 18.--Got up next morning about daybreak. Had a little
cold breakfast with Jennings. Knocked about town a little. Had a baker's
blackberry pie and a cup of water for dinner.
Here the diary of the prospecting tour and the tramp to Denver ends.
Mr. Holcombe continued the next day to knock about town, not knowing
what to do, when his old friend, Frank Jones, by nature one of the
kindest-hearted men in the world, chanced to meet him and insisted on
sharing his room with him. As his friend Jones, however, was himself
broke, he could render Mr. Holcombe no further assistance and it was
necessary for Mr. Holcombe to look about for something to do. He spent a
week in this occupation, or want of occupation, and at the end of that
time found employment in a brickyard. But the work was so hard, at the
end of three weeks, he had to give it up. After some time what little
money he had was expended and again he was destitute. And at one time he
was so pressed that he went into a grocery store and offered his fine
pocket-knife again for something to eat, but it was refused. Several
times he passed the Young Men's Christian Association rooms. Each time
he stopped, looked wistfully in and debated with himself whether they
would probably believe him and help him if he ventured to go in and
make his condition known. But he had never been used to asking favors,
and he did not know how to approach Christian people, and so his heart
failed him.
At that time and in that condition he was assailed by a sore temptation.
The devil, he says, suggested these thoughts to him: "This is a fine
condition for Steve Holcombe to be in. Before you heard of God and this
religion, you could stop at first-class hotels, wear fine clothes, live
like a gentleman, have a good home and all that money could buy for your
family. Now, you say you are serving God. You say He is your father and
that He owns everything in the world. Yet here you are without food and
clothing and your family is at home in want. You have not enough to buy
a meal for them or for yourself. Can you afford to trust and serve such
a master as that?"
But he had not been serving God two years and more for naught. He had
learned some things in that time. One of them was that trials and
privations are a part of the Christian's heritage, and that if any man
will live godly in this present world, he must expect to suffer. So his
reply was ready and he met the temptation with decision. "Yea, and
though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." And the sequel will show
whether he made a mistake in trusting Him.
When he saw it was useless for him to remain longer away from home, he
informed his friend, Mr. Jones, of his purpose to leave at once for
Louisville. Mr. Jones got him money enough to buy a ticket to Kansas
City, and there the great temperance lecturer, Francis Murphy, having
found out his character and condition, gave him enough to get home.
Whether God can or not, at any rate He does not pour wisdom into a man
as we pour water into a bottle. He does not so favor even His own
children, if favor it could be called. But He gives a man opportunities
of self-discipline, and if, aided by His divine help and grace, the man
is willing to go through the process, he comes out with larger knowledge
and better equipment for life and service and usefulness.
Without the experiences and lessons of this Colorado trip, Mr. Holcombe
could not have been the efficient man he is to-day. That season of
loneliness and self-searching and severe testing and humiliation was to
him, though a painful, yet a helpful, and perhaps necessary, stage in
his Christian life.
Indeed, all the trying experiences that had come to him since his
conversion were helpful to him in one way or another. He needed to learn
patience, he needed to learn economy, he needed to learn self-control.
The disposition to practice all these was given him at the time of his
conversion, he needed now to be put to the test and to "learn obedience,
practically, by the things which he suffered." Moreover, if he was to
serve efficiently the poor and the tempted, he needed to become
acquainted with their condition, their sorrows, their conflicts, by
passing through them himself.
The endurance of the evils which give occasion for the exercise of
self-denial and for the acquisition of self-control is a far less evil
than the want of self-denial and of self-control. So Mr. Holcombe was
willing to suffer all these things rather than to decline them and be
without the blessing which comes through them. This reflection justified
his past sufferings and prepared him for any that might come in the
future. He knew what he had been and he had learned that he was to be
purified by fire. So he felt that if God would be patient with him, he
would be patient with God's dealings. When he arrived at home he found
his family in a very needy condition. Shortly after his departure for
Colorado, his wife had to remove from the house she was occupying,
because she could not pay the rent. She had never taken care of herself
before or done any sort of work, for he always provided well for his
family; but now she saw it was necessary for her to support the family.
Accordingly, she took in sewing, and in that way did support them till
Mr. Holcombe's return. For six weeks after his return he could find
nothing to do, and Mrs. Holcombe, brave, noble woman, continued to
support the family with her needle. The time of her full deliverance was
coming, but it was not yet. Nor did she know when it would come, or that
it would ever come. But all the same she waited, and while she waited,
she served, and with a glad heart, too, for had not her husband turned
his face heavenward? And poverty seemed now a small thing.
Some time after Mr. Holcombe's return, his friend, Major Ed Hughes, was
elected Chief of the Fire Department in Louisville, and he made
application to him at once for a position. Major Hughes gave it to him
unhesitatingly; but, as Mr. Holcombe was entirely without experience, it
had to be a subordinate one, in which the salary was not large, being
only a dollar and a half per day. It was impossible for him to support
his family on so little, and though Mrs. Holcombe undertook to help him
out by keeping boarders and doing all the work herself, they got
behind all the time he was in the fire department. Finding that keeping
boarders after Mrs. Holcombe's liberal fashion was entirely
unprofitable, she gave that up and commenced taking in sewing again. She
even learned to make coats for clothing stores in Louisville, and
continued that for some time.
[Illustration: ENGINE HOUSE.]
Meanwhile, he was having a hard time in his subordinate position in the
fire department. In the first place he was required to be at the
engine-house night and day and Sundays, with the bare exception of a
half hour or such a matter at meal time. For a man of his nature and
habits this confinement was almost intolerable, and would have been
quite so, if he had not been radically changed. In the second place he
was subject to the orders of his superiors, though he had never been
obliged to obey anybody, and as a matter of fact never had obeyed
anybody since he was a mere infant. In the third place, notwithstanding
his experience, his knowledge of the world and his capacity for higher
work, he was required to do work which a well-trained idiot might have
done just as well. One of his duties was to rub the engine and keep it
polished. In order to clean some parts of it, he would have to lie down
on the floor under it flat on his back; and in order to clean other more
delicate parts of the machinery, he had to work in such places that he
was always bruising and skinning his hands.
If repeated failure in business in Louisville was hard, if starving in
Colorado was harder, the confinement and drudgery of his position at the
engine-house were hardest. It would require some effort to think of a
position more thoroughly disagreeable and trying than this one which Mr.
Holcombe filled to the satisfaction of his superiors for two mortal
years. But he was learning some things he needed to know. He was passing
through a necessary apprenticeship, though he did not know it, for
something vastly higher. It perhaps should be added that Mr. Holcombe
was practically isolated and alone at the engine-house, for none of the
men there employed were congenial companions. However, to their credit,
be it said, they showed great respect for him and for his Christian
profession; they quit gambling, they refrained from using obscene or
profane language in his presence, and, in general, were very kind to
him.
Nothing could lessen Mr. Holcombe's sympathy for the outcast and the
lost, and nothing destroy his zeal for their salvation. Though he was
not allowed to leave his post even on Sunday, without hiring, at his own
expense, a substitute, yet he frequently went to Shippingsport and other
places to hold services among the poor "with the hope," as he says, "of
helping and blessing them." He incurred the expense of a substitute that
he might, once in awhile, go out bearing light and blessing to others,
and he even took to his own home men who were trying to reform and live
better lives. In view of the condition of his family, this was doubtless
more than he ought to have done, and in after years he saw it was a
mistake, but such was his insatiable longing to help and bless others,
he let his zeal, perhaps, go beyond his prudence in that single
particular. Most of us err very far on the other side. He did not
hesitate to take to his home in some instances men who had gone in
their dissipation to the extent of delirium tremens. One such case was
that of a fine young fellow who belonged to an excellent family in
Louisville, but who through drink had gone down, down, down, until he
had struck bottom. During his drinking sprees he was the most forlorn
and wretched looking man in Louisville. He was at this time, by Mr.
Holcombe's invitation, staying at his house. He ate there, he slept
there; it was his home. But on one occasion, some time after midnight,
he was attacked with a frightful spell of delirium tremens, or, as he
said, the devils got after him. They told him, he said, that if he did
not kill Mr. and Mrs. Holcombe and their baby, they would kill him. He
heard them. They told him to go and get his razor, and he did it. Then
they advanced on him and he backed from them, his razor in hand. As they
advanced he retreated. He opened Mr. Holcombe's door (for he had hired a
substitute and remained at home on the night in question in order to
help his man through his spell). He backed to the bed in which Mr. and
Mrs. Holcombe were sleeping. He struck the bed as he retreated from the
devils, and Mrs. Holcombe awoke to find a demonized man standing over
them with a drawn razor. She woke her husband. He jumped out of bed,
caught the man's arm and took the razor from him. After that Mr.
Holcombe sat up with him the remainder of the night, and during most of
the time the man was talking to imaginary devils. About daylight he
snatched up a brickbat out of the hearth and rushed toward the door
saying there were three big men out there who had come to kill him. Mr.
Holcombe kept him with himself all next day. The next night while they
were walking together in the open air, the man imagined that a woman
whom he knew to be dead was choking him to death, and he was on the
point of dying with suffocation when Mr. Holcombe called a physician to
his aid.
Such was the kind of men Mr. Holcombe, even in those days of poverty and
discouragement, was trying to help and rescue, and such were his efforts
and trials and perils in rescuing them.
When Mr. Holcombe's pastor saw the grace of God that abounded in him, it
was plain to him that he might, in future, when a suitable opening
should come, make a very useful helper in the work of the church. In
order, therefore, that Mr. Holcombe might be prepared for an enlarged
sphere, if it should ever come, the pastor proposed to teach him in
certain lines and did so, visiting him regularly at the engine house for
that purpose. Mr. Holcombe studied very industriously, but it was with
extreme difficulty that he could apply himself to books at that time.
Later, however, he overcame to a great extent this difficulty and has
gotten now to be quite a student. He has attended also, for two years,
with great profit, the lectures of Dr. Broadus in the Baptist Seminary
in Louisville.
As has been said elsewhere, Mr. Holcombe remained in the fire department
for two years, enduring the confinement, performing the drudgery and
trying, as best he could, to help and bless others. Four years and more
had now elapsed since his conversion. It was a long stretch and at times
a heavy strain. But he endured it, and grew strong.