At last after years of love and faith and faithfulness Mrs. Holcombe has
her full reward and joy. The long twenty-five years of sorrow and
suspense passed by and her husband is what she unconsciously believed
her love had the power of waiting for him to become--a good man. And
more than a good man. He is consumed with the desire and somehow clothed
with the power of making other men good, of making bad men good, of
making the worst of bad men good. This he has now been doing, by God's
grace, for seven faithful years and more--and continues to do. Her
husband is honored and beloved for his character, his work and his
usefulness--no man, no minister in Louisville more so.
All her children are members of the church even down to little Pearl,
the latest-born. Her oldest son, her Willie, is happily married,
occupies the position of book-keeper with the Sievers Hardware Company
on Main street, and is an efficient officer of the church of God. Her
second daughter is happily married to a Christian man, "one of the best
of husbands," who is book-keeper in the old Kentucky Woolen Mills, of
Louisville. Her oldest daughter is a devoted Christian and serves with
equal efficiency as organist of the Mission and teacher in the
Kindergarten. Her baby-boy now eighteen years old and the rise of six
feet in height is a member of the church and a good boy. He also is
in business with the Sievers Hardware Company on Main street. And Pearl,
the blue-eyed, golden-haired, eight-year-old girl baby is, nobody dare
question, the flower of the flock. Her dead children are in heaven all,
for they died before they knew sin, and her living children are on the
way to heaven, all, for they trust in and serve Him who was manifested
to take away sin.
[Illustration: MRS. S. P. HOLCOMBE.]
Mrs. Holcombe helps her husband in his noble work and the "converts"
look on her as their spiritual mother as they regard him as their
spiritual father. She _might_ say with Simeon, the _Nunc dimittis_, "Now
lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy
salvation;" but instead of that she says with St. Paul, "Nevertheless to
abide in the flesh is more needful" for my husband, my children and the
work of Christ.
Mrs. Holcombe still has trials, but they are few and small, while her
blessings are many and great. She still has faults, perhaps, as most of
mortals have; but they are few and small, while her virtues are very
many and very great. Many daughters have done virtuously but few have
excelled this one in those qualities which constitute a noble womanly
character.
The following letter, written to her by her husband during a short visit
in the country, will show how that after so long a time of waiting, the
hope of her earliest love is realized at last.
LOUISVILLE, KY., May 29, 1888.
My Dear Wife:
Your letter to hand. I am so happy to know that you are having
a good time. Isn't God good to us? When we look back over our
past lives and see how good God has been to us, how thankful we
should be. Very little sickness in our immediate family and no
death in thirty years. The two babes that we lost thirty years
ago are safe in the arms of Jesus, and all the living ones are
sweetly trusting in Him. Let us from this hour be more earnest
and untiring in our efforts to save the children of others.
Kiss Mamie for me and then look in the glass and kiss yourself
a thousand times for him who loves you with a true, deep love.
Yours in life, yours in death,
STEVE P. HOLCOMBE.
Those who are familiar with Mr. Holcombe's career as a Christian worker
would regard any sketch of his life incomplete which did not contain
some account of the assault made upon him by three strange men in the
winter of 1887. A few months after his removal to the new quarters that
had been purchased by the Mission, he was attacked by three men in his
own house and severely injured. On a Sunday afternoon in January, 1887,
he heard some one walking in the hall on the second floor of the
building, and went out to see who it was. He found a man there whom he
had never seen before, and asked him who he was and what he wanted. The
man replied in an insolent, manner that he had come to visit a servant
girl who was at the time working in Mr. Holcombe's family. When Mr.
Holcombe asked him why he came into his private family apartments, the
man became more impudent and defiant, and gave utterance to some abusive
language. Already provoked at the man's audacity and alarmed at the
thought of what such a ruffian might have done to some one of his family
if he had been absent, Mr. Holcombe's quick nature now became so
exasperated that he forgot himself for a moment and thrust the man
violently down the stairway and out of the house. The man left the place
and Mr. Holcombe thought that was the end of it. But an hour or two
later some one knocked at his room door on the same floor, and as he
opened it, he saw himself confronted by three men, one of whom he
recognized as the man he had put out of the house. The two others
professed to be policemen who had come to arrest Mr. Holcombe, but when
he asked to see their badges of authority they seized him. One against
three, he resisted them with all his might, uttering no cry of distress
or call for help. In the struggle Mr. Holcombe's leg was broken, both
bones of it, and as he fell, with all his weight, the men thought he was
badly hurt and fled, leaving him lying helpless on the floor. He was
taken up by those whom he called and laid on his bed. Physicians were
sent for. The news spread in a few minutes all over the neighborhood,
and before night, all over the city. The Chief of Police, Colonel
Whallen, set his detectives to work looking for the men, and many
citizens, self-constituted detectives, inquired concerning the
appearance of the men and kept a sharp lookout for them. But they
succeeded in escaping, and it was, perhaps, well for them they did.
Before night Mr. Holcombe's room was crowded with friends filled with
sympathy and indignation. Drs. Kelly and Alexander set the broken limb
and gave Mr. Holcombe the unwelcome bit of information that he would
have to lie in his bed for some five or six weeks, a sore trial to his
restless spirit; but by the help of God he accepted it and settled down
to endure it, not knowing, however, what good he was to get out of it.
It was an opportunity for the people of Louisville to show their
estimation and appreciation of him, and it is safe to say that no man in
Louisville would have received the attentions and favors which this poor
converted gambler, Steve Holcombe, did receive. It reminds one of a
passage in Dr. Prime's account of the funeral of Jerry McAuley in the
Broadway Tabernacle in New York. Dr. Prime himself was to conduct the
funeral service, and this is what he says:
"We are going to-day to the tabernacle to talk of what Jerry McAuley was
and what he has done, to the little congregation that will gather there.
If it were Dr. Taylor, the beloved and honored pastor, the house would
be crowded and the streets full of mourners, but poor Jerry, he is dead
and who will be there to weep with us over his remains? Ah, how little
did I know the place poor Jerry held in the hearts of the people of this
vast city! I was to conduct the funeral and went early to complete all
arrangements. As I turned down from Fifth avenue through Thirty-fourth
street, I saw a vast multitude standing in the sunshine, filling the
streets and the square in front of the tabernacle. Astonished at the
spectacle and wondering why they did not go and take seats in the
church, I soon found that the house was packed with people so that it
was impossible for me to get within the door. Proclamation was made that
the clergy who were to officiate were on the outside, and a passage was
made for us to enter. What could be more impressive and what more
expressive of the estimate set upon the man and his work? There is no
other Christian worker in the city who would have called out these
uncounted thousands in a last tribute of love and in honor of his
memory."
The tribute which the people of Louisville paid to the work and worth of
Steve Holcombe _before_ his death was hardly less.
On Monday, the day following his misfortune, Mr. Holcombe's room was,
nearly all the day long, full of people of every grade, from the mayor
and the richest and finest people on Broadway and Fourth avenue, down to
the poor drunkard and outcast, who forgot his shabby dress and pressed
in among those fine people in order to see "Brother Holcombe," and find
out how he was. The ministers of the leading churches of every
Protestant denomination came with words of sympathy and prayer. Fine
ladies came in their carriages, bringing baskets of fruit and all sorts
of delicacies. Those who could not go sent letters and messages. And Mr.
Holcombe lay in his bed and wept--not for pain, but for gratitude and
humble joy. "Why," said he, "I would be willing to have half a dozen
legs broken to know that these people think so much of me and of my poor
efforts to be useful."
This, then, was the first compensation and blessing.
He learned also that it would be absolutely necessary for him to watch
more closely his impulsive and fiery temper, and get a better control of
it. For he does not deny that he was inexcusably hasty and severe in his
treatment of the impudent intruder.
And then he was temporarily relieved from the incessant demands and the
constant strain of his daily activity and his nightly anxiety. He had
time and opportunity, as far as the importunity and kindness of his
friends would allow, to get calmed, to look down into his own heart, to
analyze his motives, to study his own nature, to see his own faults, to
find out his own needs and to pray. He had been told by one of his
friends, that while he did not work too much, he did not pray _enough_,
and that he was, therefore, liable to be overtaken by some sudden
temptation and be betrayed into sin.
That same friend, in conducting service in one of the churches of the
city on that very Sunday morning, had offered special public prayer for
Mr. Holcombe and his work. He prayed specifically that if Brother
Holcombe needed a thorn in the flesh, to keep him humble, God would send
it. It was thought to be a special and speedy answer, that before
sundown of that very day, Mr. Holcombe did receive almost literally a
thorn in the flesh; a messenger of Satan it was withal to buffet him.
And Mr. Holcombe was the first to acknowledge that he needed this trial
and the threefold blessing which came with it.
The perpetrators of the cowardly deed were, some time afterward, caught
and imprisoned--every one of them. One of them has been pardoned and
released, and through Mr. Holcombe's kindly intervention the other two
probably will be, while through his friendly counsels one of them has
been brought to realize his own sinfulness, and has promised to live a
better life.
It would be out of the question to reproduce here all the written
messages of sympathy which Mr. Holcombe received during his confinement
from the injury he received. But one of them is too touching and
beautiful to be left out. It was written by Miss Jennie Casseday, a lady
of culture and refinement, who has, for eighteen years, been confined to
her "sick bed." She is well known as the originator of the "Flower
Missions," which, all over this country, have been the bearers of
blessing to many unblessed and unloved ones:
"SICK BED, January 18, 1887.
"_Dear Christian Friend_:
"I send you some lines which have been a great blessing to me:
"'I can not say,
Beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day,
I joy in these;
But I _can_ say
That I _had rather_ walk this rugged way
If Him it please.
"'I can not feel
That all is well, when darkening clouds conceal
The shining sun;
But then I know
God lives and loves, and say, since that is so,
"Thy will be done."
"'I can not speak
In happy tones; the tear-drops on my cheek
Show I am sad;
But I _can_ speak
_Of grace to suffer_ with submission meek,
Until made glad.
"'I do not see
Why God should e'en permit _some things_ to be;
When He is Love;
But I _can_ see,
Though often dimly, through the mystery,
His hand above.
"'I do not know
Where falls the seed that I have tried to sow
With greatest care;
But I shall know
The meaning of each waiting hour below
Sometime, somewhere.'
"Selected with tender sympathy.
"Your friend,
"JENNIE CASSEDAY."