railroad ties. He told me of a place near by, called the "Lost Land." A
year before that, my uncle's executor gave me a deed that was taken from
the old house at my oldest uncle's death. It was for a little slip of
land--an avenue--that my grandfather had bought in 1815. Well, I thought
nothing of it. I told the old negro woman that when everything was
settled up, I was going to give her that land; and I put the deed away
with other papers and forgot all about it. When I was worrying about the
means, and making efforts to get the means to get out of Virginia, this
man, who was hewing in the woods, told me about the little piece of
woodland that had so much sill timber on it, and he spoke of it as the
"Lost Land," and his speaking of the "Lost Land" reminded me of this
deed, and I hurried home, found the deed, and saw that it located the
land at about where he mentioned. I went to the County Surveyor, who had
succeeded his father and grandfather in the office, and we found that
the property of which this formed a part had been sold in large lots,
and it was there between the lines of the other property, unclaimed by
any one, and for seventy-three years had escaped taxation, because the
deed conveying it had never been recorded in the county books, and it
was supposed by the county officials that all of the original tract had
been divided off in the larger subdivisions. We found it, ran the lines
around it, and I sold ten acres for one hundred dollars--enough to pay a
grocery bill, buy me a suit of clothes and land me in Louisville.
I had loved the old place--loved it all my life, because I had spent
many days there when a happy, careless boy. My mother was born there, my
grandmother and my great-grandfather lie buried there. It was bought in
1782 by my great-grandfather, who was not only a gentleman but a
scholar. He graduated at the College of Physicians and Surgeons at
Edinburgh, and afterward spent seven years in Europe. I was very much
attached to the old place, and on leaving it I drank to deaden the pain.
I came here to Louisville, and I drank after I got here to keep from
thinking. I tell you things looked blue, and I tell you the fact, the
liquor I drank every day made me feel worse and worse, and my brain was
affected from the excitement I had passed through. I found myself in a
second or third-class hotel which stood nearly on the spot where I was
born. I lay in my room for three days. I came to the conclusion there
was no use kicking; the end was at hand. Fate had brought me back here,
where I was born, to die. I even said it to myself, "Destiny has brought
you back here, to the city where you were born, to die; and to die by
your own hands. You have no respect for yourself, nor have others
respect for you. You know by living you will bring further disgrace upon
the wife and child you love so well. If you will commit suicide people
will say, 'He was an unfortunate man, but a brave one; his only fault
was his drinking.'" I tried to shut out all thoughts of my wife and
child, but I could not. I said to myself, "I was born here; I have not
outraged the law; I have done nothing dishonorable; nothing why any man
related to me should shun me. But I have lost everything; I am accursed;
I am alone here. My wife's people know I am here, but do not communicate
with me. And they tell me there is a God." A man came to my room in the
hotel and said they wanted the room. "You say you have no money and no
friends, so we can not keep you here any longer. You must give us the
room." Under these circumstances I was coming nearer and nearer the
final determination to commit suicide when a man, a stranger, came into
my room who was himself a drunkard. I told him my condition and my
determination. He said, "Wait till I send that man Holcombe down to see
you. Maybe he can help you." Mr. Holcombe dropped everything and came to
me at once. I did not know who he was. He said, "My name is Holcombe: I
am from the Mission." Well, sir, if he had commenced at me as most
preachers would have done, and told me in a sort of mechanical way that
I had brought it all on myself, I would have said, "I am much obliged to
you for your politeness and your well-meant efforts, but it does me no
good, and I am very much distressed and would much prefer to be alone."
He said, "There is no use trusting in yourself; you can not save
yourself." That struck me at once as a correct diagnosis of my case, and
I said, "That is just the conclusion I have come to myself." Then he
told me what had been done for him, and he got down on his knees and
prayed. And when he prayed for me and my wife and child, that is what
reached my heart. I said "There is _something_ in that man's religion at
any rate. I do not believe in this stuff I have seen in the churches;
but there is something in that sort of religion. It is the last straw I
have to catch at. I will try it." I got up out of bed where I had been
for three wretched days, and came up to the Mission. There I came in
contact with some influence I had never felt before. I came to the
conclusion that there was truth in the Christian religion, and I said,
"That is all right, but that is not what I want. I want that inward
consciousness that I am not going to drink." I might get up and say, "I
am ready to confess I am wrong; I believe religion is right; I have seen
evidences of it; I believe you are right and I am wrong. But I had no
inward consciousness of any change in me, and I did not feel secure or
in any way protected against the habit of drinking." I knew if there was
anything in religion, there must be something a man would be conscious
of. I said, "There is something in this religion, but I have not got the
hang of it." It occurred to me that perhaps after all, my chief motive
and desire in all this was the welfare of my wife and child and the
recovery of our domestic happiness. And lying on that bed I said, "I am
willing to do anything. There is nothing that I am not willing to do, if
I can only get rid of this appetite. I will get up and state that I was
a drunkard; I will acknowledge every tramp as my brother; and, although
I have no desire to do it, I will go out and preach. Just let me know
that I am free from this thing and that I can go on in life;" and all at
once--I could not connect the thought and result together--there came
upon me a perfect sense of relief. I was just as conscious then of
divine interposition as I ever was afterward; and I said to myself,
"This is what they call regeneration," and turned over and went to
sleep. From that time I commenced a new sober life; and I never have
wanted liquor; I never have had a desire for it since, and it is now
going on two years.
I think many men are called, but few are chosen. There are a great many
men who get far enough in the surrender to feel good and change their
opinions; but they do not get down to the bed-rock of regeneration. I do
not believe in any change, or in any doctrine that says there is
regeneration through anything except a complete surrender. Men are ready
to believe that Christ was the son of God, but go straight home and
continue their old way of life. They must say, "I will not only quit
serving the devil, but I will commence serving God." "Thou shall love
the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul and with all thy
strength."
I do not let theological opinions disturb me now. My simple faith and
theology is this: That I have the peace of God and He keeps me. I have
knowledge of God's power and mercy, and feel that God keeps me.
My wife and child have come back and are now with me, and are as happy
as they can be; and there is not a man in this country with less money
and more happiness than I. I am happier than I ever was in my life.
NOTE.--Captain Martin is now engaged in business in the house
of Bayless Bros. & Co., Louisville.
R. N. DENNY.
I was born in 1846 in the State of Illinois. At that time, before there
were many railroads, it was a comparatively backwoods country where I
was raised. Our nearest market was St. Louis, sixty miles from where we
lived. My father kept a country store there, and hauled his produce to
St. Louis. My father was a professed Christian, so also was my
grandfather, yet each of them kept a demijohn of whisky in the house.
They would prepare roots and whisky, and herbs and whisky, which was
used for all kinds of medical purposes and for all kinds of ills that
flesh is heir to; and I believe at that time I got the appetite for
whisky, if I did not inherit it. I have drunk whisky as far back as I
can remember. I had a great many relatives who were Christians; but I
gloried in my obstinacy and would have nothing to do with Christianity.
In my seventeenth year I went into the army. Of course, being among the
Romans, I had to be a Roman, too; and consequently, the drinking habit
grew upon me; and I acquired also a passion for gambling. After the war
I did not do much good. I drifted about from place to place for
something over a year, and then joined the regular army. I belonged to
the Seventh Regular Cavalry, Custer's command, which was massacred on
the Little Big Horn. At that time I did not belong to the command, as my
time had expired some time before.
I came to Louisville in 1871, and commenced working as a restaurant and
hotel cook. I was very apt at the business, and was soon able to command
the best situations to be had, having been _chef_ at the Galt House.
During all this time I had been a drunkard in different stages. I was
what is called a "periodical drunkard." I often braced up and went
without a drink for six months or a year--something like that length of
time--and always had work when I was not drinking; but I became so
unreliable, that I could get no employment when another man could be
had. It was said of me everywhere, "Denny is a good man, but he drinks."
About 1873 I got married, and up to 1883 I had four children. Of course,
my drinking, and everything of that kind, brought my family to want--in
fact, to beggary. For a long time I always took my wages home on
pay-day, and my wife, in her good-heartedness, always offered me money;
would often ask me of a morning if I did not feel bad, and would give me
fifteen cents or a quarter, not knowing that she was giving me money for
my own damnation, until the year of the first Exposition here--1882. I
had a position there at twelve dollars a week. I stayed there ten weeks;
and I do not believe I got home with five dollars in the whole ten
weeks. The man with whom I worked had a bar attachment to his
restaurant, and I could get what credit I wanted there; and on Saturday
night when I found my wages were short, I would get drunk, and conclude
to try and win something at gambling, but I invariably lost.
At the close of the Exposition, it was on the verge of winter, and times
were very dull. I was behind with my rent and in debt to everybody I
could get in debt to, my family were without decent clothing, had no
fire, and I was almost naked myself, with no prospects of a situation. A
short time afterward I got a position on a steamboat, which paid me
fairly well, and which I believe I kept two, maybe three, weeks, and got
drunk as usual. I failed to take my money home, and, of course, told my
wife some lie. I had to say something. Sometimes my wife believed me,
and sometimes she did not. At that time it was winter, it must have been
in December, and very cold. My children were barefooted, and I was just
about to be set out on the street because I had not paid my rent. I woke
up one very cold morning very early, and we had not a morsel of food in
the house or coal to make a fire with. I walked down toward the river
and met the same man I had been working with a few weeks before. He
stopped and asked me if I did not want to go back on the boat. I told
him I would be glad to go back. He asked me how long before I would get
drunk; and I said, as I had said a thousand times before, "I will never
drink again." I made one trip, which was three days, and got drunk. It
was on the second day of January, 1883, that I shipped, and I came back
on the fifth, which was the coldest day I ever saw in Louisville. The
thermometer was twenty-six degrees below zero between New Albany and the
mouth of Salt river. There were during these dark days a few charitable
people that used to give my family some of the necessaries of life--and
but for that I can not see how they would have kept from starvation. I
appreciated my situation nearly all the time, knew how wrong I was
doing, would admit it to myself but would not admit it to anybody else.
If a man had called me a drunkard, I would have called him a liar.
In the providence of God the Fifth and Walnut-street church established
the Holcombe Mission near where I lived, and among other waifs picked up
on the street and taken to the Sunday-school were my children. While I
had always been pretty bad myself, I had always tried to teach my
children better. I shuddered at the thought of my boys going on in the
way that I was going. When they went to Sunday-school and learned the
songs there and came home and sang them, it broke me all to pieces. I
had nothing left to do but to go and get drunk in self-defense. The
Sunday-school teacher (Mrs. J. R. Clarke), who taught my children, had
been trying to find me for a long time. She must have thought from
seeing my children at Sunday-school that there was some good in me; and
after awhile she sent me a Bible with a great many passages marked in
it. She was looking for me and had sent for me to come and see her, and
I had been trying to keep out of her way for a long time. Finally she
found me at home one day, and would take no excuse, but insisted that I
must come to Holcombe's Mission; and, of course, I promised to go,
because I could not help myself. I could not get out of it; and if I had
a redeeming trait in the world, it was that I would not break a positive
promise.
I promised her to come, and that day I did go. They were holding
noon-day meetings at the time. I do not remember just now that I was
very deeply impressed. I was of a skeptical turn of mind and very
critical. I well remember I criticised all the testimonies given there;
but the thing was so strange to me, so different from anything that I
was used to, that I was very considerably impressed in a strange kind of
way, which is unaccountable to me even now. I had taken a seat near the
door, so that I might get out very quick; but Brother Holcombe headed me
off, and caught me before I got to the door. I did not know him
personally at that time, but had known of him for a long time. Of
course, I could not get out of the Mission without promising to come
again. After having come two or three times, I was asked to say
something, but did not feel like saying anything. Finally I stood up one
day, perhaps the third or fourth day I was there. It was not a time when
they were asking people if they wanted an interest in their prayers. I
got up and said I wanted an interest in their prayers that I might be
saved from myself. I had known for a long time that I was helpless, so
far as delivering myself from drink was concerned. I knew nothing about
Christianity, in fact, I did not care much about it, because I had not
studied on the subject, and would not study on the subject. For many
years I had not dared to stop and think seriously about such a subject,
but when I heard that the Gospel of Christ was able to deliver such a
man as I, I heard it gladly, because I had found there was no earthly
power that could deliver such a man as I was. In the meantime, I had
been reading my Bible, and had committed some of it to memory; and there
was a good deal of mystery attached to the whole thing--things that I
could not understand. When they asked me to speak, I quoted a passage
from the Bible. One day I quoted the passage about a man having put his
hand to the plow and looking back, not being worthy of the kingdom of
God. Brother Messick, pastor of the church which I afterward joined,
prayed directly afterward, and in his prayer he quoted this passage of
Scripture, and prayed in such an encouraging and helpful way, that I
rose from my knees satisfied in my heart that I was changed.
Well, from that time until now I have never drunk anything. That was in
January or February, 1883. I have never had a desire for liquor but once
since. Last summer I went to Crab Orchard. I was _chef_ down there, and
I had to handle very choice wines and liquors in my business, and I
handled one brand of wine that I was particularly fond of in old times.
I was tempted that time to drink wine. It seemed the tempter said to me:
"You are way down here where nobody knows anything about you. It is
good, and you know it won't hurt you. It don't cost you anything and it
is nothing but wine, and you need not take too much." At that time I
could get all the liquor I wanted. If I wanted it, I could order a
hogshead of it just by a scratch of the pen. With that single exception,
I have never had a temptation to drink. I don't know that I had an
appetite to drink then. It was a clear cut temptation from without, and
not from within.
I have had no trouble about getting positions since my conversion and
deliverance from the appetite for drink. My family are well housed, well
clothed and well fed, and have everything they need, and have had since
the time I became a Christian man. They themselves are the greatest
evidences in the world of what Christianity can do for a man. A short
time ago--six months ago--I established myself in business, and have
been doing a thriving, prosperous business from that time until now.
I might say something about my going to the work-house: Two years ago,
or a little over, I was asked to go to the work-house one Sunday
evening. I was very much impressed with the necessity for working for
the poor men there. I was at that time identified with the Mission work,
and the services at the work-house were all under the auspices of the Y.
M. C. A. I continued going to the work-house for some length of
time--three or four months. The Y. M. C. A. very kindly divided time
with me and other Mission workers. After having gone to the work-house
three or four months, I stopped going. The Chairman of the Devotional
Committee of the Y. M. C. A. sent for me and gave me charge of the
work-house and jail, which, of course, I accepted in the name of the
Mission; and from that time until now both of them have been under
Mission workers. I was very anxious to return to the work-house, but our
head decided that I should take the jail, where I have continued to go
for a year and a half--I suppose about that length of time--every Sunday
when I was in the city, with possibly one or two exceptions.
NOTE.--Mr. Denny is at present the joint-proprietor, with Mr.
Ropke, of a thriving restaurant on Third street, between
Jefferson and Green, Louisville.
[Illustration: B. F. DAVIDSON.]
B. F. DAVIDSON.
Twenty years ago I resided in the city of Cincinnati; was President of a
Boatman's Insurance Company, proprietor of a ship chandlery, and
interested largely in some twenty odd steamboats; and also interested
largely in other insurance companies, and was rated as worth half a
million of dollars. Through depreciation in property, bad debts, and
indorsing for other parties largely, in four years I had lost all my
money. To retrieve my fortune, I then started West, not being willing,
of course, to accept a position where I had been a proprietor. While
there, associating with the miners and Western people generally, I
contracted the habit of drinking. This grew upon me and was continued,
with short intermissions of soberness, up to four years ago--about last
January. I was brought very low as a consequence of my dissipation, and
I have traveled as a tramp from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from
the lakes to the Gulf, spending my time in alternately fighting and
yielding to the demon of drink. For five years previous to my coming to
Louisville, I had given up all hope of ever being able to make anything
of myself, as I had tried, in vain, every known remedy to cure me of the
appetite. My pride was effectually humbled, and I was in despair.
From the time that I went West--which was in 1872--until my arrival in
1884, my children, a daughter and son, knew not whether I was dead or
alive--knew nothing of me whatever. After I took to drink, I lost all
interest in them and everything else.
As soon as I got off the ferry-boat in Louisville, in as sad a plight as
any wretched man was ever in, I met an old friend, who had known me in
years previous, and who handed me two dollars, requesting me to call at
his office the next morning, when he would give me such assistance as I
needed. The two dollars I spent that day for whisky. That night I begged
a quarter to pay for my lodging. The next day, by begging, I filled up
pretty well on whisky again. Toward evening I went into a Main-street
house and asked a gentleman for a quarter to pay for a night's lodging,
I had lost all pride, all self-respect, and could beg with a brazen
face. The gentleman handed me a card of Holcombe's Mission. As I did not
know or care anything about missions or churches, I merely stuck the
card in my pocket and went on my way. After walking around for some time
I heard the remark: "There goes that old man now." Upon looking up I
recognized the gentleman whom I last asked for a quarter to pay for a
night's lodging, and another man, engaged in conversation. The other
gentleman, who proved to be the Rev. Steve Holcombe, of Holcombe's
Mission, took me by the hand and invited me up to the Mission rooms,
where I told him my story. He asked me if I ever had asked God through
Jesus Christ to assist me in my endeavors to become a sober man. I told
him I had not, as I had made up my mind years ago that God had no use
for me. I felt as though I had sinned beyond redemption.
I had left home very early in life. My mother was the best Christian
woman I had ever seen. She was a Methodist, but she never could preach
Christianity to me--I fell back on my own righteousness. I did not
drink, I did not smoke, I did not chew, I did not swear, I did not run
after women, I did not loaf around saloons like other young men. When my
mother was after me to join the church, I told her that would not make
me any better: "Look at your church members; is that man any better than
I am?" My sister, along toward the last, having joined the Episcopal
church, I took two pews in that church; was a lay member, but I did not
attend it. That was in Newport--St. Paul's Episcopal church, Newport.
When the minister insisted on my going to church, I told him that while
he would be preaching sermons I would be building steamboats, so his
sermons would not do me any good.
After I got to drinking, my poor daughter did not see me. I did not go
to my children at all. I never got but one letter from them during that
time, from 1872 to 1884, and that was a letter that went to Cincinnati,
and they held it there, I believe, for two years. I was at Cincinnati a
good many times; but they could never get me to stay there long enough
to get my children down to see me. As soon as I had an idea that they
were manoeuvring for anything of that kind, I would get out of town at
once, and they would not know where I had gone.
During my life as a tramp, there is no kind of work that can be thought
of that I did not work at more or less, and the money I
earned--sometimes I earned as much as eight dollars a day--eventually
went to the barkeepers; I could not even buy my clothes.
After a long talk with Brother Holcombe, I told him that, having tried
everything else, I was perfectly willing to try God. That night I went
to church, and went up to be prayed for. There was no regular meeting at
the Mission then, from the fact that the church that was running the
Mission had a revival. So, with Brother Holcombe, I went around to the
revival meeting at the Fifth and Walnut-street church. When the
invitation was given for those who wanted to be prayed for to come
forward, I was among the first to accept it, and went up clothed in all
my rags. After prayer I felt much better than I had for many years. That
night I went back and lay on the floor in the Mission, having refused an
invitation from Brother Holcombe to go to a boarding-house, telling him
if God, in His mercy, would take from me the appetite for strong drink,
I had still strength and will enough left to make my own living. The
next morning I asked Brother Holcombe to go with me to the paper-mill of
Bremaker-Moore Company, where they were building a dam to prevent an
overflow from stopping the engines in the paper-mill. I secured a
position there, at a dollar and a quarter a day, to shovel mud. As soon
as the river commenced to fall that occupation was gone; but the
superintendent of the mill, becoming in the meantime somewhat acquainted
with my history, offered me a situation inside, which I held for three
weeks, when I was sent for to see the business manager of the _Post_. I
accepted a position on the _Post_ as advertising solicitor at fifteen
dollars a week, which was afterward increased to twenty-five. I was then
made business manager, at thirty dollars, which position I now hold.
I can say this: That while I had an abundance of means to find
happiness, pleasure and contentment, and had sought it in every possible
way that a man could, I failed to find it until I accepted Christ as my
Saviour, and gave myself into His hands. Since then I have had a
happiness I never knew before. My life has been one of constant peace
and uninterrupted prosperity. My children are both happily married, and
I have married myself.
Though I was before so proud that I could not accept my mother's
teaching, I was at a point where I would have accepted anything. They
would tell me that doctor so-and-so would cure me; which was no kindness
to me, because it kept me from asking God's help. But nothing would do
me any good. So I said, "God, here I am; accept me. If there is any good
in me, bring it out. I am down, down, down; I can not help myself."
Brother Holcombe had told me what God had done for him. I had confidence
in him from the start, from the fact of his having told me he was a
gambler so long; and when he told me God had redeemed him from the
desire for gambling, I thought he might take away the appetite for drink
from me; and He has done so, I am very thankful to say. I expect I was
the worst-looking sight you ever saw, but I do not take a back seat now
for any one--I look as well as anybody. As I told a man last week: "With
the Lord on my side, I do not fear anything!" I had had charge of men,
and had succeeded in managing them. I did not accept religion because I
was a weak-minded man. As evidence of that, I have proved it since as I
had proved it before. I proved that when I was trying to be a good man
in my own way. I have proved since that I was not a weak-minded man
from the responsible positions I have held and do hold.
But, as I was going to say, I had not shaved for two years, and had not
had my hair cut, I am satisfied, for one year. My hair was hanging down
on my shoulders; my face, of course, not very clean; my clothes were
rags. My shoes were simply tops, and the gentleman who gave me these two
dollars, told me: "Captain, you are the hardest-looking man I ever saw
in my life. I do not know how I recognized you." I said: "This is the
condition I am in, and drinking has brought me to it."
I have been asked by several prominent men how it is I get up night
after night and tell people how bad I have been. I told them it was like
this; if they had been sick nigh unto death and were going to die, and a
physician came and gave them some medicine and made whole men out of
them, would they not be going around the streets telling people about
that physician? I said that is the reason I get up every night and tell
people about it. Christ was the physician that healed me. That is the
remedy I have for all evil now--the blood of Jesus Christ. It was
utterly impossible for a man to exist and be in a worse condition than I
was. I was physically and mentally a wreck; and now by accepting
Christ--becoming a Christian--I am physically, morally, mentally and
spiritually restored and well. That is the reason why I do not hesitate
to tell anybody--even people coming into my office. An editor of a paper
said to me: "Is it possible you were a tramp?" I told him it was; and he
was talking something about attacking me through his paper, about what
I had been. I said, "Blaze away; it won't hurt me. I do not deny having
been a tramp and a drunkard--everything that was mean. But what am I
now?" I do not care what they bring back of my past record; they can not
hurt me, for I do not deny it. It is what I am now. I think now that I
was as bad and mean as a man could possibly be. But I am no longer what
I was, by the grace of Him who called me out of the former darkness into
His light.
[Illustration: H. C. PRICE.]
H. CLAY PRICE.
I used to know Brother Holcombe in those days; knew him to be a gambler.
He was considered one of the best of gamblers, but I always looked upon
him as being an honorable gambler, so far as I have heard. I knew him
even before he was a gambler.
Well, my father and mother were very pious, my mother especially. She
was a praying woman, and everybody knew her by the name of "Aunt
Kittie," and my father as "Uncle Billy." My father did not think it was
any harm to play cards in the parlor every night. When I was young he
loved to play whist. I had a sister older than I, sixteen or seventeen
years old, and she used to invite young men, and father used to invite
them, to come there and play cards; and the moment they commenced to fix
the table, my father beckoned his head to me, and I knew what that
meant--to get out. We had a young negro that used to wait on the ladies
in the parlor, and he told me one time, "You steal a deck of cards and I
will show you how to play cards." And I stole a deck of cards from the
house and we went back in the stable; and that is the way I came to
learn how to play cards. I was twelve or fifteen years old at that
time--not any older than that--and I commenced playing cards for money,
and I kept on playing cards for money with the boys; for money or for
anything. I was sent off to school--to St. Mary's College, and we got to
playing cards there for money, and we were caught, and the oldest one
was expelled from school, and I promised never to do it any more, and
the other boys promised not to do it any more, and they did not. But I
kept on and I was caught playing cards, and I was expelled from school.
After that my father sent me to St. Joseph's College in Ohio. I ran off
from that school and came home, and I was appointed a Deputy Marshal by
my brother-in-law, W. S. D. McGowen; and I got to gambling then sure
enough and running after women; and about that time the war came on, and
I went off with my brother-in-law into the army, and I gambled all
through the army--everywhere I could get five cents to play with. All I
had I gambled away. I came back home and I gambled here; played in the
faro banks all the time. And a proprietor of a gambling house by the
name of Jo. Croxton came to me and said, "You are too good a man to be
gambling around. I will give you an interest, and you can take charge of
my house." I did not know much about gambling, but I knew how to take
care of his house. He gave me the bank roll; and I went on down and
down.
I was married then and had a faithful, gentle and devoted wife, but I
thought I was smarter than anybody about gambling, and I thought I could
make big money, and so I would leave my wife, devoted and dependent as
she was, and I kept traveling on around the country, going to different
towns. I went to Nashville; from there I went to New Orleans. I came
back to Nashville. I left Nashville and went to Huntsville, Ala.; came
back here and went to St. Louis; then to Chicago and Lexington. After
that I went back to Nashville again. I made a good deal of money if I
could have kept it; but the Lord would not let me have it. I averaged
here for years and years $500 a month. Sometimes I made more--made as
much as $1,700 a month, and once I went up as high as $2,100 a
month--made big winnings. As fast as I got this money I could not keep
it--threw it away on women all the time and gambling against the bank
and poker; would spit at a mark for money. I have lost hundreds and
hundreds of dollars without getting off of my seat, with men I knew were
robbing me all the time. It was a passion I had to gamble and I'd not
stop. In one game of poker that I was in I bet and lost $900 on one
hand, and I have never played at poker since that time.
When the gambling-houses were broken up here in Louisville, I concluded
I would go off to Chicago. I had some money and I went to Chicago; and
as soon as I got there, I got broke, lost all the money I had. I was
among strangers and I was dead broke. Finally I got another situation,
and worked there for some time. I then got hold of some money again, and
I came home and remained some time. My wife was begging me all the time
not to go away--did not think I ought to go away; she said that I could
stay here and get some work to do, and make an honest living. But I
thought I had better go back to Chicago and make some money; and I made
some money as soon as I got there by playing faro bank; and I did very
well at that time, made a good deal of money; and you know how a man
feels when he has five hundred dollars in his pocket; and yet all that
time I did not send my wife anything. I thought I would get about one
thousand dollars and open some kind of a bar-room or cigar shop, or
something of the kind. But the day before Christmas I got to playing
against the faro bank, and got broke; and I was the most miserable man
in the world, to think that I had lost the last chance I had. The day
before Christmas my wife wrote me, "Why don't you come home? I had
rather see you home than there again making money," I said, "Yesterday I
got broke--I played to win. I had nothing to eat all day." But
accidentally I found a twenty-five cent piece in my pocket; and I got up
and went and bought a ten-cent dinner, and paid fifteen cents for a
cigar. I have done that many times, I suppose, bought a quarter dinner
and given the other quarter for a cigar. I just got to studying about
it, studying about what I was to do. I said, "If I come back to
Louisville, I will starve. I am not competent to keep a set of books, or
clerk anywhere; but," I said, "I will go back if I do starve." So I
wrote to my patient wife: "I have lost every cent I had in the world, I
have got to work one week longer to make enough money to come home on,
and I am coming. You may look for me the first of next week." As soon as
they paid me off that evening I jumped on the cars and came home, having
just the money to pay my fare.
Before this Brother Holcombe had met me time and again after he had been
converted. He used to come after me; and every time he would see me, may
be I would be looking at something in the street--he would hit me on the
shoulder and say, "How do you do, old boy?" and then he would talk to me
about my salvation, and about Jesus Christ. I used to hide from him;
but it looked like every time he came around he would nail me, and talk
to me about Jesus. That was when I was gambling here and prosperous. He
told me about my mother and told me I ought to quit gambling. I said,
"Brother Holcombe, what shall I do if I quit gambling? I have no way to
make a living." He said, "Look to God, and He will help you." I went
away about that time; and as soon as I came back, every time he would
see me he would nail me again. After awhile I got interested in him. I
would look for him and when I would catch him, I would say, "You can not
get away from me now." That was after I came from Chicago. I had nowhere
to go except to visit bar-rooms. So I began to go down around the old
Mission every night. I heard the singing and praying down there. One
night I said, "I am going to see Brother Holcombe." The clock struck
eight, and I said "I am not going in to-night, it is too late. I will go
to-morrow;" and to-morrow night came and I went down there and went in
very early, before they commenced singing; and they sang and prayed and
Brother Holcombe preached, and the next night I went, and the next night
I went, and I went every night. And then they moved up here on Jefferson
street and after they moved up here, I stayed away a week, and then I
commenced coming again; and here I am now, thank God. I think God has
been my friend all the way through. To think He has let me go as far as
He could, and at last brought me home. I tell you it is a great thing
for a man that has been living the life I have, to get up and say that
he is now a child of God.
It came gradually, a little bit of it at a time, but when I was down in
the Mission that night, God came to me in full power, I felt that I did
not care what happened to me. I was willing to go if God called on me.
Whatever He said I was willing to do. After my conversion I got a place
where I was making a dollar a day, at Robinson's, on Ninth, between
Broadway and York streets, and I worked there until I went up on a new
railroad. They promised to give me forty-five dollars a month. I thought
at the time, and so did Brother Holcombe, I would get forty-five dollars
a month. He said, "You will get forty-five dollars a month, and it is so
much easier than the work you are doing." I thought they would pay all
my expenses and I worked up there at forty-five dollars and I had to pay
all my own expenses; and all I received was not a cent more or less than
thirteen dollars a month. But I was happier a thousand times--I will say
a hundred thousand times--than I was with six or seven hundred dollars a
month.
You may think gamblers are happy, and it looks like it; but they are
not--they are miserable. Just to look back in our lives and think what
we have done with all the money! It is nothing to be compared with the
life of a Christian. If I could go back to-morrow and make a million
dollars gambling, I would not do it. I would say, "Take your million of
dollars. I will stay where I am." My wife is the best woman in the
world. I leave her at home and she is reading the Bible. You can not go
in there any time, when she is not at work, that she is not either
singing or reading the Bible. She was raised a Catholic. She is now
trying to help me along. She has joined the Methodist church; she is
with me. I do not think she was a Christian before we came in contact
with Brother Holcombe. It was just her interest in me, and her patient,
long-suffering love. She never went to church nor prayed nor knelt down.
She prayed after she went to bed like I did, for I said prayers every
day even then. I always said, "If I forget, God will forget me." Every
day of my life I prayed; and if I forgot it, I asked the Lord to forgive
me; but I never would kneel down. I prayed after I went to bed; but now
I get down on my knees and pray. Do you know how we do at night? We get
down on our knees and say the Lord's prayer; and after we get through, I
pray; and after I get through, the old lady prays. You see the old lady
was raising our little girl up to be a Catholic; and I said to her,
after we were converted--maybe a month afterward--"I don't know whether
I am right or wrong--I want you to say--do you not think it is right to
teach Kittie to do the way we do in our prayers? I think it would be a
sin to try to teach her any other way. Now, let us set her an example,
and she will come over gradually and gradually until she will be one of
us." She has asked her mother about Jesus. She said to her mother one
day, "I can't pray like you all can." The old lady said to her, "You
will learn after awhile." Last night I was out late, and when I came
home she said, "We will all kneel down and pray." We started off, "Our
Father, who art in heaven," and Kittie went along with us, repeating it.
She knows all that, you know. After we were done saying that, I prayed;
and after I got through the old lady prayed; and after we had prayed I
said, "Kittie, you must say your prayer." She said, "I can not pray
like you do." But she did the best she could.
If you ask me how I came to change my life, it was this way: I knew that
Brother Holcombe was a good man, and knew that he was reformed and I had
so much faith in him, and I studied about that so much that I just
thought if he could be such a good man, why could not I be a good man;
and that is the way it came. I tell you, backwardness is a fault with a
good many preachers. If I was a preacher and I saw a man on the street
that I saw was going wrong, I would go right up to him and touch him on
the shoulder. I do it now--I never let him get away; I never let a
friend of mine get away, I do not care who he is. I go to him and tell
him what God has done for me. I say, "Why don't you come up to the
Mission? Don't you know Brother Holcombe?" If he says "No; I don't live
here," I say, "If you come up there, we will be pleased to see you. You
don't know what good it might do your soul."
I do wish I had an education. I reckon there has been more money spent
on me than on all the rest of my family. I went to three colleges; was
expelled from one and ran away from the other two. I was the worst boy
on earth; there is no use talking. I would rather fight that eat; but no
more fighting for me; I am done. You know that I have been trying to get
work to do, and at last I have found a place. I am earnestly praying
every day more and more--I _can_ pray now. A man asked me the other
day--I don't know whether I answered him right or not--he asked me, "Do
you ever expect to go back to gambling?" I said, "I would starve to
death before I would gamble any more." He said, "What about your
wife--if you knew your wife was going to starve, would you gamble?" I
said, "Before I would let my wife and child starve, I would gamble--I
would gamble to get them something to eat; but," I said, "there is no
danger of their starving. But you put that question to me so strong." I
said, "I know that God would not censure me for that, but there is no
danger of it."
I wish I could say more. I know I mean what I have said, God knows I do,
and it is all true as near as I can remember.
NOTE.--Mr. Price is a brother of the late Hon. J. Hop Price,
for many years a well-known lawyer and judge in Louisville. He
is now engaged as night watchman on Main street.
MILES TURPIN.
I had the example of Christian parents, and, of course, I had the
benefit of a Christian education; but, like all young men, I was rather
inclined to be wild; and after I had served four years in the
Confederate army, my habits were formed rather for the worse. After I
had returned home, being without avocation, I naturally resorted to what
all idle men do; that was the beginning. I contracted the habit of
frolicing, gambling and drinking, in that early period of my life, which
has followed me through all these years, up to March 14, 1886, when,
after considerable journeying through North America and portions of
Mexico, I happened in Cincinnati, and heard a great many times about
Steve Holcombe's conversion. Having known Steve in his gambling days, it
occurred to me, like all persons in pursuit of happiness, going from
place to place and not finding it, that if there was such a change and
improvement in Steve as the newspapers described, I would come to
Louisville and see for myself concluding that if religion had done so
much for him, it might do something for me. I was a dissipated
man--dissipated in the extreme. I had contracted this habit of drinking,
and was rarely ever sober. I have some capacity, as a business man, and
I have had a great many positions, but I had to give them up from this
habit of drinking. While a man would express his deep friendship for me,
he would say his business would not tolerate my drinking; consequently,
I have been frequently but politely dismissed.
I had lived in I don't know how many places in the United States, I had
lived in New Orleans, Savannah, Ga., Charleston, S. C., Birmingham,
Montgomery, Selma, Vidalia, La., Cincinnati, Louisville, Ky., Macon,
Ga., Pensacola, Fla., Fernandina, Fla., throughout the length and
breadth of Western Mexico, Lower California and the Pacific coast, and
through the State of Texas, end to end. In all these tortuous windings I
was searching for happiness; but a man who is more or less full of
whisky and without the religion of Jesus Christ is of necessity unhappy,
in himself, and, in consequence, shunned by his fellowmen. No man can
wander around the world in that condition without feeling a void which
human wisdom can not fill; and I was forced to this conclusion by a
careful survey of my past career. The desperation of the case was such,
that I resolved if I could not find employment, and if I could not find
happiness, which I then knew nothing about, I would destroy myself. I
have contemplated suicide many times with the utmost seriousness; and I
certainly in my sinful life was not afraid of death. But then it was
because I was in despair.
I was in Cincinnati; had previously held a political position there,
which paid me quite a handsome sum; but in the change of politics my
pecuniary condition changed, and I found myself alone, poor and full of
rum and corruption; as vile a sinner as ever lived. It was at that time
that I heard of Steve. I was in a deplorable condition; I knew not where
to turn for comfort, and it occurred to me that if I could go to
Louisville and have these assertions verified about Steve's regeneration
and if I could see and satisfy myself. I would do so, as vile as I was,
and ask God to have mercy upon me. Of course, I was an infidel (at
least, I imagined myself an infidel), an atheist, if you please, and my
chief delight was deriding all Christian work, and ridiculing the Bible;
and to more thoroughly uphold my atheistical notions I went so far as to
defame the Saviour of mankind, not in vulgar language or profane, but by
a mode of expression that was plain and unmistakable. _Now_, I do not
see how a man can be an infidel. When a man says he is an atheist, I
believe he is a liar. A man must be insane who does not recognize a
Supreme Power and the Master-hand that made the world, and who does not
rely upon and give obedience to that Higher Power. I do not believe that
any atheist is honest in the announcement that he does not believe in
God or a Creator. I believe now, since my conversion, that no man is in
his right mind unless he has the habit of prayer.
All nature points to the existence of a Creator--every action of life,
every hair of the head shows an unseen hand. If it is a mistake, it is a
mistake man can never fathom; but if not and if, as we are told by the
word of faith, you believe, you shall be saved. If you cast your burden
upon Him, and there is a possibility of a hereafter, you lose nothing in
this world. A man is wiser, purer, more companionable, more affectionate
and more charitable. There must be immortality of the soul; there must
be a future reward. Reflection upon these great facts induced me to
become a Christian man. As I had served the devil so long as one of his
allies, and had been treated so badly by him. I deserted him and put my
faith in God, where I intend to remain the remainder of my life.
I got to Louisville a little over a year ago, the 15th of March, and
went immediately to find Mr. Holcombe. He was sitting by the fire. He
knew me at once. I shook hands with him and sat down by the fire, and
had a conversation with him. He immediately entered upon the subject of
religion, and I told him my condition. I told him what I wanted to do--I
wanted to see for myself if it was possible for a man like him to become
regenerated--if it was possible for such a great scoundrel as I knew him
to be to become a Christian man. I wanted to see for myself if it were
possible to make, out of so vile a creature, such a good man as he was
said to be. As I said last night, I came, like the conqueror of old, and
saw, but, unlike the conqueror of old, I was conquered. I made up my
mind that I was done with the old life. Steve's appearance convinced me
that he was cured, and I confessed then and there that I was convinced.
That was the starting point. There was only one thing I have never been
thoroughly satisfied about; I find that the Christian influence grows
gradually on me, and becomes stronger and stronger the longer I live. I
confess myself, when I first became a Christian man, with the exception
of drinking whisky, I was like I was before; but, encouraged by my
experiences in the beginning, I gradually began to see that it was a
better life. A man was purer, and there was some hope a man could be
changed through and through, and take his place among men; and from that
time forward I was continually growing in grace. From the very moment I
resolved to quit, I did not drink any more. After I saw Steve, I did
not take a drop, though I had tried before to quit it many a time. I had
oftentimes joined temperance societies, and made resolutions, which were
of no avail. A man in that case was bound by no tie except his
assertion--by his word: and might break it just as a man allows a note
to be protested in bank. The moment I determined to change my life, this
appetite for whisky left me. It was because my ideas were changed.
I used to think that no drunken man could become a Christian; but now I
hope, by the grace of God, I am a Christian, I could not explain it; I
do not believe any man can explain it. He may attempt it, but he can not
do it. A man who lives a Christian life can hardly calculate the
advantages; it is a matter of impossibility. In the first place, his
associates put an entirely different estimate on him. His ambitions are
entirely changed, and certainly his hope is. It makes him a more
charitable man, a more forbearing man with the faults of his neighbors,
makes him a more tolerant man, makes him a better citizen; and if he
were a politician--though it is scarcely within the bounds of
possibility--it would make him an honest politician.
I have had no trouble to get along in business since my conversion. Just
as soon as I tried to get business, when I was once really in earnest
about it, I had a number of offers. I have still a number of offers.
When I became a Christian man I determined, in my own mind, I would live
up to Christianity so far as I could in every particular, humbly and
conscientiously. The opinions of man have no weight with me now. All I
am I hold by the grace of God, through Jesus Christ.
FRED ROPKE.
I think it was on the 25th of June, 1883, I was stopping at Fifth and
Jefferson. Previous to that time I had been tramping the country for
about eight years, from 1874 until the middle of 1883. My father was a
Louisville man. He gave me all the advantages that wealth could command.
He sent me to Germany in 1864, where I remained three years at school.
In 1869 or 1870, I went into the sheriff's office here in Louisville.
Previous to that time I had been with Theodore Schwartz & Co. I went
from Theodore Schwartz & Co. into the sheriff's office. I got that
position from courtesy of the sheriff to my father, who was his
bondsman. I contracted the habit of drinking right there, through the
associations. And, being ashamed to remain among my friends as a
drunkard, I went then from pillar to post all over the country.
I left home just after my father's death, in 1872, not knowing whither I
was going. I dragged around the country from that time until the summer
of 1883--eleven years; and if there ever was a man sick and tired, it
was I. I beat my way through Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee,
Arkansas, Kansas, Colorado, Iowa, Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois,
Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York.
The box car was my home the greater part of the time. Of course, during
those years, I came home off and on; but nothing could stop me in my
downward course. As soon as I lost self-control I persuaded myself
there was no hereafter, no God and no devil. I took to that idea to
console myself for what I was doing more than for anything else; and I
had a perfect indifference as to what became of me, except at times when
I was alone and sober and thoughtful. But I never had any aim; no
ambition at all; in fact, I had given up all hope. I do not know what I
wandered for. I would come home and stay for a month or so, and I would
get drunk and get ashamed of myself and go away. I would walk all night
to get out of Louisville.
I had been brought up by religious parents. My father was a very
religious man. He was considered by people as a fanatic because he was
making money in the whisky business, and sold out rather than continue
it. He lost money by selling out during the war. He saw what it was
drifting to, and sold out. After that there was not a drop of whisky
handled in his house on Main street until after his death. My mother
also was a very religious woman, so that I had a careful religious
training. But I had read a good deal of Ingersoll and Tom Paine. I heard
Ingersoll lecture on one or two occasions; I wanted to get all the proof
I could to sustain me. I wanted some consolation; I knew where I was
drifting; there was a consciousness all this time that I was wrong; and
I trembled at the thought of one day giving an account for the misdeeds
of a wasted life; but I could not possibly help myself. From the mental
anxiety I went through it is a wonder my hair is not gray to-day. It was
terrible. I had two attacks of delirium tremens.
What brought me to realize my condition more than anything else, took
place just before the time I first met Brother Holcombe. I was out on
Second street mending umbrellas; for that was the way I made my living.
I had become thoroughly hardened. I would have cut my throat, only
cowardice kept me from it. Well, I was mending umbrellas out on Second
street, and Mrs. Werne heard me as I was calling out, and knowing that
Henry, her husband, and I had been to school together--had been boys
together, she called me and said, "Fred, I want you to come in." She
insisted on my coming to their house to dinner the next day. "Fix up,"
she said, "and come to dinner with us;" but I do not believe I had a
stitch of clothes except what was on my back. She insisted however, on
my coming; some of my friends would be there. That brought me to realize
to what depths I had fallen.
The next week I went to New Albany; and I was told to leave the town,
and I left the town under the escort of two policemen. To such abject
wretchedness was I reduced, I could not endure to stay among friends,
and I was in such a plight strangers could not endure me among them. But
once I was coming down the street, and heard the singing in the Holcombe
Mission; and I was considerably touched to think that I had come through
the religious training of a Christian home and of church and
Sunday-school; and that is all it amounted to. I went that evening to
the courthouse steps, and heard Mr. Holcombe preach there; and from that
day to this I have not drank a single drop; and it is only through God's
grace that I realize that I am able to resist temptation. I felt that I
was not worth anything; I felt that there was no power in myself. My
skepticism all melted away. The view I took of it was that if God could
help Holcombe, he could and would help such a one as I. I knew Mr.
Holcombe very well. When I was deputy sheriff, I had a warrant for his
arrest one time from Franklin county, and went there armed, knowing his
dangerous reputation. I thought if Holcombe could be saved, there
certainly was some hope for me, and under the inspiration of that hope I
turned to God. It was my last and only hope. But it was not
disappointed, for He has saved me.
I remember the first time I went up to be prayed for; I felt that I
would from that time have strength--I had no doubt that I would have it
from that time on. It was in the back room of the old mission. I felt--I
don't know why it was--I felt then and there that, by God's help, I
would make a man of myself; and I went out with that feeling, although I
had been under the influence of liquor for months before. I can not say
that I had no appetite for it, but I had strength to resist it. That was
the 25th of June, 1883.
I would do anything for whisky when I wandered around. I did not gamble,
but I was licentious. I lived for nothing else; I had no other aim in
life but to gratify my passions, and I would adopt any extreme to do it,
and did do it. I left nothing untouched--I would sell my coat to gratify
my passions. If I wanted a drink of whisky and my hat would pay for it,
I would let it go. Once, on coming back from New Orleans, my mother gave
me a suit of clothes; and I did not keep that suit of clothes three
days. All of the time I was tramping around, my mother was living in
Louisville, worth seventy-five thousand dollars. She was willing to do
anything for me, and suffered much because of my wicked ways. I remember
on one occasion, when I left her to go to Denver, Colorado, she begged
me to stay at home, and reminded me how she would suffer from anxiety
about me, day and night, till I should return. But I had just been
released from jail for drunkenness and I did not want to stay in
Louisville. So I left my mother in sorrow and despair.
One thing I am thankful for to-day; that after my conversion I did not
get into anything right away; that I made a bare living with my
umbrellas; and that continued two years before I got into a permanent
situation. I believe those were the two happiest years of my life. I had
a tough time to get something to eat sometimes, but that was good for
me. I pegged away at an old umbrella for twenty-five or thirty cents
down in the old mission; and I was thankful to get them to fix. It
seemed to me it was sweeter; I enjoyed it more.
There is no comparison between the new life and the old. I thought at
one time that I was enjoying myself; but I have had to suffer in my new
life for all the enjoyment that I had in the old--I have to suffer
physically--even yet. I am an old man before my time. Even to-day on my
coming in contact with it the influence of the old association will crop
out. Sometimes my passions worry me considerably. The only relief I find
is by keeping close to God. I realize that from day to day if I do not
do that--pay strict attention to my religious duties--I will fall. I
know that if I neglect them for one week, I get away off. I am happy in
being placed where I am. My place is a kind of rendezvous for religious
people; and their society and conversation help to strengthen me. Since
my conversion, I was offered a position in a liquor house, but I would
not take it, because I was afraid of it, and the very next day I
obtained a situation with the Finzer Brothers. I went to a minister and
made it the subject of prayer as to whether I should accept the
situation; and finally decided to decline it, and the next day I got a
situation that I had filled in years gone by, with Finzer Brothers in
this city. It is now the height of my ambition to have the opportunity
to convince the people who were and are my friends in Louisville that
there is something in me, and by the grace of God I am no longer the
failure I was.
[Illustration: J. T. HOCKER.]
JAMES THOMPSON HOCKER.
I was born in Shelby county, Kentucky, in 1837, and no man had better
advantages for being a Christian or becoming one than I had. I had a
pious mother and father, and all the influences of my home were of that
character. My father and mother were both members of the Baptist church,
and I recollect that they used to have me go to Sunday-school, but I
think now I went there because they asked me to go. Thinking over my
condition, I did not have any other incentive at that time than to obey
my mother's request. At about the age of fifteen I left my home, and it
seems to me now when I did do so I left behind me all good impulses and
all good feeling, and any religious inclination I might have had seemed
to leave me when I stepped over the threshold; and I think the devil
joined me then and told me he would keep me company all the rest of my
life, and he did do it pretty closely for thirty years. I do not suppose
that he had a better servant, or one who did his behests more faithfully
than I.
Whether I inherited the appetite for drink has been a question with me.
On both sides of my house--the Old Virginia stock--I had several
relatives who drank to excess; and it seems to me that the appetite must
have passed through our family to me. I remember the first drink I ever
took in my life; it was whisky, and I liked it. Most people don't like
the first drink.
When I came to this city I went into business as a clerk. The devil
and I dropped into company as hail fellows well met. He persuaded me to
think it was proper for young men to take a drink before calling on
their lady friends. He prompted me to go in with the boys. "This is the
right way for you to do," he would say, "I am your friend." I had the
usual compunctions of conscience that the young man feels when he goes
into bar-rooms. I took wine at first, but the devil said: "That is not
the thing; whisky is better." I obeyed him; I took whisky, until whisky
pretty nearly took me forever.
Along in 1871--March, 1871--I was working at a clothing house, and I
married a lady who was thoroughly conversant with all my habits; who
knew that the habit for drink had fastened itself on me; but who, with a
woman's faithful, trusting heart, married me, hoping, as they generally
do, that her influence might reform me. Perhaps for a year or so the
devil and I rather separated, but he had me in sight all the while. This
continued for six or seven months, until, on one occasion, I went out to
a fishing party. We carried two or three gallons of whisky, and two or
three pounds of solid food. I went fishing with two or three personal
acquaintances, who prevailed on me to indulge with them in drinking, and
from this time forward, until about one year ago, I was as fully devoted
to my old ways as ever.
The appetite for drink was on me, and dragged me down day by day, deeper
and deeper into the mire; and still, through all this, my wife's loyal
heart never faltered, unwavering as she was in her trust in me, that I
would yet reform. She still, when others failed me, remained my faithful
friend. My wife was forced, however, by my conduct, to return to her
mother's home, because, instead of supporting her, I was spending all my
earnings for whisky and in debauchery of other kinds.
I shall have to go back a little in my story. About eight years ago I
was working in a clothing house at the corner of Third and Market
streets. I noticed across the street, one morning, a man whom I knew
setting out on the sidewalk a lot of vegetables, apples, etc. I looked
at him, and recognized him as Steve Holcombe, a man who had recently
reformed his way of living, and abandoned his old life. In the meantime,
I had become an infidel, I had begun to doubt the divinity of Christ,
and even doubted that there was a God. I read all of Ingersoll's books,
and went back and read Paine's essay on Reason and Common Sense. I was
thoroughly fortified with all the infidel batteries that I could bring
to bear on Christian people. As soon as I laid eyes on Brother Holcombe
I started across the street and opened on him; and I kept this up for
months. I fortified myself with a couple of drinks, so as to be very
brave, and went over and tackled him regularly every morning.
At last, I stood and watched him one morning. I reasoned this way:
"There is a man I have known for twenty-five years. I know of no man who
was more thoroughly steeped in wickedness, who was a more persistent
sinner, and I have tried to batter him down with my infidel batteries
for months, and he is as solid as a stone wall;" and all this led me to
think that there was something in the religion of Jesus Christ; and,
thinking this way, I rather refrained from my attacks upon him and his
position; but I often thought of him afterward, and the thought occurred
to me, there must be something in this thing, for no power living, or
anything that I know of, could sustain that man in his position. It must
be something beyond human.
The 20th day of last April I was on a protracted debauch; had been for
three weeks. My brain was thoroughly stunned with the effects of the
liquor I had drunk. I was sitting in a bar-room at seven o'clock in the
evening, as far as my memory now serves me, and I appeared to see the
face of my wife and child; and then one of my boon companions said,
"Join us in a drink." Just then I could no more have taken that drink
than I could have transformed myself into an angel of light. At that
moment I thought some impending calamity that neither I nor any human
power could avert was about to crush me. The next thing that came into
my mind was that I must see Mr. Holcombe; and I went out of that saloon
into the night, scarcely knowing what I did, feeling that some terrible
accident was going to happen; but still this impulse moved me to go to
the man I had fought so long and so persistently. I happened to find him
before the old Mission, on Jefferson street, near Fifth. He seemed to
think that I had now some other object in view than to attack him as
formerly, because, the first time in all my career, he was the only man
who did reach out his hand and said, "God bless you, my brother." I
said: "I want to talk to you; I want you to pray for me." He said, "God
bless you, I am the happiest man to meet you that I know of." He asked
me to walk down to the Mission. The services were about to commence. I
stayed with him that evening. In the morning he made a special prayer
for me; and during all my wanderings, I had felt that, perhaps, the
prayers of my mother and father would, in the end, reach the throne of
grace; and I had never lost my faith in the efficacy of prayer. When he
prayed for me, I felt my mother's hand on my head and heard her saying,
"God bless and keep my boy." When I left him he said, "Won't you go to
your room to-night and pray?" I had no room. He loaned me the money to
get a room. I went to the hotel and procured lodging. He said to me,
"Say any prayer you think of." The only prayer I could recall was one I
had heard in my childhood, "Lord, have mercy upon me, a sinner!" When I
made that prayer before the Christian's God, I did it with fear and
trembling, for it seemed profanity for a wretch like me, who had defied
God's laws, to prostrate himself at His feet and ask the Christian's God
to have mercy on him; but I kept up that prayer in my weak, broken way.
And to-day, having tried this life one year, you don't know of a man
happier than I am. My wife, no longer broken-hearted as in those years
of darkness and sorrow, now daily bids me welcome to our happy home. And
we recognize together that nothing but this religion of Jesus Christ
could have brought this about. I know, from the experiences I have had,
that God has forgiven me, the sinner.
I had from a child been the most inveterate swearer. Since my conversion
I have not sworn an oath; I never have taken a drop of beer or anything
that might intoxicate me, and I have never had a return of the
appetite. And I hope, by God's mercy, that when the last call shall come
I shall be found fighting for God; and I feel I want to fall with "my
back to the field and my feet to the foe." Immediately after my
conversion I attached myself to the Fifth and Walnut-street church; and
if you inquire of those who know me, they will tell you that, since I
stepped out of the old life into this, I have walked consistently.
I have told you a true story. I can think of no more to say. I may add,
however, that since I have come into this new life, under God's mercy, I
have been the humble instrument of bringing into the light three of my
acquaintances, of whose conversion I know personally. I was the only
wandering, wayward, prodigal son in my father's family; and there is
probably not now a happier household in the State.
NOTE.--Mr. Hocker is at present engaged in business in one of
the large clothing houses of Louisville.
[Illustration: S. P. DALTON.]
SAMUEL P. DALTON.
I was born in Shelbyville, Tenn., January 20, 1849, and am, therefore,
thirty-nine years of age. My father and mother were both members of the
church; and they tried to bring me up as a Christian. I went to
Sunday-school and church almost all my life. My father has been dead
twenty odd years. My mother is still living. As I say, I was brought up
a Christian, and I was converted when I was about seventeen years of
age, while a boy clerking in a brickyard alone. I was licensed soon
afterward to exhort in the Methodist church. After that I married; I
removed to Paducah, Ky., and I was a member of the church there for
several years. After that I lost my wife, broke up housekeeping and went
to traveling. I traveled awhile, and then moved to Louisville. I lived
here seven years.
In the meantime, I became indifferent to Christianity and formed the
habit of moderate drinking; I was a moderate drinker for a couple of
years, and gradually I drifted farther and farther away till at last I
came to believe in Ingersoll's teachings. I formed this idea, that the
world was made to enjoy, and that we had a right to enjoy it in any way
we wished. I never would go to church and I would avoid meeting any of
my church friends as much as possible. I became very unhappy and
miserable in my irreligious life, and found that serving the devil was
hard.
One day while in this unhappy condition my attention was called to a
crowd of people on Jefferson street, near the courthouse. Going over
to satisfy my curiosity, I found they were a Christian band from the
Holcombe Mission preaching the Gospel. Of course, I would not go to
church, and when I went over there to see what they were doing, I looked
upon them as so many cranks; but there was one prayer that touched my
heart. It was this: "Oh Lord, if there are any persons in this audience
who are miserable or unhappy on account of their sins, I pray Thee to
give them no peace until they give their hearts to God." And God
answered the prayer in my case. I had no peace until I gave my heart to
God and renewed my vows to the church. After hearing this prayer I went
home very miserable and unhappy, and fought the feeling for six months
afterward--tried to drive it away by drinking; but could not do so.
Finally one night about midnight, in my room, I gave my heart to God and
made new vows. I was again brought back to God on the 15th of October,
1882.
Then I went to see Brother Morris, pastor of the Fifth and Walnut-street
Methodist church, and told him what I had done. Of course, he met me
with open arms, and invited me to the church, and on the following
Sunday I joined the Methodist church. Directly afterward Mr. Morris
introduced me to Brother Holcombe. He said: "Brother Dalton, here is a
man you ought to know and be with. His Mission is the place for you to
do Christian work." He saw, I suppose, that I ought to be doing some
good, and he wanted me right there.
I went, then, to Brother Holcombe's Mission, and remained with him for
about two years, working there almost every night for these two years,
keeping door, and doing, to the best of my ability, all the good I
could. I can say that my connection with the Mission, I have no doubt,
has had all to do with strengthening me in the Christian life and
leading me into usefulness, giving me strength and energy to engage in
saving others, and confirming myself in Christian character.
I have witnessed some of the most remarkable conversions at Holcombe's
Mission that I think ever were known anywhere, and I regard Holcombe as
one of the most remarkable men on earth for mission work. It seems that
he can use more means to put men to thinking than any other man that I
know of.
I was always fond of going to the theater. After I had become a
Christian, I had an idea that I could still continue going to theaters,
and so stated to Brother Holcombe and Brother Alexander. They simply
said this: "Brother Dalton, if you get the love of God in your heart you
will find a great deal more pleasure in God's service than you will in
attending theaters;" and from my own experience I have found it true. I
have no desire to go to theaters; my own pleasure is in Christian work;
and I do not think a man can make a practice of attending theaters
regularly and exert the same influence for the salvation of others as if
he did not attend.
I believe as firmly as I do anything, that when I was a boy, God called
me to some kind of Christian work; and I was the most miserable man in
the world when I lost my religion. After meeting with Brother Holcombe,
he seemed to be a great wall of protection to me--and he does yet. He
has infused into my life more Christian zeal than I ever had before. I
am of a temperament that is easily led off--easily influenced; and I
feel that God, in His wisdom, leads me into Christian work in order to
save my own soul as well as others. Since I have been away from
Louisville, in Cleveland, Ohio, in business, I think there has not been
a day or night but what I have thought of Brother Holcombe and the
Mission. It seems to have such an everlasting effect on me, that at all
times I feel a restraining influence which comes out from that Mission.
If at any time I am tempted to become discouraged, the remembrance of
him and the mission work that he is engaged in, seems to be a
protection, something that upholds me in my Christian faith; and I have
learned to love Brother Holcombe as I never loved any man on earth who
was no kin to me. He is a man whom I have watched very closely, and
understand thoroughly; and believe he is one of the most honest, earnest
and upright Christian men that I ever met in all my life, and one who
will do more, and endure more, to lead a man to Christ than any one I
ever knew.
The result of that Christian experience which I had while associated
with Brother Holcombe has been the means of my seeking an opportunity
for Christian work in the city of Cleveland, Ohio, where I am now
residing. I joined the Franklin-avenue Methodist church, of Cleveland, a
grand body of Christians, too, about 650 members; and it seemed that the
Lord had opened the way into this church to harness me into Christian
work there. Being a man from the South, I hardly expected them to
receive me as cordially as they did; but it seemed that, after watching
me, and knowing me, when I was not expecting it, I was elected one of
the stewards of that church a very short time after joining it; and I
have been put on different committees, and have been treated as well as
a Christian gentleman could possibly desire to be treated, and I have
learned to love them. My aim and object in life now is to do all the
good I possibly can in this new field of labor.
The Lord has been very good to me since I reentered His service, and I
have found complete happiness and contentment in this Christian life,
and no man on earth is happier than I when I am doing Christian work,
and I am quite unhappy when I am not, being fully convinced that the
Lord has a Christian work of some kind for me to engage in, and always
being blest in the least effort I make for the salvation of others.
God has prospered me in business, too. I have been very successful in my
business life, not getting rich, but making a good, honest living,
having the confidence and respect of my employers, and the full
confidence of those who work for me. I have endeavored, to the best of
my ability, to use every means within my power to exert as good an
influence over the men in my employ as I possibly can under the
circumstances. I correspond with Brother Holcombe regularly, and have
for the last three years, and I very often use his letters in
endeavoring to bring others to Christ; and frequently in my talks and
Christian work I take a great pride in referring to the Mission in
Louisville, and believe there has been some good done in simply telling
of these remarkable conversions that I have witnessed there, convincing
me that the Mission is not only exerting a good influence in the city of
Louisville, but is being felt all over this country.
After being away a little over three years, I returned to Kentucky on a
visit to my mother and family in Paducah, and also to Brother Holcombe
and my friends in Louisville, and stopped with Brother Holcombe. Of
course, he received me with open arms and a hearty welcome, and I had
the pleasure of meeting many of those men whom I had known when they
were in their sinful lives, bound by the power of strong drink, and it
did my heart good to look into their happy, shining faces, sober as they
are, and active in business, and engaged in Christian work, thereby
receiving new strength and stronger faith in the Blessed Gospel of
Christ. I am fully persuaded there is no other power under heaven that
would save men from these terrible habits except the religion of the
Lord Jesus Christ.
Coming into the presence of Brother Holcombe seemed to have a peculiar
effect upon me. It seemed that I received a new baptism of the Holy
Ghost. I do not know what it is; I know that God's blessing is just as
rich and precious in Cleveland as it is in Louisville, but having been
associated with Brother Holcombe in this Christian work, and witnessing
such wonderful conversions, and God's blessings having been bestowed
upon us so richly, it seems that the place is precious to my soul, and
the remembrance of those things so cheers my heart that it gives me new
strength and new zeal, and I never could, under any circumstances, in my
future life, doubt the reality of the Christian religion.
COLONEL MOSES GIBSON.
My birthplace was Bowling Green, Rappahannock county, Virginia. I was
born May 7, 1837. My ancestors were Quakers, and my grandfather a
Hicksite Quaker. He married a Methodist, and was, consequently, turned
out of the church. The family originally came from the north of Ireland,
opposite Glasgow; non-conformists. They came to this country about the
time Penn did, and got over into Loudon county, Virginia. On my mother's
side I am descended from Nathaniel Pendleton, who is a brother of Edmund
Pendleton, and aid-de-camp of General Green during the Revolutionary
war. On both sides a considerable number of the men were in both legal
and literary pursuits. My mother was raised in the Presbyterian
church--joined the Presbyterian church. I was baptized by the Rev. Dr.
Foot, one of the corner-stones of the old school church. My father was
never a member of any church until very late in life. My mother had me
baptized by the Rev. Dr. Foot when I was six years old.
I was always, as a boy, religiously inclined; and never cared for those
enjoyments and pleasures that boys indulge in so much, like playing
ball, hunting and fishing, tobogganing, coasting and all such kind of
sport. I was more of a house boy. I liked to stay at home and read, and
was very affectionate in my disposition. Very early in life I started
out in the world, and when I was fourteen years old I was a store boy;
and even with all that, my early training, to a certain extent, kept me
out of bad company, although I slept in the store, and was really under
no restraint from the time I was about fourteen. I generally, when I
found I was too far gone, pulled up stakes and went somewhere else; and
in that way I grew up. I very rarely failed to go to church twice every
Sunday; and I looked upon religion more as a pleasure and a matter of
pride for the respectability of it. I liked the church, even after I
grew up to be a man. But during the latter part of the war, I became
impressed. I believe it was in October, 1864, I professed religion in a
little church in New Market, Virginia; and after the war, I went to
Baltimore, and united myself there with the Episcopal church. I never
was confirmed, however, until some time in 1868, here in Calvary church
in Louisville. But I always considered myself a member of the church,
went to Sunday-school, and attended to my duties very particularly. I
never drank anything, and never kept bad company. My association was
always the most refined, principally that of ladies. I was fond of
society, parties, theaters and things of that kind, which our church
never objected to very particularly, but I kept myself in bounds.
It was only about 1874 or 1875 that I became associated with some
gentlemen here who were very learned, and who were very earnest men; and
we got into the study of the Bible in search of truth. We got all the
books of modern thought on the subject that we could. We conversed
together and talked together a great deal. We got all the modern
authors, and studied them very thoroughly; and studied so much, that we
finally studied ourselves into infidelity. We studied Draper, Max
Muller, Ledyard, Bishop Colenzo and Judge Strange. Judge Strange's was
the most powerful book, to me, of any. It was a reference to the Old
Testament legends and the miracles of the New. I gradually by the
association, and by reading these modern treatises on theology, etc.,
drifted into that thoughtful infidelity, which is the worst sort in the
world, because I had a great respect for religion, but did not believe
it. I believed in a God, but could not consistently believe that he was
the God of the Bible, or that the Bible itself could be an inspired
book, because so much of it was inconsistent with demands of human
reason.
Following these convictions, I gradually drifted into the most complete
infidelity that a man ever did on earth. I did not believe anything,
still I did not attempt in any way to have my associates and friends
believe that I was an infidel. I never boasted of it, I never made light
of religion. I continued to go to church, continued to keep in the
church; and when Ingersoll was here I would not go to hear him. I was
satisfied that Ingersoll's teachings were, to a great extent, what I
believed; but I did not like to hear a man get up and ridicule my
mother's God; and my answer to those who wanted me to go was that I
would not listen to any man who tried to ridicule the religion of my
mother.
About 1878 I commenced drinking. I was then about forty-one years old. I
got to taking a drink here and there, but do not suppose I took over a
hundred drinks during the year. In 1879 I got to drinking a little
more. In 1880 I got to drinking pretty hard. During the year 1879 I took
rarely less than three, and very often six to eight drinks, a day, and
in 1881 I was a confirmed, genteel tippler. I rarely took less than
three or more than I could stand, but in a genteel way and in a genteel
saloon.
I sold out my business and traveled seven or eight months for pleasure,
and kept up the same thing everywhere. I seldom gambled. I played poker
for twenty-five cents ante, and bet on horse races. I never was a
profane man except when I was intoxicated; then I would be a little
profane. I always remembered more than anything else the early teachings
of my mother; they clung to me. I had respect not only for the church
but respect for the ministry and respect for Christian people.
After I commenced drinking I would have given anything in the world if I
could have stopped. I would get up in the morning and I would feel a
lassitude--feel debilitated. I would not care to eat anything--a biscuit
and a cup of coffee--and by eleven o'clock that was all emptied, and my
stomach would crave something. Probably if I had sat down at a
restaurant and made a good dinner it would have helped me; but it was so
much easier to get a toddy, and that toddy did away with the craving,
and probably in an hour and a half I would want the same thing, and,
instead of going to dinner, I would take another drink, and about three
o'clock I would want this toning of the stomach again.
In the fall of 1883 I thought I would call a halt. I quit drinking in
October, 1883, of my own will, and I did not drink a drop of anything
until July, 1884; and then I got at it in the same old way. I got to
taking a toddy a day, and then I got to taking two, and for two months I
was taking a toddy before every meal; and then my stomach got so I did
not care to eat--I took the toddy without the dinner; and in the course
of the year--probably by the first of October--I had got to drinking all
the way from six drinks a day to about a dozen. I kept that up until I
got to being genteelly intoxicated--always genteel, but always going to
bed being pretty well intoxicated. When I got to bed, I would lie down
and sleep; and when I got up in the morning I would have a toddy.
About October we sold out our business here. The winter was beginning,
and I had no money. I began to be a little reckless; and I commenced
drinking the first of October, and I was full until the first of
January. I do not think from the first of October, 1884, until the first
of January, 1887, there was a day that I did not take six drinks, and
generally ten or twelve--pretty stiff drinks, too. I generally drank
about two ounces of whisky. It never affected my health at all. It
stimulated my mind; it made me bright--exceedingly so--so much so that
if there was anybody about the bar-room I was the center of attraction.
I could discourse upon any subject; but I was very bright and vivacious.
I never was afraid of anything on the face of the earth; I guess there
never was a man more fearless than I was when under the influence of
whisky; otherwise, I was very timid.
I kept that thing up, and on the first of January I was walking down the
street. I had gone to bed pretty sober on the night before; and I got
up on the morning of the first of January and dressed myself up nicely,
intending to go to church. I met a friend of mine, who said he was going
around to the office, and asked me to go with him. I said I would. On
the way around there he suggested we should have a pint of whisky. I
said, "I believe I will quit; I am getting tired of whisky." "Well," he
said, "let us have a bottle anyway; it is the first of January." "Yes,"
I said, "as it is the first of January." We sat there and drank that,
and sent out and got another pint and drank that. After that, I went
down to Louis Roderer's and sat there, and some gentlemen came in and
they got to throwing dice for the drinks, and I was invited to join
them, and I did; and I took six drinks there with them. The weather was
cold; the pavement covered with ice. As long as I stayed in the house,
the liquor did not affect me, but as soon as I got out of the door, the
cold coming right into contact with it, seemed to throw all the
undigested alcohol into my brain. I went back to this friend of mine. He
was not there. I walked up Market street, and went to my room and went
to bed. It was there, I suppose, I mashed my nose and cut my face badly.
The servant girl came up stairs and found me lying on the floor. She
went down and got help, and they bathed my face, and they both together
put me to bed. I had been unconscious from the moment I left the
bar-room and was so up to five o'clock the next morning.
They put me to bed, and I was totally unconscious until I woke up the
next morning at five o'clock. It occurred to me that something was the
matter; I felt the wound on my face. I got up and lighted the candle and
looked into the glass, and saw that my face was all bruised and bloody.
I said, "I suppose I ran against something and mashed my face last
night." The next morning I heard this servant girl in the next room. I
heard her saying, "Poor man, poor man." Pretty soon she came in and
said, "What in the world is the matter with you? How did you hurt your
face?" She then told me the condition they had found me in; and if they
had not found me I would have frozen to death. I said, "If this thing is
going to work that way on me, I must call a halt." I could not eat
anything but some milk. I lay in bed all day.
I could not pray. I had got into that frame of mind I could not pray. I
did not believe in the efficacy of prayer. I had lost sight of Christ as
God, but I had great respect for Christ as a teacher. I lay there all
that day, Monday. I was then thoroughly sober; and I said, "I will just
see if there is any efficacy in religion, anyhow. I believe I will try
it." I had gotten up and dressed myself. I had not eaten any breakfast.
I drank some coffee. Not having taken anything to eat, I felt pretty
weak, and I said, "I believe I will take a drink." I went around to a
friend of mine on First street, and he was not there. Then I walked
around to a saloon on Third street. Several gentlemen were there that I
used to drink with. I stood around there for awhile, hoping that some
one would ask me to take a drink, but nobody asked me.
Finally I came up here to Mr. Holcombe's and found him here, and we got
to talking the matter over. I told him that I was tired of this kind of
life. I wanted to take a pledge. "I do not give pledges to anybody to
stop drinking." He said there was but one remedy--reliance upon Christ;
that Christ was all--Christ and the love of God. If I determined to live
up to the teachings of the Bible, if I was willing about it, that he
believed I would be cured. Well, I told him that I thought that my mind
was sufficiently prepared; that I had made up my mind to quit if I
possibly could; that if the Lord wanted to take me the way I was, I had
made up my mind to believe; that I had not believed anything for a long
time, and that if I did believe I would have to take it by faith, and
not by reason.
Finally, after talking it over, Mr. Holcombe prayed, and after prayer I
said I had better go down to my boarding-house. "No," he said, "you stay
with me awhile." I said I could not do that; I had to go down to my
boarding-house. He said, "No!" he thought I had better stay awhile; that
I could stay with him just the same, as I was around there; that I might
get out and get to drinking; that I was not strong enough. I concluded I
would stay with him, and I stayed with him for three weeks.
I went down stairs to the Mission meeting that night, and stood up for
prayer. After the prayer, I felt a great deal better--in fact, I felt as
much converted as I am now. Since then, I have had no trouble.
I never had made a prayer in public in my life; I never had talked
religion in my life, and I got up a week afterward and preached a sermon
an hour long. The second or third night I made a prayer. Before that
night I had never prayed in public. The only prayer I would say was,
"Our Father Who Art In Heaven."
I have never taken a drink since then, and I do not now chew tobacco. I
had either a cigar or a chew of tobacco in my mouth all the time during
the last year. From the time I was fifteen years old, I used to smoke
from three to a dozen cigars a day. My general average of cigars was six
a day. I have not chewed tobacco, I have not smoked a cigar, I have not
taken a drink of liquor since January. A man talking to me the other day
said: "You have the strongest will power on earth. If I had the will
power you have, I could do anything I wanted." I said, "I do not think
so. I do not believe I ever would have stopped smoking and chewing
without the change which has been produced in me through faith and
prayer."
I will tell you what broke me of chewing tobacco. It was Monday that I
came here to the Mission, the 3d of January, and on Tuesday night I
professed conversion. Wednesday morning I went out to see Mr.
Minnegerode, and had my name again placed on the church record as a
member of Calvary church. The first Sunday in the month was our
communion, and I was very anxious that I should perform all the
obligations necessary to fill out the measure of my conversion, and to
do it as soon as possible; and I happened to be down in Cyrus Young's
office, and he told me that they were going to have communion. They had
quarterly meeting at the Broadway Methodist church. Dr. Brewer preached,
and there I took my first communion. From there I went over to the house
of a friend of mine, who has since died, named Lewis. I took dinner
with him, and stayed there until half-past three o'clock. Well, I took a
chew of tobacco going down the street, and when I had just commenced
chewing it, I said: "You are a pretty kind of a Christian. You have got
your mouth full of that stuff that a hog would not eat, and immediately
after taking the bread and wine commemorative of the death of Christ. It
is not right for a Christian to take that after having partaken of these
emblems." And I spit it out of my mouth. For two or three days it
bothered me a great deal--much more than drinking. I never had a desire
to take a drink since that Monday, although I have been asked
repeatedly. I was down at a hotel with two or three gentlemen the other
day, and somebody got up and suggested taking a drink. I said, "No; I
have joined the church; I am a Christian, and I do not believe in
Christians or church members drinking." Shortly after that they offered
me a cigar, which I refused.
I have now charge of a chapel, and have preached two sermons up there
this week, one Sunday night and one Thursday night. I preached on the
Prodigal Son the other night. I have held seven or eight services up
there. I hold forth here at the Mission one night in the week--that is
Tuesday night. I never killed anybody; have never won a thousand dollars
at cards; and I never was in the gutter. I was a refined tippler. I was
a leader of society all these years, as everybody who knows me is aware.
I was prominent in social life and prominent in church life before I was
an infidel, previous to 1874, and a member of the vestry of Advent
church here. I kept up my acquaintances. All the drinking I did was
with the tony men, at the high-typed, tony saloons. I am now a
communicant of Calvary church. I am a lay reader, and, for the present,
have charge of Campbell-street chapel. I go up there two nights a week.
I was going up to Campbell street, the other evening, to hold service
and I met Bishop Dudley, who was going up to Trinity to confirm a class,
and he asked me where I was going. I told him I was going over to
Campbell street to hold service. He asked me who did my singing. I said
I did all the preaching and singing myself.
The sum of it is, I felt that mine was a bad case; I had been struggling
for two years and a half to rid myself of this appetite, by making to
myself all kinds of promises day after day, but was unable to do it; I
said to myself, "Mine is a bad case--an aggravated case--and it needs
heroic treatment. I can say I will quit drinking. I can go and kneel
down and feel very well about it; but the question is, whether I would
not go back to the same old way of living; and I reflected that I might
be renewed or regenerated--if the Lord created me, He could re-create
me--to the man He had made and created in His own image, if he believed,
He could give back his manhood; would re-create him and give him a new
birth." I felt that, and felt that I must make a public confession. Mine
was a bad case, and there was only one way to cure me--a public
confession before God and the world, and a prayer for strength to make
me live up to that profession--and when I made that profession, I felt
relieved.
I have had more strength since then. I have not had the least desire for
liquor. Last night was the first time I ever dreamed about drinking
since; and then I dreamed that I wanted a lemonade very badly and went
to the saloon to get it; and my conscience pricked me even in my sleep
for the desire for a lemonade and going into a saloon to get it. Before,
I used to dream about going into drinking saloons. Instead of having a
desire for a drink of whisky, I give you my word and honor, it was
nauseating to me. That was not a qualm of conscience, but a physical
sensation. It came when I picked up a glass that had had whisky in it. I
smelled it, and set it down. And, by the grace of God, I am determined
that I have drunk my last drop of intoxicating liquor.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN N. B. PECK.]
CAPTAIN BEN PECK.
I have had rather an eventful life; but I don't know that it would be
interesting to the public.
I certainly had less reason to be a bad boy, and worse man, than almost
anybody ever had. I was surrounded by the very best Christian
influences. My father was a prominent minister of the Baptist
denomination in this State. He died, though, when I was quite young. My
mother's people had been Christian people very far back. The male
members on my father's side were Baptist ministers as far as I could
trace it. I lost my father when I was about eight years old. My mother
tried to raise me right--taught me right; but we were living out here in
a little town--Hodgensville--and I was wild from the start. I was not
worse than any other boys, but I was in all sorts of mischief. I was
looked upon as a bad boy, and regarded as no exception to the general
rule, that preacher's boys are worse than other boys.
When about twelve years old, I joined the church at a revival. I believe
I was truly converted, and for a short while I lived up to the duties of
my church; but I soon neglected going to church--first I neglected going
to prayer-meeting--and I got back so far that I would not be picked out
as a Christian by any means.
The war came up when I was fourteen years old, and I went into it; and
the first night out I got to drinking and playing cards; and I suppose I
was known as the leader in all the mischief got up in the brigade. I
was notorious throughout the command as a reckless, bad boy from the
beginning.
My mother had been opposed to my going into the army at all; but, if I
was going, she would have preferred my serving on the other side. I
never shall forget one thing she said to me at starting. When the time
came to go, I would not have hesitated to back out if she had given me
any encouragement at all. She said, "My son, you have determined; you
have cast your lot with the South. I had rather you would do your duty
and be a brave soldier." But she continued to pray for me.
After the war I came back home, and found that our property was all
gone. My mother had sent me to Georgetown college before the war, and my
idea was to educate myself for a lawyer. When I came home the property
was dissipated, and I did not have enough to finish my education; and
the question was, what would be the best for me to do. I came here to
Louisville and went to drumming; met with phenomenal success from the
start; went up and up; was hail fellow, well met, with everybody;
situations offered me on every side. But I continued to drink and play
cards as I did in the army, and gambled all the time, although not a
professional gambler. I played against Holcombe's bank many a time. I
went from bad to worse. I continued to dissipate and gamble; and eleven
years ago my health was very much shattered from my excesses, and I
became soured with myself and everybody. I was as miserable as a man
could be, in that condition, as a matter of course; and a gentleman who
had been a comrade in the army with me, and had taken a great deal of
interest in me, Captain Cross, in a conversation with me, insisted that
I should go with him to Texas, where he was doing a flourishing
business. I had tried, time and again, to reform, always in my own
strength, and got further away from God all the time. I tried to believe
that Christ was not the Son of God; that he was not inspired; I denied
the divinity of Christ, although I never denied that there was a Supreme
Ruler. Captain Cross wanted me to go to Texas, thinking that if I got
away from the surroundings here, it would help me. Accordingly, I went
to Texas with him, where I made plenty of money.
But I soon fell into the old ways, and found gambling houses as numerous
there as they are here; I found dance-houses more accessible than the
churches. I led a reckless life; and frequently did not hear from my
family and friends for months at a time. Finally I drank until I drank
myself into delirium tremens; tried to kill myself; went and bought
morphine. But fortunately for me, they were watching me. That was in
Paris, Texas. I was in bed for two or three weeks; and when I got up
from that, I felt like I did not want to stay in Texas any longer.
I went to St. Louis and went into business there; had success as a
salesman; had a big trade; and I went there with a determination not to
drink any more whisky; but I was there only a few days before I was
drinking and playing cards--my old life, in fact. Finally I got into a
difficulty with a man, shot him and got shot myself. I got into a great
deal of trouble on account of it. It cost me a great deal of money and
my mother a great deal of sorrow. One time I went to Mexico to get out
of the way, where I led a reckless life; went into the army; played
cards and drank whisky. I neglected business for whisky a great deal of
the time. Then I came here to Louisville, and kept up the same practice;
went to Cincinnati and did the same thing there. I let up for a little
while when I went to new places. When I got back from St. Louis, I met
Steve Holcombe and shook hands with him. The first thing he said to me
was, "I have changed my life." I had not heard anything of it. I asked
him what he was doing. He said he was serving the Lord instead of the
devil; that he had a little mission somewhere. I did not pay any
attention to it. But one Sunday I was passing down Jefferson street, and
there was a crowd on the courthouse steps, and I saw Steve talking to
them. I listened to him, and after the crowd went away I asked him how
he was getting along and he told me.
I kept on drinking, however. Sometimes I had a situation and sometimes I
did not. People did not want me; they did not know when I would be
sober. If I got a situation, it was in the busy season. After the busy
season was over, they would reduce my salary and give me to understand
they wanted me to get a new place.
One time I was drunk for a week or ten days, and as I passed I heard
them singing in the Mission down stairs and went in. I thought that
would be a good place to rest. I went back a night or two; and one night
Mr. Holcombe delivered a powerful testimony and mentioned some
circumstances that had occurred in his life, at some of which I had
been present--I don't know that he had particular reference to me. I
went back the next night and went up for prayer. I went again sober; but
I did not see my way clear. I went back and took "a nip," as he said. I
sank lower and lower; but I still went to that Mission. Something
impelled me, I know now what it was. I got a situation, and was
traveling; but whenever I got off a trip the spirit of the Lord impelled
me to go to that Mission. I talked with Steve frequently, and promised
him that I was going to try and reform; but I did not, and toward the
last, in fact, I had almost quit going to the Mission. I said, "It is
not for me, it is for these other men. I have gone too far."
I went in there in November. I was going away on a trip, and the next
day I started. I met a friend on the street, and he asked me for a
quarter. He wanted to get a drink and lunch. I told him it was about my
time to get a drink, too, and we would go and get one together before I
left. I was telling him about going to the Mission, and he hooted at the
idea of a man of my sense going to the Mission. About two o'clock in the
afternoon I was going down the street to take the boat, and I met
another friend, and he certainly was the worst looking case I ever saw.
I did not think he would live two weeks. He was a physical wreck, and
almost a total mental wreck. After talking to him for a few minutes he
asked me where I was going. I told him. And I told him, too, I did not
care whether I ever got back or not. I told him it would be a relief to
me if I never got back off of that trip. I had a family, saw them
occasionally, and sent them money when I could; but I never lived with
them. After talking with him a little while, I said my time was up, and
asked him if he would not go and take a parting drink with me. We went
into the Opera House down there and took a drink. I never expected to
see my friend alive again, even if I got back from that trip myself.
That was the 30th day of November. I got back here the 18th day of
December.
The most of the night of the 18th I spent down here at the Grand
Central--"made a night of it." The next morning, when I got up, the very
first man I saw asked me if I had seen a certain friend of mine. I told
him, "No." He said: "You would not know him." I said: "What is the
matter with him?" He said: "He is reformed; he is a Christian, and he
looks twenty years younger than you ever saw him." I said: "You are a
liar." He said: "I am not a liar. You won't know him. He looks like a
gentleman." I said: "It is pretty funny if he can look like a gentleman
in this short time." I had not gone another square before some one asked
me if I had seen another friend of mine. I said: "No." "Well," he said,
"you ought to see him. He has quit drinking, and looks like he used to
look." I said "What is the matter with him?" He said: "He has joined the
church." I took a drink, and thought about this thing; went down to the
store, and knocked around there all day long, thinking about those two
men. But here I was, drunk and wretched and trying to get sober, but
could not.
Somebody met me about four o'clock in the evening, and asked: "Where are
you going?" I said: "I am going around here to get a drink." He said:
"How are you going to drink when your partners have quit drinking?" I
asked him where they could be found; that I wanted to take a look at
them. He told me that I could find them at the Mission. I concluded I
would come up to the Mission, and did so, pretty full; and, honestly, I
would not have known either of these men on the street. I never saw such
a transformation as in them. After the services were over they came up
and shook hands with me, and treated me as kindly as they used to do
when we were drinking together. And I made up my mind if Christ could
save them, I wanted some of it for myself.
I came to the Mission, and stood up for prayers all the time, but came
half drunk for four or five nights, but still with the determination to
have salvation if it was to be found; but the more I came the darker the
way grew. I think (on the 29th of December) Mrs. Clark came and talked
to me, and Mr. Atmore came and talked to me, I was sober--comparatively
so. I told them that I had given up all hope; that I had sinned away my
day of grace, and there was no hope for me. They cheered me, and I
promised them I would pray that night. I went out of the Mission and got
blind, staving drunk; was hardly able to get up stairs to my bed at
eleven o'clock, at night. I did it out of despair. The doctors had told
me before that unless I quit drinking whisky I would go dead. I was
tired of life, but afraid to commit suicide. I concluded that the sooner
I died, the better. I got up at three o'clock in the morning to come
down stairs and get a drink. The barkeeper was absent from his bar, and
I concluded that I would wash myself before I took a drink. I said to
myself while I was washing: "You promised yourself you would not drink,
and the very first night you get drunk, and get up in the morning to
take another drink, and if you take it you will be drunk before night."
I concluded I would stop. I took a seat by the stove, and very soon the
barkeeper came back. He looked at me and said: "Are you broke this
morning, or too stingy to drink, or what is the matter?" He added: "Come
on. If you are too stingy to take a drink yourself, take one with me." I
was just dying for a drink. I was shaking--suffering physically and
mentally. I got up two or three times to go to that bar to take a drink,
but I argued to myself: "If you can not keep from taking a drink, you
had better go up stairs and kill yourself." After awhile the boys
commenced dropping in, and, as was the custom, said: "Come on, Peck, and
take a drink." I told them, "No; I have quit."
I went around to the Mission that night, and went up to the front. I had
a talk with some Christian people there about the matter, and talked
with one of my converted friends. He said there was only one way to
do--to give myself to God. I went to bed immediately after I left. I
could not sleep. I continued to pray until somewhere along about three
o'clock in the morning of the 2d of January; and the way was made clear
for me. I don't know that there was any particular vision. I made up my
mind that I would go and make my arrangements to join the church, and
ask God's direction from that time on, and to lead another life--lead a
Christian life as much as it is possible for a sinful mortal like me to
do.
I came up to the Mission that night, and told Sister Clark and Brother
Holcombe that I was as happy as I could be; I had found what I was
seeking for, and I felt that I could trust God. The next Wednesday night
I went down to the Fourth and Walnut-street Baptist church, and put
myself under the care of the church. Since that time I have been leading
a different life. I am in perfect peace and rest. Everything, of course,
has not gone to suit me exactly; but I always have been able to say: "I
know it is for the best." My faith grows stronger and my future brighter
day by day. I think these people who have been moral and religious all
of their lives can not enjoy religion like a hard customer, as I was--if
they do, they do not show it.
Friends and relatives who had forsaken and avoided me came to me at once
and upheld and encouraged me. Business came to me without seeking it. I
was encouraged on every hand. People that I thought despised me, I found
did not. I had every encouragement, so far as this life is concerned,
and I am, to-day, in a better fix, a long ways, than I have been for
years.
My appetite for whisky has troubled me three or four times since I came
to Christ, but all I have to do is to get down on my knees, and ask for
strength to resist it. And before I get through praying I forget about
it. I have confidence that God will keep me to the end, and my
confidence grows stronger every day. Things that were a great trial to
me at first are no longer so.
A very remarkable thing in my case is, that the thing that I expected to
give me the most trouble has given me the least. I was certainly one of
the most profane men that ever lived, and I was always afraid that the
sin that I would have to guard against most would be profanity. But, if
I have ever sworn an oath, it has been unconsciously, and I do not have
to think about it--I do not have to guard against it; it horrifies me to
hear a man swear now. I thought I could fight whisky easier than I could
that. Strange to say, it has not bothered me in the least, but whisky
has, on three or four occasions. A craving came on me yesterday. It was
a terrible, miserable, bleak, rainy day. I was sitting in my room,
writing, and all at once I concluded that I must have a stimulant. I
have not recovered, and will not for months, from the effects of whisky.
I said: "It is a cold, damp, miserable day. Go up there to the
drug-store and get some port wine as a medicine. Do not go into a
bar-room. There will be no harm in going there to get a little port
wine. Bring it into your room. It will be the best thing you can do." I
got up and put on my overcoat and my overshoes, and it struck me that it
would not be the best thing for me; and I got down on my knees and
prayed to God, and before I got through praying I forgot all about it.
The devil had tempted me previously, but he put it that day in the shape
of the port wine.
Just about ten days after I joined the church, I was in the Phoenix
hotel. A friend of mine, a man that I had gambled and drunk with all my
life, or at least, for a number of years, said to me, "You are not
drinking much from the way you look." I said, "No, I am not." He said he
thought he would beckon me out, because he did not like to make that
statement before the crowd, and had I been drinking as I did the last
time he saw me, he would not have asked me. He wanted me to come in and
take a drink with him. I said whisky had once got the upper hand of me,
and he must excuse me. He said he knew I was a man, and could take a
drink without getting drunk, and he wanted me to take it socially. I
told him that might all be true. I might take the drink without getting
drunk, and I might take it without its being a sin in his sight, or in
the sight of other people; but that I had promised God that I would
follow Him all my life, and walk in the way He wanted me to go; that I
had joined the church, and our church rules forbade drinking. He then
begged my pardon, with tears in his eyes, for having asked me, and bade
me God speed.
[Illustration: J. C. WILSON.]
JAMES C. WILSON.
I started out in gambling during the war--about 1862. That was in New
York State. I was born and raised there. I will be forty-five years of
age the next eighth of July. I started out in New York in 1862. My
father kept a shoe store there then. He was pretty well to do. Having
money, I cared nothing about getting any kind of business. I got in with
a man by the name of Captain Brown, who was one of the principal
gamblers there; and I began to be expert in short cards at first.
From there I went into the army during the war, and stayed there until
1865, and then went to Texas. At Austin, Texas, I got into trouble in
1866, on account of my gambling. I believe it was about the 20th of
January. Myself and a man by the name of Ryan had been playing together,
and I had beaten him, which made him mad. He called me very insulting
names. He slapped me and hit me, and I drew my pistol on him. I first
struck him once and then shot him, and killed him instantly. I was put
in jail. I had not been there long and was a stranger. The thing
occurred down near the Colorado river. A mob assembled, and came down
with ropes to hang me. But the sheriff and his posse, in order to save
me, carried me out of the city, and ran me up to San Antonio. I stayed
in jail six months and was tried; but there was nothing done with
me--the witnesses testified that I was justified in doing what I did.
After that I went to Rochester, New York, and from there to Toronto,
Canada. I made my living by gambling; and, of course, gambled in all
these places. I got broke very often, but always managed to get hold of
a stake. I went from Canada back to New York City; and used to play on
the falls steamers--Fisk's boats. I stayed there until I came to
Louisville in 1870, when I went into the army again. I was here in the
Taylor barracks with General Custer. I went out West with him, and was
there discharged from the army, and went to gambling at Bismarck,
Dakota. When I had got out of the army, I had made about six thousand
dollars, and went to St. Paul, and from there to Chicago. I gambled
there for awhile, and was unsuccessful; and from there I came to
Louisville again.
I have been here since 1873, I believe. Shortly after I commenced
gambling here, the gambling houses were closed, but were re-opened in
1874 again, and I commenced gambling again, opening at the Richmond, the
house on the South-west corner of Fifth and Market streets. Brother
Holcombe before that, I think, was interested in the Richmond. That was
the last house I dealt in, or worked in, until I opened for myself,
which was at "84" Fifth street, between Main and Market. I was very
unsuccessful there; had men working for me who did not attend to their
business.
During all this time I had a wife and family, whom I really loved but
whom I neglected and allowed to suffer greatly through my passion for
gambling, the uncertainty of making a living and my wanderings from
place to place. About this time I used to think of Holcombe; and we
gamblers used to remark among ourselves how it was that he had become
religious. I used to get to studying to myself how he got along, and ask
myself how a man could be a Christian who had been a gambler so long as
he had.
About this time I met Dr. Jno. B. Richardson and Mr. Samuel B.
Richardson. They talked with me in regard to swearing and gambling and
the life I was leading. They influenced me as best they could and
advised me to see Brother Holcombe, and together with Brother Holcombe
they watched over my spiritual condition for a couple of years. I had
become disgusted with the life I was leading; and came to Brother
Holcombe for advice. I had quit "84" and was broke. I had some money
when I quit, and bought the house which I am living in yet. I said to
Brother Holcombe: "I am getting tired of this infernal gambling. How can
I quit it? Show me something to do. How can I get out of this life?" He
said, "Brother Wilson, come up stairs." He talked with me and prayed
with me. He said, "Do not be discouraged. Take my advice. The first
thing you do, commit yourself; take a stand and after that every night,
and during the day, ask God for strength and help, and come to this
mission and," he said, "I will help you to get something to do in every
way I can." I never will forget the first night I got down on my knees
and prayed. I laughed at myself, which showed how the devil was after me
to lead me back to my old life. I actually laughed to think I was trying
to pray in earnest. I came to the mission and told Steve. Brother
Holcombe said, "Keep on in that way, anyhow. Pray to God and ask for
strength all the time. Keep away from gamblers and bad company, and do
not mix with them," and I did so--I took his advice, and I began to get
strength from Almighty God; He was helping me; He opened a way for me,
though everything was new to me for awhile.
When I least expected it, I got a situation with the Louisville City
Railway Company, which I still hold. I am happy and my family are happy,
and all my surroundings are good; and I know, with the help of God, I
will never touch a card again. If we trust in God, I know we are kept
from all temptation. When any temptation comes to me, I always look to
God for help; and the help comes as naturally as my pay does when
pay-day comes. I feel that the number of friends I have made, and
everything I have, I owe to our Saviour, the Lord Jesus Christ, and
Brother Holcombe; and I trust I may be kept and continue in the life I
am leading. I am happy and contented and all my surroundings are happy;
and I hope all good people will pray for me that I may continue the life
I am now leading.
I belong to the First Presbyterian Church, Dr. Witherspoon's church, and
I am sorry I can not attend more regularly. My business occupies me so
constantly that I can not get away.
I get only a dollar and a half a day. When I was a gambler, some months
I would make three or four thousand dollars, and sometimes five thousand
dollars; and some months I believe I have made more than that, so far as
that is concerned; but a gambler, you know, has his ups and downs, I
have been so hard up that I have been tempted to commit murder for
money. In Texas I looked for a man to kill him for his money, but when I
found him I did not have the heart to do it. It seemed as if I could not
use my hands.
It would take me from now until to-morrow morning to tell all of my
experiences. I have been in Europe, California, Old and New Mexico, and
I believe that God was with me even when I was wicked. I have a bad
temper to this day, but, by God's grace, I can control it.
My parents were church members--Presbyterians, and I was raised in the
church. My father died when I was fifteen years old, and my mother died
when I was eight years old. If I had been put to hard work, and had had
something to do, it might have been different with me; but my father was
well-to-do, and I had too much money to spend. My parents tried to give
me a good education, and I went to school; but when I got to gambling I
could not get anything in my head but cards. I did not care for anything
else. But, thank God, it is now just the reverse; it just gives me the
chills to think of playing cards.
Three years ago, if a man had told me that I would quit gambling, I
would have told him that he was crazy. I thank God and Brother Holcombe
for what has been done for me. I am truly thankful there was such a man.
I know if it had not been for him I would have been right in hell
to-day. If I had not been helped and lifted up, just like a little
child in the new life, I think I would to-day be in hell. I never will
forget Brother Holcombe.
I drank liquor, but was not a regular drunkard, because it made me too
sick. I used to drink and get drunk, but I would get so sick I could not
stand it. The habit was there, but the constitution could not endure it.
I have no trouble now; I am perfectly happy; I do not know what trouble
is any more. Of course, we all have ups and downs; we can not have
everything our own way; but I praise God and Brother Holcombe that I am
able to bear them.
You must show that you are willing for the Lord to help you before He
will do so. It is like a man teaching his children; if the child keeps
shoving him off, the parent can not help the child, and so it is with
God. But when a man has seen and felt the effects of sin, and his pride
is broken down so that he is willing, then God will help him and save
him, no matter how far he has gone in wickedness.
NOTE.--Mr. Wilson is employed by the Louisville City Railway
Company, at the corner of Eighteenth and Chestnut streets,
where, day after day, for years, he has faithfully discharged
his duties, and he has the respect and esteem of his employers
and of all who know him.
[Illustration: WM. BIERLY.]
WILLIAM BIERLY.
I am thirty-two years of age. I was born at Louisville in 1856. My
father was a Catholic then, but he is not now. My mother died when I was
so small that I don't know what she was. I will tell you how it was: My
mother died when I was quite young, my father went into the war, and I
was kicked and cuffed about from one place to another, here and there,
till I had no respect for myself, and felt that I was nobody.
I was with my father in the soldiers' hospital for a long time. He was
nurse in the soldiers' hospital. At this time I would drink whisky
whenever I could get it, which appetite did not leave me until I was
about eighteen years old.
When I was about eleven years old I got to being bad--got to stealing.
My father was a strictly honest man himself, and my pilfering was
abhorrent to him; so he had me put in the house of refuge when I was
eleven years old. I was to remain in the house of refuge until I was
twenty-one years old, but I got out before I was twenty-one. When I was
nineteen I got to be a guard there. But I got to misbehaving, and got
discharged from there before I was twenty-one.
When I came out of the house of refuge I boarded around at different
places, first at one place and then another; and sometimes I had no
place to board at all, and sometimes I could almost lie down on the
ground and eat grass. I did not go to my father's, but knocked about
from one place to another. I got to stealing again, and I kept that up
all the time. I never had a desire to do anything else wrong, but I
always had the desire to steal; and while a boy I would steal anything I
came across. I would go down to the river and steal a bag of peanuts, or
burst in the head of a barrel of apples and take apples out--many a time
have I done that. I worked in a tobacco shop for awhile, and would steal
tobacco--I would steal anything.
I never was arrested when I was a boy. The first time I ever was
arrested I was sent to the work-house, and Mr. Steve Holcombe got me
out. After I got out of the work-house I attended the Mission, and there
was a good religious impression made on me. That was the first time I
ever had any religious impression.
I lived pretty straight for awhile, and after awhile my old desire to
steal came back on me. Thank the Lord it does not bother me any more
now, I was watching at the Louisville Exposition during the first year
of the exposition, 1883, and I was boarding where there were some street
car drivers boarding, and they had all their money boxes there at the
boarding house. I was tempted to take a few of their boxes, and I did
take two of them. I was arrested for it, tried, convicted and sentenced
to six years in the penitentiary.