Chapter VI (2)

* * * * *

BOWLING GREEN, KY., March 27, 1888.

_Rev. Steve Holcombe:_

DEAR SIR: I am so much obliged to you for the kind letter you
were pleased to write me. You no doubt think ere this that the
seed has fallen on stony ground, and, perhaps, among thorns; but
I can assure you that I made up my mind when in your city to
lead a different life, and to devote the remainder of my life to
the service of my God. I have so often thought of you, and have
wished to see you. Pray for me, and I do hope we may meet again.
If ever convenient, call and see me. Our doors will be open,
yes, wide open, to you. Thanking you again for your remembrance
of me, I am, yours truly,

----.

* * * * *

SICK BED, February 5th.

_Dear Christian Brother:_

I have a tenant in a little house, a grocery, on Sixth street,
right next to the First Presbyterian church, who is a fearfully
wicked man, a common drunkard, and steeped in sin; and I come to
you to-day to beg you to seek him out and try to rescue him. He
has four or five little motherless children, whose lives are
full of the bitterest sorrow; they are so dirty and unkempt that
the public school teacher had to send them home. They are under
no control; have no one to train them for God, and ought to be
where some one would save them from themselves and ruin. When I
leased my house to him, he was a very handsome, well-to-do man;
young, apparently honest, paid his rent regularly, and had a
very nice little wife, who has since died--I think with a broken
heart. Will you not look him up at once? Or, if you are too full
of other cases, will you not get some one of your workers to try
to lead him back to good paths? He is a very desperate case, I
know, and seems almost past saving now; but you know God's grace
can reach any heart. I would lay this poor dissolute creature,
lost to all sense of honor, shame or manliness, on your soul, my
brother, and beseech you, for Christ's sake, for the sake of
these poor motherless children, whose souls are worth saving for
Christ, do try to bring your influence and your prayers for
God's help, to this miserable man's case, and see if you can
help. If he is past God's mercy--and I can not believe
that--will you not see what can be done for the little ones?
The oldest boy is a bright little fellow, and may become a great
light in our Father's work. I hear that this man has been to
hear Mr. Moody. I do not know if it helped him. Will you not
send after him, and try to get him to go to-night? I will meet
you in prayer there for him.

In bonds of Christian friendship,

JENNIE CASSEDAY.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER'S HOTEL,
LOUISVILLE, KY., May 30, 1888.

_My Dear Mr. Holcombe:_

I am struggling as hard as ever a poor wretch did against my
appetite for liquor. I have asked the good Lord to help me
overcome the habit, but I feel that my prayers amount to
nothing. May I ask you to ask the Great Controller of us all to
give me strength to overcome this habit? Save me, or help save
me, I beg and implore you. Please give me your prayers.

---- ----.

* * * * *

OCTOBER 16, 1887.

_My Dear Steve:_

Your kind favor of the 7th instant reached me in due time. I
was, of course, delighted to hear from you, and inexpressibly
glad to hear of the improved state of your health. I also note
with much pleasure what you say in regard to the pleasant and
extensive trip that you have just finished. It gratifies and
pleases me beyond expression to know that the people of
Louisville are at last awakened to your worth, and are willing
to manifest some substantial recognition of the same. "All
things work well for those who love the Lord." I believe the
quotation is correct. Oh, had I continued in the way you pointed
out to me, how different my situation and circumstances would
be. Instead of being broken in health and bankrupt in purse,
separated from all that I love and hold most dear, I would be, I
am sure, what I was while I was endeavoring to lead a Christian
life--a happy husband and father and a respectable citizen. Oh,
Steve, my dear friend, I am wretched, miserable, broken hearted.
When I reflect upon what I was and what I might have been, and
consider what I am and how little I have to look forward to, I
simply get desperate. But I will not weary you with my troubles.
As regards myself and habits, I may say, without exaggeration,
that I am in better health and my mode of living is plainer and
more regular than it has ever been. I rise every morning between
four and five o'clock, and retire between eight and nine. My
food is of the plainest and coarsest kind. My companions are, I
regret to say, cowboys. You know, I presume, what they are, so I
will say nothing about them. I neither drink nor smoke; I chew
tobacco very moderately, and expect to quit that. I suffer
terribly at times for the want of congenial company. You must
excuse this effort, as I am surrounded by a lot of boys who are
making a terrible lot of noise. Give my love to all of your
family. God bless you, my dear Steve. Pray for me and mine.

Your friend, ---- ---- ----.

* * * * *

NOVEMBER 2, 1887.

_My Dear Steve:_

Your letter of the 27th is before me. It is just such a letter
as I expected--so full of sympathy, love and good, wholesome
advice. I wish it were possible, or, rather, expedient, to
listen to your advice and return home, for I am heartily sick
and tired of the life I am now living. Don't you know that my
life out here reminds me, in a measure, of your western
experience? Of course, I am not subjected to the hardships and
deprivations that you were forced to undergo. But, as far as
bodily comfort and companionship are concerned, I must say that
your experience must have been rather "tough," if it was worse
than mine. Now, don't misunderstand me, I have plenty to eat,
such as it is, I have a fairly good bed, in a fairly good room.
My companions are, as you know, cowboys. That they are rough and
all that, goes without saying, but let me tell you, my dear
friend, I have received better treatment and more consideration
from these wild, half-civilized cowboys, upon whom I have no
earthly claim, than I ever received from some from whom I had a
right to expect, if not fair treatment, at least some
consideration. The people one meets out here are always willing
to give a fellow a "white man's chance." When you write, tell me
something about the dear old Mission and its workers. What has
become of Davidson, Peck, Booker and all of the boys? I would be
extremely sorry to hear that any of them had forsaken the narrow
for the broad way. The dear old Mission! What a train of happy
memories is connected with it. I almost forgot to inquire about
Clay Price. Tell me about all of them. I am about to change my
quarters. Don't know where I will go. You had better wait until
you hear from me again before answering. With much love to
yourself and family, I am, as ever,

Your friend,

---- ---- ----.

* * * * *

DECEMBER 10, 1887.

_My Dear Steve:_

Your letter, or rather note, of November 29th, reached me in due
course. You advise me to keep up a brave heart. Steve, old
fellow, my heart is broken. I know you will smile and shake your
head; but I honestly believe that if there is such a thing as a
broken heart, mine is broken. Haven't I suffered enough? Well,
how is the Mission getting along? I noticed in the
_Courier-Journal_ the other day that George Kerr had been
reclaimed. Well, well, who would have thought it? I know him
well. He is a fellow of some parts. If he can only keep sober,
he is abundantly qualified to do well. Write me something about
the boys. I would be mighty glad to hear good reports of them.
Have you seen the ----s lately. Give them my regards when you
see them; and remind them for me, that they are in debt to me a
letter. They and you, old fellow, are about all the friends I
have left. What a sad commentary upon human nature is the
mutability of so-called friendship! When I was prosperous, I had
all the friends I wanted, and more, too. Now, I can count them
upon the fingers of one hand. Ah, well, I suppose it has been
the same time out of mind; I am not an exception. Now, Steve,
write me a long letter, and tell me all the news.

Very truly your friend, ---- ----.

* * * * *

FROM A CONVERT.

KANSAS CITY, MO., May 30, 1888.

_Rev. Steve P. Holcombe, Louisville, Ky.:_

Yours received. Would have written sooner but I have been away
and busy. I have been at Fulton, Mo., since the tenth instant.
Brother Jones left Monday morning. I tell you I just had a
glorious time. Steve, I love the work! and God is blessing me
wonderfully; everything is prosperous; business is getting
better; my health is getting better. In short, everything is
just glorious. Of course, I feel gloomy sometimes; but, blessed
be God, he will not allow us to be tempted above that we are
able to bear; and, with every temptation there is a way of
escape. I feel just that way. Every time temptation comes to me,
I flee to God for help, and I never yet failed. I have gone into
this for life; and, God helping me, I will stick. I have not
tasted drink of any kind since about January 9th, and I tell you
I was a slave to it. I never think of drinking now; my thought
is all in a different channel; bless God for it. Our little
mission is gradually growing, and we hope for grand things from
it. Pray for us. Brother Morris wishes to be remembered to
yourself and family. I am a member of his church, and I love
him. He is a grand man. I am going to Chillicothe, Missouri, the
12th of June--Brother Jones will be there for ten days. Give my
regards to all who know me; and tell them I am trusting Jesus
for everything. May God bless you in your good work. I shall
never forget you. Write as soon as convenient.

Your friend and brother,

HARRY CHAPMAN.

* * * * *

FROM A CONVERT.

CHICAGO, July 21, 1884.

_My Dear Brother Steve:_

Your kind postal of the 21st to hand this P. M. I must really
beg your pardon for having neglected your cards; but I have no
excuse to offer. It has been nothing but carelessness. I was
absent from Chicago a week with my friend D., and had a very
pleasant time. It is probable that he will start into business
in Chicago. He will know in the next few weeks. The Lord has
taken wonderfully good care of me since I have been here,
although on one or two occasions I have had to do with only one
meal a day. He has blessed me all the time. He has kept me
cheerful through all, and I feel to-day that I am nearer to Him
than I have ever been. I have put myself into His hands
unreservedly, and I feel that He is taking care of me. Yesterday
I got a letter from my brother. He asked me to pray for him, and
I shall certainly continue to do so as long as I live. Whenever
you see him, speak to him about the salvation of his soul. I
have written to him about it, and he wants to try and become a
Christian. Pray for him. Sunday I saw Dr. S. He is better
dressed than I ever saw him. I notice he wears the Murphy ribbon
in his button-hole. I am glad he is looking so well. This was
the first time I had seen him for weeks. Steve, there is only
one thing lacking to make my happiness complete, and that is to
have my mother think more favorably of my reformation. I have
written to her twice, and she has not even deigned to answer. I
feel, however, that the Lord will bring this about all right. As
to my getting into a situation, it will be some time yet, as
business hardly ever starts up here until about September. Then
the Lord will put me into something permanent, I know. The
captain is indeed happy with his family reunited with him. He
ought to shout God's praises from morning till night; but he is
not the only one that can shout--_my_ heart is forever full.
Neither hard times, nor anything else, can keep me down as long
as I have Jesus with me. I must close; it is time to go to
convert's meeting. My prayers are for you and the Mission. I
humbly ask you, as well as all the good Christians there, to
pray for me. May God bless you and yours.

Your brother in Christ,

FRED ROPKE.

Remember me to Mrs. Holcombe and the rest of the family, as well as to all inquiring friends.

* * * * *

FROM THE SAME.

CHICAGO, August 3, 1884.

_Dear Steve:_

Your kind letter to hand. I feel ashamed of myself for not
answering your letters more promptly. It does my heart good to
think that you at last have confidence in me, and that my going
to Chicago must not necessarily round up in my going to hell. It
seems to me, although I have not been in the service of our
glorious Master as long as you have, yet I have, or rather had,
more faith in His power to keep me than you had; but your remark
has often been recalled to my mind. Do you remember saying "that
if I went to Chicago, I was certainly bound for hell?" Was this
charity or placing much faith in God's word? Well, let the
matter drop. I have just come home from a glorious meeting. Oh,
how I thank God this morning for a lightness of heart and a
buoyancy of spirit that lift me above surrounding trials and
troubles! I am poor in purse; but, bless His holy name, I am
rich in promises and faith. My temporal affairs are not in a
very prosperous condition, but notwithstanding all this, I have
the confidence He will take care of me. He has done this in a
wonderful manner to this time, and He certainly has not changed
since I have become one of His. Captain Davidson keeps me pretty
well posted as to your meetings. I am glad they are well
attended. The Lord willing, I will be with you on a visit this
coming winter, and I will bring a friend. You will then see in
what style they conduct their meetings here in Chicago. I have
as yet received no answer to my long letter to H., but I praise
God that my humble words have set him to thinking. My prayers
ascend to heaven daily that he may be saved. Your friend, Frank
Jones, is here in Chicago. I saw him once on Clark street, but
had no chance to talk to him. This has been some two weeks ago.
Remember me in Christian love to the Millers, Captain Denny,
Dalton, Ben Harney, Tom Watts--in fact, all; but especially give
my regards to Mrs. Holcombe. Don't forget Mulligan, and my
prayers are that God may bless you as abundantly as he is
blessing your brother in Christ,

FRED ROPKE.

* * * * *

FROM A CONVERT.

LOUISVILLE, KY., September 12, 1887.

_Rev, S. P. Holcombe, New York City:_

MY DEAR OLD FRIEND: You do not know the pleasure your letter
gave me, I have wanted to write you ever since my return, but
did not know where a letter would reach you, nor do I know where
to direct this, but suppose I can get your address from Will. I
was at the Mission last night, and missed you sadly. We all
missed you in many ways. Your good, hard, common horse sense is
sadly needed. It is the same old story; we never appreciate a
man until it is too late. I used to think I could pick many
flaws in your management of the mission work, but I have now
come to the conclusion that you can't be downed in that line,
and hereafter I shall not even think a thought against your
management. Last night we had some ignoramus to preach, and his
grammar and ways of expressing himself were (to say the least)
tiresome; but we had testimonies afterward, and I said to
myself, "Well, Brother Steve is away, and I have been on the
quiet lay for a long time; I think, for the sake of Christ and
old Steve, I will give a red-hot testimony right from the
shoulder," and I did. I was followed by Hocker in a like strain,
and others chiming in, we made the welkin ring from turret to
foundation-stone. But the banner-bearer was not there; so the
good intended to be done fell short. Only one stood up for
prayer. But never mind, we will have our old veteran leader with
us soon, when we will unfurl our battle-flag anew and carry
terror and dismay into old Beelzebub's camp. I think if our
winter campaign is well organized, there will be no "Indians on
the warpath next spring." I miss you and want to see you so bad,
that you may give me a hundred lectures and I won't shirk. Your
true blues are all holding fast. Your Old Guard is a true and
tried one. I think they all can be depended on both on dress
parade and under fire. Your family are all well. May our
heavenly Father bless you, my dear friend, both here and
hereafter. Your sins have been great; but oh, what would I not
give to know that, after life's fitful fever is over, I would be
permitted to occupy a seat in the beautiful land of the blest
alongside of you. Truly your faith has made you whole. Good-bye,
and once more, God bless you.

Your sincere friend,

P. B.

* * * * *

FROM A CONVERT.

ATLANTA, GA., February 3, 1885.

_Dear Brother Holcombe:_

Your letter of December 17th was received in due time. Your
postal card was also received a few days ago. I have no lawful
excuse to offer but pure procrastination, from time to time, for
not answering. You are not forgotten by me or my wife and
daughter. We often speak of you, and the question is often
asked, "Will he come and see us this year and hold another
mission meeting?" You did so much good in Atlanta. The meetings
were kept up until the bad weather broke us up; they were well
attended nearly every night, and the good seed you sowed
germinated; and, by Brother Barclay's good tilling and the
assistance and the goodness of God, has brought forth much fruit
of repentance; and, thank God, we all bless the day He sent you
to us. If your Mission managers could see the great good you
accomplished while with us, I do not think they would say no to
your making Atlanta another visit; and we look forward to the
day as not being far distant when you will do so. I am trying my
best to live right. I know I am changed; I feel very different
from what I did before you visited us. You have known me fifteen
years; and you know how bad and sinful I was, and how
dissipated. I have not even wanted a drink of anything since
your visit. You know I told you I had put my foot on the serpent
and I intended to keep it there. I do not go with any of my old
associates who drink or who visit bar rooms. I select good
company; I keep up the family altar, and we are a happy little
family now. Can you appreciate that you saved one of your old
lost friends by your good work? When I met you and saw and heard
of the great blessing God had bestowed upon you and your dear
family, I set about obtaining the like blessing for myself; and
I feel in my heart that I have received it. God has been very
merciful to me and blesses all my undertakings and I am so
thankful for all of His kind mercies. Brother Barclay told me he
wrote you a few days ago, and I suppose he gave you all the
news. I have not been to the mission Sunday-school for some time
on account of the bad weather, and you know I live a long way
off. But, God willing, I shall go next Sunday. My wife and
daughter join in much love to you and your family, and wish you
a happy and successful year in the Master's cause.

Yours truly, ---- ----.

* * * * *

FROM AN OFFENDED GENTLEMAN.

LOUISVILLE, KY., January 13, 1887.

_My Dear Sir:_

Your letter surprises me. You came to me unintroduced; I was
glad to see you, and, I hope, treated you with the consideration
which I think your merit demands. You again approached me
to-day. Tonight I received a letter from you which is to me
offensive and impolite. I am not coming to your place, and I
will thank you to abate your interest in my behalf. I believe in
your work, and wish you success; but I hope you will let me
alone. My self-constituted friends have done me more injury than
_even_ my own indiscretions. Very truly,

To Rev. Steve P. Holcombe. ----- -----.

* * * * *

FROM A GAMBLER.

FEBRUARY 4, 1884.

_Mr. Steve Holcombe, Esq., Lewisville, Ky.:_

DEAR FRIEND: I take my pen in hand to drop you a few lines, as I
haven't heard of you for a long time, I learnt from a friend, of
your whereabouts, and that you had forever Retired from
Gambling, I want to accumulate a few hundred dollars and Retire
from the Business in the future, and as we have long Been
friends, I hope you will not Refuse giving me your sure system
of winning at the Game of Poker. From your friend,

DAVID W. MILLER,

_Ridgeville, Randolph Co., Ind._

* * * * *

849 SEVENTH ST., LOUISVILLE, May 28, 1888.

_Rev. Steve Holcombe:_

DEAR SIR: I have a large family Bible, which has been in my
family a number of years. You will do me a personal favor by
accepting it as a souvenir of my late son, Charles A. Gill. It
was through your Christian instrumentality and kindness that my
dear son embraced his Saviour and died a Christian.

Hoping that God will add many stars to your crown, I am your
sincere friend,

HANNAH GILL.

Two more Bibles will be given you by the same hand for
distribution.

H. G.

* * * * *

FROM A CHRISTIAN BROTHER.

MEMPHIS, TENN., May 6, 1887.

_My Dear Friend and Brother Holcombe:_

Your card well received, but I have been so busy that I have
waited for a time to write to you. I am in good health and have
a good situation, thank God. Am always alone. My children in
Switzerland are well. When I passed through Louisville, as I
wrote you from New York, I wished I had been able to stop for
twenty-four hours, but had a through sleeper to Memphis, and
could not stay over. I heard of your great trial lately. Hope
God did sustain you, and that good will come out of it for your
soul. The more I live, the more I am separated from this world.
My body is in it, but my mind and spirit are longing for a
better state, where evil shall not be present, within or
without. The Bible becomes clearer to my soul every day, and
with the grace of God I hope to come to the end a faithful and
obedient child of the Almighty Father in heaven. I suffer very
much mentally; it is a constant agony. I am absolutely,
completely broken down in my own will; have given up entirely
all worldly pleasures; have no pleasure except in doing the will
of God the best I can. My old enemy, myself, with my passions
and self-indulgence, I pay no more attention to. May God use me
according to His good will, and make me so as to be worthy of
His service. Everything of this world has been taken away from
me; "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity" is my daily bread. I
often wish to be in Louisville. Maybe I shall return there
later, to have some Christian friends around me. I have here
$150.00 a month, and the finest situation that can be wished in
my line of business. What are you doing? I suppose always the
same--taking care of the lost and neglected. Your reward shall
be great, as you come nearer fulfilling the Master's teaching
than brilliant preachers who do not touch the burdens of poor
sinners. How is your family, especially your sweet little
daughter? I hope you are all well. This world is nothing but a
tremendous deception to all who are attached to it; everything
is corrupt, and has the sting of death and sin. It is a constant
warfare with evil and evil forces around you. It is only worth
living for the good we can do to others. I can not understand at
all the joy that some find in it, except in doing entirely, to
the best of your ability, the will of God. There is surely no
other source of life in the universe. I am writing now to dear
Brother A. A few months ago he wrote to me. He, also, has had
great sorrows. It is very strange that alone pain and suffering
can make us wise and pure in heart. How antagonistic are the
ways of God and those of men? Absolutely opposed in all things.
Oh, let us be true to God, even unto death, cutting mercilessly
all that is worldly and carnal, so as to live for the spirit and
not lose eternal life. My dear brother, please do pray for your
lonely brother, that God may bring His presence into my worried
soul and help me in the battle. The enemy is very powerful, and
shows no mercy. His mission is to destroy and to lie, and he
knows how to do it. May God bless you and keep you forever.

Your true friend,
---- ----.

* * * * *

FROM SAM P. JONES.

CHICAGO, ILL., March 16, 1886.

_Rev. Steve Holcombe, Louisville, Ky.:_

DEAR BROTHER HOLCOMBE: Yours of March 10th received. I thought
you were wise enough to know, when you wanted to plant yourself
in permanent quarters, that the devil would do his best to
prevent it. The devil don't like you anyway; but keep your
equilibrium--God is with you; and He is more than all that can
be against you. I have just passed through the most terrific
storm of criticism almost of my life; and thank God I have
witnessed in Chicago, within the last twenty-four hours, the
grandest triumph of the Gospel I ever saw. I wish you could be
here a few days and see the power of God, and rejoice with us in
the work.

I enclose an article, which you can take to the
_Courier-Journal_ if you like.

Kindest regards to your loved ones and all the brethren, and may
God's blessing be upon your work.

Fraternally yours,

SAM P. JONES.

* * * * *

FROM THE SAME.

GIBSON HOUSE,
CINCINNATI, OHIO, June 13, 1886.

_My Dear Brother Holcombe:_

I received your message sent by Brother Cleveland. I would like
you to come over about the middle of next week. I think we will
have some of the slain of the Lord for you to look after by that
time. Our meeting moves off gloriously. I have never seen a
better start anywhere. Thank God for the prospect of a glorious
victory in this wicked city. The house is packed day and night,
and the preachers and people stand shoulder to shoulder with me.
Love to your family. Affectionately,

SAM P. JONES.

* * * * *

FROM REV. DR. WILLITS (Warren Memorial Church).

_Mr. Steve Holcombe:_

DEAR SIR: The bearer, Ch. H., is a stranger to me; but he will
tell you his story. It is the old story of fight with appetite,
and you will be better able to advise him than myself.

Truly yours,

A. A. WILLITS.

* * * * *

FROM DR. JOHN A. BROADUS.

MARCH 23, 1885.

_Dear Brother Holcombe_:

The bearer is Mr. B., once a merchant in Richmond, Va., fallen
by drinking habits, separated from wife and children, _lost_. He
spoke to me after sermon yesterday morning, and came to my house
this morning. He does not ask immediate relief, having some
money; but wants to find employment, and thinks he can stop
drinking. He is evidently an intelligent man, and earnestly
desirous of regaining himself. He used to be an Episcopal
communicant. Now, if you can in any way help Mr. B., I shall be
exceedingly glad.

Your friend and brother,

JOHN A. BROADUS.

* * * * *

The following letter is from one of the converts whose
testimony is given elsewhere, but it is interesting as an
independent account given soon after his conversion.

LOUISVILLE, KY., January 28, 1884.

_Rev. G. Alexander_:

DEAR SIR AND BROTHER: The few brotherly words you spoke to me during our short acquaintance, and your kindness toward me, a poor drunken outcast at the time, will ever be remembered. Often I make inquiries of Brother Holcombe regarding you and your health. At his suggestion, I write you and give a brief history of my life, in hope it may encourage some poor fellow whom you are seeking to save for a better life, and give him renewed courage to battle against sin; and for the glory of our Saviour Jesus Christ.

My father, as a wealthy man, determined to give his children the benefit of a good education. With this end in view, he left my younger brother and myself in Germany in 1864, after a visit there with the family. We stayed until 1867, when we returned to Louisville, I to enter the banking house of Theodore Schwartz & Co. With them I stayed until 1869, when my father became bondsman for the sheriff, Captain John A. Martin. Out of courtesy, Captain Martin made me, although only nineteen years of age, one of his deputies. From that time I date my downfall. Money flowed in freely; and, being young and inexperienced, I spent it just as freely, if not more so. In two years, at the age of twenty-one, I was considered about as reckless a young man as there was in the city. My father was always proud of his oldest son, and indulged me in almost everything. The habit of intemperance was gaining a sure hold; and when he died, in 1872, I was considered by some a confirmed drunkard.

Gradually I sank lower and lower, until I became what I was when you first saw me eight months ago--a poor miserable outcast from society, and a burden to myself and friends. I was forsaken and despised by all. I shudder to think that my life should ever flow in the same channel again. During all these years of dissipation I wandered all over this country--from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the Atlantic almost to the Pacific. I drifted aimlessly with no other object in view but to gratify a terrible longing for strong drink. I had been in the city but a short while when I heard of Brother Holcombe's efforts to redeem the fallen. Having known him before his conversion, curiosity led me to listen to him. During all this time I knew and felt that a day of reckoning would come, but whenever such thoughts entered my mind, I dismissed them, as they made me tremble at the very idea of having to give an account of the misdeeds of a wasted life. On the 25th of last June I was passing up Jefferson street, and heard singing in the basement at No. 436. My first impulse was to turn and go away, as I was in no suitable dress to go into a place of worship. Then the thought came into my mind, "This is Steve Holcombe's place; I'll go in and see what it looks like." Thank God, I did go in. The songs of those Sunday-school children awakened chords in my heart which I thought had died long ago. Tears came into my eyes, and then and there I vowed, if by God's help salvation was possible for me, I certainly would make the trial. Glorious have been the results. That evening I heard Brother Holcombe once more; introduced myself to him and promised him I would attend evening service, which I did.

From that day to this I have been growing in grace. The Lord has blessed me wonderfully. My worldly affairs have prospered; and, what is worth more than all the world to me, I am continually happy. Nothing disturbs my peace, and I allow nothing to interfere with it. My trust is in my Saviour; He has promised to care for those who trust Him, and I have implicit faith in that promise. My old appetite and desires are all taken away and I find pleasure and joy in things that in former years I considered ridiculous.

Very truly yours,

FRED ROPKE.

TESTIMONIALS.

CAPTAIN EGBERT J. MARTIN.

I was born in Louisville in 1842; was educated in New York and Virginia; served in General Lee's army during the war on the staff of my uncle, General Edward Johnson. The only commission I received was received on the third day of July, 1863, at the battle of Gettysburg.

My first drinking commenced in Georgia, where I was planting rice with General Gordon. That was in 1867. I did not drink during the war at all except that I might have taken a drink occasionally when I met with friends. My uncle would not permit liquor about his headquarters. On leaving Georgia, I went to New York, and went into business. I acquired quite a reputation there, and had a good income. My periodical drinking continued, however, and each year became greater and greater. Nothing was said about it for seven years and a half. I would not drink around my place of business. When I felt the spell coming on me, I would quit and go off, and be gone seven or eight days, and be back to business again when I had straightened up, and nothing was said about it; but the thing will increase on a man, and, of course, with each succeeding year the habit became stronger, and the intervals shorter.

I conceived the idea that a change of climate would do me good. Visits to the mountains seemed to benefit me, and I thought I would go West, and the change would effect a cure. I went to Colorado, made friends there, went into business, and was successful. I was married to my wife in Denver, Colorado. I believed as my wife did, that my drinking was a matter under my control. I had been leading an aimless life, with no family ties; and after I was married, I thought a strong effort on my part would stop it. I wanted to get back to salt water again, and have everything in my favor; and the next morning after we were married, I started for California. I was very successful there. I was in a short time made special agent of the California Electric Light Company, at a salary of three thousand dollars a year. They wanted to make a contract with me for five years, giving me three thousand dollars a year, if I would bind myself not to drink during the five years. I found it was not such an easy thing to quit drinking. I consulted physicians there. There was a doctor in Oakland who said he had a specific for drunkenness; and he gave it to me. The result was that when I wanted a drink, I threw the medicine away and got the drink. What I always wanted, and tried to get, was something to take away the appetite for drink. There were times when I had no more desire for drink than you or any other man; but when it seized me, it seized me in an uncontrollable way, and I would drink for the deliberate purpose of making myself sick and getting over it as quick as possible. I knew it had to be gone through with, and I drank until I made myself sick.

I never attended to business when I drank liquor. I never mixed up my business affairs with my drinking. Everybody I had anything to do with knew I was thoroughly reliable. I never lied about being drunk. I never said I was sick or had the cholera infantum or anything of that sort. Everybody who employed me knew as much about it as I did.

When my little boy was born, I felt a sacred duty was imposed upon me; and I tried to encourage my ideas of morality. I had always been a moral man, and, although an infidel, had never sought to break down the religious opinions of any one, because I had nothing to give them instead. My rationalism satisfied me. It was a belief, an opinion, with which I was willing to face my Maker, because I believed I was right. I believed in the existence of a Supreme Being, but I did not believe that the great Ruler of the universe thought enough of us insignificant human beings to interest Himself in our affairs. I did not believe in the Christians' God. There in Virginia I had been surrounded by members of the church. Everybody was either a Baptist, a Methodist, or a member of some other denomination; drunkards and saloon-keepers and all belonged to the church. They could do wrong and afterward go straight to church. That kind of religion disgusted me, and that kind of religion confirmed my skepticism. I wanted to get away and I even planned to go to Australia. After my little boy was born, I stayed sober for six months, and then I commenced drinking again. I did not conceal the truth from myself. I said, "You are false to everything that is manly; you are a disgrace to yourself." I decided to go back to Virginia (my wife had never been there) and settle up a lawsuit I had pending in the courts.

But after a short stay in Virginia I had an offer to return to New York and go to work, and went to New York; and after I had been there a month, I received a dispatch stating that a compromise had been agreed upon without consulting me at all. I went back to Richmond and rejected the compromise.

A decision was made in my favor, but the case was taken to the Court of Appeals. I had used up everything I had in litigation; and when, at last, I got a telegram that the Court of Appeals had reversed the case, and we had lost everything, it just broke me down. It took me more than a month to realize that it was a fact--I could not get it into my head; and it broke me down completely. I loved my wife and I loved my child, and was troubled about them, and for the two years I was fighting these Virginia gentlemen I was in a state of high excitement. I had nothing to do except to worry, and I drank more than ever in my life. I said, "My God! it is awful. I have lost everything. I know I am a drunkard; it is no use denying it, because the appetite is on me all the time." And many a time I threw myself down in the woods and sobbed aloud if Fate would have mercy on me. I had given up all hope. I thought the good fortune which had followed me all my life would never return. I had sent my wife off; so I had lost her, too. She went to her sister's, in Ohio; and I arranged that my mother should remain at the old place. I wrote to a cousin of mine whom I had not met since the war. He used, frequently, to come to our home, a delightful and healthful place, thirteen miles from Richmond. I thought I would write him that I desired to get out of Virginia, and had not the means, and would make Louisville my objective point. So I wrote him, but received no reply. I wrote to another man, stating the circumstances--that I wanted to get out of Virginia and go to work; but I received no answer from him; and I came to the conclusion if I wanted to get out of Virginia I would have to walk. I had secured my wife and child, and as for myself it little mattered what befell me or how I fared.

I was walking through the woods one day and saw a man getting out 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.