Chapter VI (5)

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.

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.

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.

While I was in the penitentiary it seemed that everything turned around the other way with me; it seemed like I had got enough of it. I saw so many bad men there, I got disgusted. It seemed to me if ever I got out and got my liberty any more, I would try to do right if it took my head off.

During the time--two years--that I was in the penitentiary, I kept up a correspondence all the time with Mr. Holcombe; and Mr. Holcombe's Christian letters touched my heart, and I made up my mind by the grace of God I would lead a Christian life in the future. At the expiration of about two years, Mr. Holcombe, to my great surprise and delight, brought me a pardon from Governor Knott.

Since I have been out of the penitentiary I have been leading a Christian life, and have had no inclination to steal. I have been at work for Hegan Brothers, as engineer and fireman, for some time, have got married to a sweet girl, and am now living happily in the Lord; and I shall never cease to be grateful to God and Mr. Holcombe. I never go to sleep at night without thanking the Lord--and my wife joins me in it.

CAPTAIN MAC PITTMAN.

I was born in Baltimore in 1834. My ancestors were driven away from Arcadia by the English, on account of their Roman Catholic proclivities.

I was educated at two Catholic colleges, St. Mary's, at Baltimore; and St. Mary's at Wilmington, Delaware. At eighteen years of age, on account of the tyranny of my father, I ran away from home, and shipped in the United States Navy as a common sailor. I went around to San Francisco, and there joined "the gray-eyed man of destiny," General Walker.

I joined his expedition in September, 1885, and arrived in Nicaragua in October, the following month--the third day of October. There was a civil war then in progress in Nicaragua; and the pretense of this expedition was that we were hired by one of the parties to take part in it. Walker was to furnish three hundred Americans, who were to get one hundred dollars a month and five hundred acres of land, and their clothes and rations, of course. When I first arrived there, we were to escort specie trains across the isthmus--there are but twelve miles of land from water to water--from San Juan del Sur to Virgin Bay. I was one of the guard over the celebrated State prisoners, General Coral and the Secretary of War, whose name I forget, who were both executed. I was inside of the seventieth man who joined this expedition; when I joined him, Walker had but sixty men. The re-enforcements that came over made just one hundred men. He had sixty men, I think, and we numbered forty. With this one hundred men we took the city of Grenada, which had a population of twelve thousand, on the morning of October 13, 1855. A small division of men was sent to the town of Leon on the Pacific coast. The natives of that section of the country were all in favor of Walker; that part--the western part--is the Democratic part of the country. On our return to Grenada, on the 11th day of April, 1856, we went into the Battle of Rivas, after marching sixty-five miles. We fought from eight o'clock in the morning until two the next morning, by the flash of guns. I lost my arm that morning; and was promoted from the rank of sergeant to that of first lieutenant for taking a cannon in advance of the army. I returned to Grenada, and lay there for several months, and then returned to America. I went back with the re-enforcements from New York in the following August. In October, 1856, I resigned, and came back to America.

At the breaking out of the civil war, on the first call for troops, I refused a commission in the Federal army, and joined the Confederate forces.

In 1861 we formed the First Maryland regiment. The last six months of the war I spent as a prisoner in Fort Delaware, charged with the murder of the eleven men who were killed in Baltimore during the riot, on the 19th of April, 1861. I was court-martialed in Washington City, in the latter part of 1864, and was sent in irons to Fort Delaware, and remained there until May, 1865, when I was released.

From Fort Delaware I went to New York, and from there went to Virginia, where I married the great granddaughter of the illustrious patriot, Patrick Henry, at Danville. In January, 1866, I migrated to Texas, where I spent the little patrimony my grandfather had given me. When I left there, I took the position of commercial and marine editor of the Savannah _News_.

I never had given a thought to religion or my hereafter before this time. To illustrate this: When they amputated my arm, they asked me distinctly if I had any religion. They told me afterward they expected me to die. I said: "Yes, I have been raised a Catholic." They wanted to send for a priest. I said: "No, I do not want you to send for a priest." They asked me why? "Well," I said, "as I have lived, thus will I die; I don't have much faith in the hereafter business." I did not have much faith in hell, I meant.

I was interested, directly and indirectly, in several gambling establishments, and my proclivities were in that direction. The passion of gambling controlled me to such an extent that I was capable of all sins and crimes to indulge in it. It was one day up, one day down; one day with plenty, another day without a cent.

I continued in this wild, reckless career, until fate turned my footsteps toward the city of Louisville. For it was fate, sure enough, or I don't know what it was. I was sitting one Sunday in front of the old Willard Hotel, Steve Holcombe was preaching that Sunday on the courthouse steps. His remarks were such as to elicit my closest attention; so impressive were they that he seemed to picture before me a panorama of my whole life, in referring to his own career. When he got through with his sermon, I walked up to him, and said: "Mr. Holcombe, you are the first man that I ever heard in my life who impressed me with the importance of preparing for death and meeting God." I then commenced attending the Mission, on Jefferson street, near Fifth, daily. I was there nearly every day.

I then went South, to New Orleans, and fell from grace again--commenced going through the same old routine--gambling, drinking, spreeing. In fact, I was a fearful periodical spreer; if I took one drink, I had to keep drinking for a month. As long as I kept away from it I was all right. I was very abusive when I was drinking; I would knock a man down with a club. I have been arrested, I guess, fifty times for fighting and drunken brawls.

From New Orleans I again came back to Louisville, the 6th of August a year ago, still going on in the same reckless manner, getting drunk, and being drunk, as usual, a week at a time--sometimes a month; in fact, I lived in bar-rooms here. One night, while Mr. Murphy was here--I do not recollect the night, but at one of Mr. Murphy's meetings--he appealed to us all to try and reform and be sober men. I met Mr. Werne and Miles Turpin there, and while there, Mr. Werne asked me if I did not intend to reform, or something like that--that was the substance of the conversation of himself and his wife with me--and he told me that Miles Turpin had reformed. I said: "If Miles Turpin has reformed, I can, too. From this day henceforth I will be a sober man." And I signed the Murphy pledge a short time afterward, and I have not taken anything intoxicating from that day to this.

Mr. Werne then asked me to come up to the Mission, and I have not missed attending this Mission but three nights since, and the benefits that I have derived--the satisfaction, the happiness of mind, the contentment of spirit--I would not exchange for my old life for anything in the world. I mean I would not exchange my present life for the old one for any earthly consideration. I attribute this reformation to the strong personal interest that Mr. Holcombe has taken in my welfare, and if he does not save but one soul, as he says, it would pay him for all the trouble he has gone through within the last ten years or more.

The two following letters, though in the nature of testimonies,
are from men of high standing in the community, who preferred,
on account of others, not to give their testimonies in the form
in which the foregoing are given:

LOUISVILLE, KY., July 24, 1888.

_Rev. Gross Alexander_:

MY DEAR BROTHER--Yours of 21st is just received. I can not see
how a sketch of my life can do "The Life of Brother Holcombe"
any good. As I understand it, you are writing the life and
conversion of Steve Holcombe and not of others. My past history
is sufficiently sad and regretful without having it paraded
before the public in book form. I am far from being proud of it.
I am exceedingly anxious it should sink into the shades of
forgetfulness. Having marked out a new and brighter life, I am
only too glad to let "the dead past bury its dead."

Most sincerely,

---- ----.

* * * * *

LOUISVILLE, KY., August 2, 1888.

_Dear Brother Alexander_:

Your kind letter was received several days ago, but I have
delayed answering, in the expectation of seeing you here in
person.

I am now anxious for the successful issue of the book, on
account of the great moral influence it will have upon all
classes of the community. But I can not consent to what you
propose. I am endeavoring every day to blot out and forget the
dark and cloudy past of my life, keeping always a bright future
in view. There are dark and painful episodes in the life of
every man and though _he_ may be willing to expose them to the
eyes of the public, there are those who are bound to him by the
ties of blood and relationship, who would blush at the recital.
This is the position I occupy. I hope to see you here soon.

Yours truly,

---- ----.

SERMONS.

MARK 1: 15.

"The kingdom of God is at hand. Repent and believe the Gospel."

Verse 14 says, the Lord Jesus came into Galilee preaching; and this was the announcement which He made, namely, that the kingdom of God was at hand and they were to enter it by repentance and faith. The kingdom was brought to them; they did not have to go and search for it. It was brought to them, opened for them and they were _urged_ to go in and become members of it. And so it is now. God's messengers are sent everywhere to find sinners, and when they are found, to say to them: "Ho! everyone that thirsteth, come ye to the waters and drink, come buy and eat without money and without price" (Isaiah 55), and to cry, "All things are now ready; come ye, therefore, to the feast."

And so it is to-day, God sends the same message of good news, of glad tidings to you--even to you. The kingdom of God is _here--here to-day and now_; and if you _will_, you may enter it and be saved.

But what are men told to do in order that they may enter?

How are they to enter?

1. They are to _repent_.

And what is it to repent?

Some think that great sorrow of heart is a necessary part of repentance; and that tears and groans of agony must be a part of every repentance that is genuine, and they think that unless we feel deeply and keenly the baseness of our ingratitude to God we are not truly penitent. Now, it is true that some people have _all these_ marks of repentance, and it is very well to have them, but some men can not have them and never can get them. So that if all men are commanded to repent and can repent, these things are not an essential part of true repentance. To repent, then, is to turn unto God with the feeling that sin is wrong, and that, if we do not get rid of it, it will ruin us; and with the resolution and hope, by the help of God, to keep from sin and to live for Him during the rest of our lives. And if our repentance is genuine, we _will_ leave off sin and practice righteousness. It will show itself by its _fruits_. Pretending or professing to repent without turning away from our sins and abandoning them is, as some one has said, like trying to pump the water out of a boat without stopping the leaks. If you have sorrow and regrets and tears, they are all right; but the _main thing_ is to have such a feeling concerning sin as to turn _forever_ away from it to God and to a life of righteousness. And if your repentance is genuine, you will not wait until you are converted before you begin to leave off all sin and to do all the good of every kind in your power. No; you will begin _at once and keep it up_, and the longer you keep at it the more you will feel that you must go on with it.

2. But there is another thing to be done. The Lord says:

"Repent and _believe_ the Gospel."

So you are to _believe_. You are to believe that God _does_ accept you now through Jesus Christ _just because He says_ He accepts and saves those who believe in His Son. You may not receive the evidence of acceptance _at once_ and so you are to hold on by faith till He does give you the evidence of your acceptance, even the witness of His spirit that your sins are forgiven and you made a child of God.

You must not let the difficulty of believing without feeling keep you back from believing and you must not let the remembrance of your great sins keep you from believing. Poor, unhappy men, you who are bruised and sore on account of your sins, I beg you cease from your evil ways. Why will you die? "What fearful thing is there in Heaven which makes you flee from that world? What fascinating object in hell, that excites such frenzied exertion to break every band, and overleap every bound, and force your way downward to the chambers of death?" Stop, I beseech you, and repent, and Jesus Christ shall blot out your sins, and remember your transgressions no more. Stop, and the host who follow your steps shall turn, and take hold on the path of life. Stop, and the wide waste of sin shall cease, and the song of the angels shall be heard again, "glory to God in the highest; on earth, peace, good will to men." Stop, and instead of wailing with the lost, you shall join the multitude which no man can number, in the ascription of blessing and honor, and glory, and power, to Him that sitteth on the throne, and to the Lamb forever and forever.

The kingdom of God is here to-night. Will you come in?

"Come humble sinner in whose breast," etc.

Come, angels invite you, we invite you, and, best of all, Christ invites you. O, do not, by your own actions, bar this door forever against your immortal soul. What a fearful thing it will be to wake up in eternity to find this door, which to-day hangs wide open, barred against you and hung with crape. O, how fearful will be those words, too late! too late! All is lost.

"Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bid'st me come to Thee,
O! Lamb of God I come.

"Just as I am, tho' tossed about,
With many a conflict, many a doubt,
Fightings and fears within, without,
O! Lamb of God I come."

JOHN III: 16

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son
that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have
everlasting life."

Many of the glorious truths of the Gospel are both above the conception of man and altogether contrary to what his unrenewed nature would desire to publish. Heathen writers could tell of the cruelty and vengeful wrath of their imaginary gods. They could tell of deeds of daring, the exploits of Hercules, Hector, AEneas and others; but it was foreign to their nature to write: "God so loved the world as to give His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

1. The Gospel is glad tidings. It is the news that God is reconciled and wants to be at peace with man. Is this not good news? Have you never heard good news that made your heart leap for joy? Well, this is better news than any you have ever heard. God, not angry with you, but loving you, so as, at a great sacrifice, to make a way for the salvation of the world.

2. What was that sacrifice? It was the gift of His own Son. Think of it, oh sinner! God consenteth to give up His Son, to leave His glory and come as a stranger into the world, and to be born in great poverty, and with all the conditions of us poor mortals. Think of God looking down on Jesus, His Son, living this poor earthly life, here among strangers who did not recognize His divinity--nay, who became jealous of Him, and persecuted Him trying to kill him; and at last, after unheard-of tortures inflicted upon Him, did kill Him. Now, think of God giving up His Son to endure all this, and watching all this lonely and misunderstood and persecuted life of His only begotten Son, watching it and enduring it for thirty-three years, and then ask yourself how much God sacrificed to show His love for us sinners. Have you a son? If you have, don't you know how it stings you deeper for a man to mistreat or strike him than yourself? If a man should beat my little Pearl it would be harder for me to bear than anything, and yet this is what God endured for long years to show His love for you and me.

Think of the arrest of Jesus, His being tied, handcuffed, beaten more than once with fearful lashes, knocked in the face, spit on, and then nailed with spikes to a cross with thieves, and think of God looking at all this while it was going on, and you have some idea of what it means when it says God _gave_ His only begotten Son.

3. And the way to get this friendship of God and profit by this love is merely to _believe_ with all your heart on Jesus. It is hard to believe that God loves, really loves, such sinners as you are, and yet I am a living witness that He does; for I was as bad as any of you, and if God did not love me and take hold of me and save me, then I don't know what has happened to me, certain. So you must _believe_ it, even if it is hard to believe it.

4. But this glad tidings is for you and you and you--for _every one of you_. It is for _whosoever_, and that means everybody--everybody. A certain believing man in England said, "I rather it would _be whosoever_ than to have my name there. For if my name was there, I could say there might be another man of my name in the world, but when it says _whosoever, I know it includes me_."

5. It is to save us from _perishing_.

Oh, what an awful word is that, and what an awful thing it must be to perish. You have a taste of it now in your sins, and their saddening, darkening, hardening effect on you. You once had tender consciences. You once loved things and people that were pure and good and true, and you loved a Christian mother, wife, father or sister; but sin has so hardened you, that you care for none of these things now. Is it not so? Well, this is a little taste of what it is to finally and forever _perish_.

But Christ was given that you might _not perish_. What, can Christ save me from my hardness of heart, from my black sins, from my uncleanness and debauchery, and from my awful darkness of mind and conscience?

Yes; He can, glory to His name. I am a living witness. He has saved me. He can save others like me from all these awful effects of sin, even after they have lived in it for scores of years, as I did. Yes, and He saves from that awful _perishing_ which comes after this little, short life is over, whatever it is. Yes; Jesus can shut and bar the door of hell, and no soul can enter there who believes in Him and lives for Him.

6. But He not only saves from perishing, He gives them eternal _life_,

What does that mean? Oh, I know not--only I know it means life forever without death or decay or sickness or pain or sorrow or weakness or tiredness or parting or fear or anxiety. But what else it means I know not. This eternal life, this life forever in heaven, I expect--I fully expect--to get, though I was a poor gambler and swearer and adulterer, and all that I could be that was sinful, for forty years. Yes; I expect to get it. I know I am on my way thither, though I am not perfect. Won't you come and go with us? Oh, won't you come?

TITUS II: 14.

"Who gave Himself for us that He might redeem us from all
iniquity, and purify unto Himself a peculiar people, zealous of
good works."

This verse contains a comprehensive statement of the Gospel in few words. Let us ask God that His Holy Spirit may give us wisdom and insight to understand and profit by what we are here told.

In the first place, we are told that the ground of our salvation is through the self-surrender of Himself by Jesus, the Son of God.

We saw, in a passage of Scripture a week or two ago, how great the condescension of Jesus Christ was. Though He was equal with God, yet He took upon himself the form of a servant; and being found in fashion as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient unto death--the death of the Cross. Our text now teaches us what this was for. "He gave Himself _for us_."

Now, I will ask you, could God show His concern for us in a more striking and convincing way than in the _giving_ of His Son to ignominy and death? Could Jesus, the Son of God, show His love for men in any more convincing way than in _giving Himself_ for their recovery and salvation? Then, surely we ought to lay aside our habitual way of thinking of God as our enemy, and think of Him as our best friend. For no human friend ever did for us what God has done for us. And if we judge of one's love for us by the sacrifices he makes for us, then must we give the crown to Jesus, who was God manifest in the flesh. He bore our sins; He would bear our burdens, if we would throw them on Him; He would fill us with His spirit, and with power, if we would trust Him and believe His promise.