"LOUISVILLE, KY., May 29, 1888.
"My Dear Wife:
"Your letter to hand. I am so happy to know that you are having a good time. Isn't God good to us? When we look back over our past lives and see how good God has been to us, how thankful we should be. Very little sickness in our immediate family and no death in thirty years. The two babes that we lost thirty years ago are safe in the arms of Jesus, and all the living ones are sweetly trusting in Him. Let us from this hour be more earnest and untiring in our efforts to save the children of others. Kiss Mamie for me and then look in the glass and kiss yourself a thousand times for him who loves you with a true, deep love.
Yours in life, yours in death,
"Steve P. Holcombe."
Those who are familiar with Mr. Holcombe's career as a Christian worker would regard any sketch of his life incomplete which did not contain some account of the assault made upon him by three strange men in the winter of 1887. A few months after his removal to the new quarters that had been purchased by the Mission, he was attacked by three men in his own house and severely injured. On a Sunday afternoon in January, 1887, he heard some one walking in the hall on the second floor of the building, and went out to see who it was. He found a man there whom he had never seen before, and asked him who he was and what he wanted. The man replied in an insolent, manner that he had come to visit a servant girl who was at the time working in Mr. Holcombe's family. When Mr. Holcombe asked him why he came into his private family apartments, the man became more impudent and defiant, and gave utterance to some abusive language. Already provoked at the man's audacity and alarmed at the thought of what such a ruffian might have done to some one of his family if he had been absent, Mr. Holcombe's quick nature now became so exasperated that he forgot himself for a moment and thrust the man violently down the stairway and out of the house. The man left the place and Mr. Holcombe thought that was the end of it. But an hour or two later some one knocked at his room door on the same floor, and as he opened it, he saw himself confronted by three men, one of whom he recognized as the man he had put out of the house. The two others professed to be policemen who had come to arrest Mr. Holcombe, but when he asked to see their badges of authority they seized him. One against three, he resisted them with all his might, uttering no cry of distress or call for help. In the struggle Mr. Holcombe's leg was broken, both bones of it, and as he fell, with all his weight, the men thought he was badly hurt and fled, leaving him lying helpless on the floor. He was taken up by those whom he called and laid on his bed. Physicians were sent for. The news spread in a few minutes all over the neighborhood, and before night, all over the city. The Chief of Police, Colonel Whallen, set his detectives to work looking for the men, and many citizens, self-constituted detectives, inquired concerning the appearance of the men and kept a sharp lookout for them. But they succeeded in escaping, and it was, perhaps, well for them they did. Before night Mr. Holcombe's room was crowded with friends filled with sympathy and indignation. Drs. Kelly and Alexander set the broken limb and gave Mr. Holcombe the unwelcome bit of information that he would have to lie in his bed for some five or six weeks, a sore trial to his restless spirit; but by the help of God he accepted it and settled down to endure it, not knowing, however, what good he was to get out of it. It was an opportunity for the people of Louisville to show their estimation and appreciation of him, and it is safe to say that no man in Louisville would have received the attentions and favors which this poor converted gambler, Steve Holcombe, did receive. It reminds one of a passage in Dr. Prime's account of the funeral of Jerry McAuley in the Broadway Tabernacle in New York. Dr. Prime himself was to conduct the funeral service, and this is what he says:
"We are going to-day to the tabernacle to talk of what Jerry McAuley was and what he has done, to the little congregation that will gather there. If it were Dr. Taylor, the beloved and honored pastor, the house would be crowded and the streets full of mourners, but poor Jerry, he is dead and who will be there to weep with us over his remains? Ah, how little did I know the place poor Jerry held in the hearts of the people of this vast city! I was to conduct the funeral and went early to complete all arrangements. As I turned down from Fifth avenue through Thirty-fourth street, I saw a vast multitude standing in the sunshine, filling the streets and the square in front of the tabernacle. Astonished at the spectacle and wondering why they did not go and take seats in the church, I soon found that the house was packed with people so that it was impossible for me to get within the door. Proclamation was made that the clergy who were to officiate were on the outside, and a passage was made for us to enter. What could be more impressive and what more expressive of the estimate set upon the man and his work? There is no other Christian worker in the city who would have called out these uncounted thousands in a last tribute of love and in honor of his memory."
The tribute which the people of Louisville paid to the work and worth of Steve Holcombe before his death was hardly less.
On Monday, the day following his misfortune, Mr. Holcombe's room was, nearly all the day long, full of people of every grade, from the mayor and the richest and finest people on Broadway and Fourth avenue, down to the poor drunkard and outcast, who forgot his shabby dress and pressed in among those fine people in order to see "Brother Holcombe," and find out how he was. The ministers of the leading churches of every Protestant denomination came with words of sympathy and prayer. Fine ladies came in their carriages, bringing baskets of fruit and all sorts of delicacies. Those who could not go sent letters and messages. And Mr. Holcombe lay in his bed and wept—not for pain, but for gratitude and humble joy. "Why," said he, "I would be willing to have half a dozen legs broken to know that these people think so much of me and of my poor efforts to be useful."
This, then, was the first compensation and blessing.
He learned also that it would be absolutely necessary for him to watch more closely his impulsive and fiery temper, and get a better control of it. For he does not deny that he was inexcusably hasty and severe in his treatment of the impudent intruder.
And then he was temporarily relieved from the incessant demands and the constant strain of his daily activity and his nightly anxiety. He had time and opportunity, as far as the importunity and kindness of his friends would allow, to get calmed, to look down into his own heart, to analyze his motives, to study his own nature, to see his own faults, to find out his own needs and to pray. He had been told by one of his friends, that while he did not work too much, he did not pray enough, and that he was, therefore, liable to be overtaken by some sudden temptation and be betrayed into sin.
That same friend, in conducting service in one of the churches of the city on that very Sunday morning, had offered special public prayer for Mr. Holcombe and his work. He prayed specifically that if Brother Holcombe needed a thorn in the flesh, to keep him humble, God would send it. It was thought to be a special and speedy answer, that before sundown of that very day, Mr. Holcombe did receive almost literally a thorn in the flesh; a messenger of Satan it was withal to buffet him. And Mr. Holcombe was the first to acknowledge that he needed this trial and the threefold blessing which came with it.
The perpetrators of the cowardly deed were, some time afterward, caught and imprisoned—every one of them. One of them has been pardoned and released, and through Mr. Holcombe's kindly intervention the other two probably will be, while through his friendly counsels one of them has been brought to realize his own sinfulness, and has promised to live a better life.