Robert Carter: His Life and Work. 1807-1889

Front matter

ROBERT CARTER.

He was a good man, and full of the Holy Ghost

and of faith.―Acts xi. 24.

Chapter I

LIFE OF ROBERT CARTER.

CHAPTER I.

In the sturdy character of a Christian Scotchman, brought up in the earnest fashion of his Covenanting ancestors, there is something that carries our thoughts into the Book of Psalms on which they so loved to dwell, and we think of the “tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper”; for “his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in his law doth he meditate day and night.” “With long life shall he be satisfied,” for he has the promise that “goodness and mercy shall follow him all the days of his life, and he shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Never were these words more truly fulfilled than in the history of Robert Carter. His life was successful in the best sense. God seemed to give him the desire of his heart, and did not withhold the request of his lips. Chastening was sent to him, lest there should be any doubt as to his being one whom the Lord loveth; but in his long and honored life sunshine predominated over shadow, joy over sorrow. He went to his grave like a shock of corn fully ripe, with no cherished plan defeated, his work well accomplished, his faith firm and clear, knowing that his Redeemer liveth. Let those to whom he was dear give, as he would have done, all the glory to the One who loved him, and washed him from his sins in His blood.

About thirty miles from Edinburgh, and as many from the English border, stands the pleasant village of Earlston. It is in the heart of one of the most beautiful parts of Scotland. Four miles off is Melrose with its classic abbey, and not far away Abbotsford, where the Wizard of the North wove many an enchanting spell, and Dryburgh, where he lies buried.

In the beginning of the present century Earlston was so secluded from intercourse with the surrounding world that there was not even a stage-coach running through it. The ancestors of some of the villagers could be traced back for five or six centuries, and in that time it had made little progress. Many had been born, grown up to manhood, and died in a good old age, who had never gone beyond the hills which formed its sensible horizon. But they were an intelligent people, eager for books and learning, sustaining good schools, where even the poorest had the opportunity of studying Latin and Greek; and they were also a God-fearing folk, bringing up their children in his fear and in the study of his Word. The minister went from house to house duly examining the children in their knowledge of the Scriptures and the Catechism, and it has been said that if at nine o’clock at night one had gone through the village he would have heard the sound of psalm-singing and prayer and reading of the Word of God in every house, so general was the custom of family worship.

In one of these homes Robert Carter was born, on November 2, 1807. He was the second child, having an elder brother who grew up into a worthy manhood, but Robert always took the lead in the family, his strong vigorous character seeming to give him the birthright.

His father, Thomas Carter, was a native of Earlston, a man of sterling qualities and much intelligence. His mother, whose maiden name was Agnes Ewing, of Sprouston, near Kelso, was a woman of great originality, bright and quick-witted, and withal an earnest Christian.

Her own lips long years afterwards told the following story of these early days. She had all her life been accustomed to attend church twice a day on Sunday. When her oldest child was born she was obliged to stay at home with it one half of the day, and this was a sore trial. Good old Mr. Lauder, the minister, called one day, and she told him how greatly she felt the privation. “I will give you a text,” said he, “to think of, as you sit at home with the baby: ‘Take this child and nurse it for me, and I will give thee thy wages.’ ” The words sank into her heart, and were a constant source of strength to her in the rearing of her eleven children. The promise was indeed kept to her, ——the wages given; for few mothers have received such tender and watchful care as did she until she went to her final reward at the age of eighty-two years.

Mr. Walter Carter, one of her younger sons, gives the following sketch of his parents,

“You ask me for a brief sketch of my father, and I am turning over the leaves of memory to recall the days of childhood and youth. Thomas Carter was a short, broad-shouldered, broad-chested man; the strongest at a lift I ever knew. His arms seemed to set all resistance at defiance, either at a pull, a push, or a blow. His hair was black, his cheeks red and rosy, his face full and open as the day,—the very picture of health and strength. He never had a headache, never was sick for a day. He was overflowing with animal spirits, ready for the joke, the laugh, and the Scottish story,—a great reader, a free and easy speaker.

“He was a true Celt, and traced his pedigree to the Highlands in days long gone by. His ancestors, being Protestants, fled from the fire of persecution and their native heath to the Lowlands, and found a refuge, where we were all born, in the pleasant village of Earlston on the Leader. Their names are on the gravestones in the parish churchyard.

“His father died when he was a year old, and his godly mother and the old minister brought him up. He often spoke of spending an hour at the manse on Sabbath evenings, before Sunday schools were thought of, with his wise and kind minister, Rev. Mr. Dalziell, and he treasured those lessons till his dying day. His mother was a remarkable woman. Mr. Dalziell used to say, that, if the Bible had been lost, Mrs. Carter could have restored it from memory. He was famous as an athlete in all the Scottish games where strength and agility were required, and with his high spirit, and quick though kindly temper, he often got into boyish scrapes. His mother could not get hold of him during the day, but exercised her parental control and correction at night. One night while she was plying the ‘tawse,’ a long piece of leather cut into strips at one end, he made a good deal of noise, and she said, ‘Solomon says we must not spare a child for his crying.’ Father lost his patience,—although usually most loving and respectful to his mother, whom he almost worshipped,—and cried, ‘Solomon has naething to do wi’ it.’

“His mother’s fervent prayers, in family worship and at his bedside, as she pleaded for her children to the widow’s God, bore fruit in his giving his heart early to the Lord Jesus. Indeed, he never knew when the change came. He always took delight in prayer, and in the ministry of the Word, and every spare moment was spent in prayerful reading of the Bible.

“He had a good English education; his wide reading and reflection, his frank and friendly spirit to all, his lively interest in the current questions of the day, made him ready and helpful in any society in which he might be placed. He was wisely directed in the choice of a wife when he married Agnes Ewing, the daughter of a respected elder in the Antiburgher Church. Her gentle, kindly nature, her wisdom and conservatism, held in check his more impulsive spirit, and for forty years she was a most faithful and loving wife, and a model mother of eleven children, who all grew to be men and women; for forty years there was no death in the family, and father was the first to be taken. Like Abraham, he erected an altar at once in the little stone cottage where we were all born, the scene of so much true happiness. The fire never went out on that altar until the family left for America, and was rekindled in the home in the New World, For some years my father’s business took him from home at too early an hour to gather his children around him, and mother took the duty, and O how lovingly was the sacred duty done! In well chosen, fervent, tender words she commended the children and the absent husband to the Heavenly Father’s care.

“The earliest recollections I have are of those morning prayers. My father was gifted in prayer, and I used to wonder if I should ever be able to pour out my heart as he did to the Father in heaven; but my mother’s prayers, so loving, so filial, so reverent, touched my heart, and led to a desire that I too might so pray, and get an answer of peace.

“The Sabbath was in our household the ‘day of days.’ The family morning worship, the breakfast table surrounded by a crowd of hungry, happy children and parents all together, glad at the reunion and the prospect of rest and worship; the morning church, all attending; after dinner, family worship again (twice on week days, three times on Sabbath); a few words about the sermon, and prayer for a blessing on the preached Word; then Sabbath school. It was the first Sabbath school in the south of Scotland, and well attended; all the churches in the village sent their quota; its superintendent was Rev. Mr. Crawford of the Relief Church; Brother Robert was his assistant, and took his place when he was absent; both were good. We met in a stone cottage built from the ruins of the Rhymer’s Tower. We had none of the modern improvements,—no library, no Sunday school hymns or picture papers; but we had the Bible, the Shorter Catechism, and Rouse’s version of the Psalms; also earnest teaching of the Word, heart to heart work, hearty singing of the grand old Psalms, and fervent prayer for the Divine blessing; afternoon church, when old and young went again, then home to supper, when the younger children gave the texts and the older ones portions of the sermons, while father and mother made the practical application.

“In the early evening of the Sabbath, while father was reading some of his Puritan or early Scottish divines, mother took her seat with the children around her, and gave us the lesson on the Shorter Catechism. As soon as we could talk, the first answer was recited by the youngest child, and all came in as far as they could go; those over six were expected to go clear through; mother would ask the questions and give the answers without book, while she explained the more difficult ones and applied them to the duties of daily life. I can still remember Justification, Adoption, Sanctification, as explained by her, the difference between an act and a work, the several points in Effectual Calling, God’s side and our side in the matter (so often a stumbling-block to the carnal mind, and such a comfort to the mature Christian) of Election. Family worship closed the blessed day. When I hear of the weariness in some families now, I wonder,—and bless God for such parents.”

Among Robert Carter’s earliest recollections was the rejoicing caused by the battle of Waterloo. He was then only seven years old, but he always remembered the illuminations and shoutings and talk about Bonaparte and Wellington. It seemed at the time as if all things must thereafter go on smoothly, since the mighty foe had been conquered and was banished to St. Helena. But the long war and the great triumph had to be paid for, and for many years the heavy taxes bore down hard upon the working classes. Thus the early years of this century became very trying times financially in Britain. The day wages of an ordinary laborer were but a shilling, while those of the artisan class were only a little more.

Earlston was famous for its ginghams; these were the best in Scotland, fine, soft, and silky, and a larger part of the families in the village were weavers. The work was not done in mills, but each weaver had his loom set up in his own cottage, and sold his web when finished directly to the merchants.

In Thomas Carter’s cottage there were six looms, worked by himself, his two eldest sons, and hired helpers, for a stern necessity compelled every member of the large family to go to work as soon as they were able to manage a loom.

At the age of nine years and six months Robert was taken from school and put at the loom, and from that time his education was acquired entirely by his own exertions. Of this period he wrote long afterwards:—

“My work was light, but tedious. From dawn till ten and sometimes till eleven at night I had to toil until my task was done. I cared little for the confinement, but felt grievously the loss of books and mental improvement. From early childhood I had an insatiable thirst for reading. The stories of Wallace and Bruce, the Pilgrim’s Progress, Hervey’s Meditations, and many other books of a somewhat motley character, cheered my solitary hours.

“After becoming acquainted with my trade, I had a board erected at my left hand, on which I fastened my book, and worked and read all day. The books in my father’s library having run out, I was obliged to borrow from some of my neighbors. One weaver in particular, who owned what I considered a splendid library, very generously offered to lend me such as I might select. Rollin’s Ancient History, in six volumes, was the first I read, and great was my delight in travelling the field through which the French historian led me. One incident occurred, however, when I had finished the fourth volume, which I feared would put an end to my delightful feast. While I was on my way with that volume under my arm to exchange it for the fifth, a dog sprang at me and made his teeth almost meet in the book. When I saw what he had done, I burst into tears and continued crying until I reached the dwelling of my kind friend.

“When I showed him how much the book was injured, ‘Oh!’ said he, ‘I am so glad that it was the book, and not your arm. It might have cost you your life. Here is the next volume.’ When he opened his bookcase and handed me the next volume, I thought that he was the most generous man I had ever known.

“A little before this, when I was about seven years old, there was an auction sale of old furniture, which, as it was a rare occurrence in the village, I attended with great interest. Towards the close of the sale, a copy of Josephus’s Works in folio, much dilapidated, and minus one of the boards of the cover, was held up by the auctioneer, and, as no one seemed to bid, I called out, ‘Fourpence.’ ‘It is yours,’ cried he, ‘my little fellow; you’re the youngest bidder we’ve had to-day.’ This fourpence had been collecting for some time previously, and was probably the largest sum I had ever possessed. When I got the book in my arms, it was with no small difficulty I carried it home. With an apple I hired a little playmate to help me, and we carried it between us, and when we got tired, we laid the book down on the roadside and rested, each sitting on an end. But O what a treasure it proved while I eagerly devoured its contents! I used to lay it down upon the cottage floor, and myself beside or upon it, and travel slowly down the long page until I reached the bottom, and then tackle the next page. I had read the Bible through twice in order, and I was eager to get all the additional information I could about the Jews. I was greatly puzzled by the word ‘Greeting,’ which occurred so often as a salutation at the beginning of letters. That was our Scottish word for crying, and I could not understand its relation to letters bearing good tidings.

“Shortly after I finished Josephus, one fine summer evening, my father took me with him to pay a visit to a friend who owned a pretty little farm about three miles distant. He was reading Fox’s Book of Martyrs when we arrived, and he told us that he was greatly fascinated by it. My father said that he would like to have such a book for his little boy, but that it was far too costly for him to purchase. The gentleman asked me to read a little for him. When I paused, he exclaimed, ‘He is the finest reader I ever heard,’ and inquired what school I attended. My father told him that I had not been at school since I was nine years old, but that I was extravagantly fond of reading. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I have finished the first volume, and you are welcome to it.’ This work introduced me to a field entirely new and extremely rich in its details, and when I finished it I was sorry that there was no more of it to read.

“About this period, my cousin Thomas Carter, who was a student in Edinburgh University preparatory to his theological course, had returned home to spend his summer vacation. He loved to visit us, and, though he was five years older than I, he became very much attached to me. He gave me his old Latin books, and came several times in the week to give me instructions in the elements of that language. I entered upon this study with all the zeal of which I was capable. Difficulty after difficulty gave way before me, and I soon became able to read Cordery’s Colloquies, Cornelius Nepos, Cæsar, Ovid, and Virgil. At a subsequent period, this cousin also taught me Greek.

“There were two fairs in our village, one in summer and one in autumn each year. At these fairs, which were looked forward to with great delight by all the village boys, there assembled dealers in cattle, hardware, toys, and books. The stalls for the sale of books early possessed a charm for me, and I expended with much care the few pence I could muster on the occasion. At the summer fair, when I was twelve years old, I was standing by a stall where were exhibited some of the Latin classics. I picked up a copy of Ovid, and was looking very intently at the narrative of Pyramus and Thisbe, when a group of the grammar school boys paused beside me. One of them jeeringly said, ‘What do you mean by pretending to read Latin?’ ‘This seems to be a pretty story,’ said I; ‘won't you read it to me?’ He began with the air of one who knew all about it, and with some difficulty made his way through a few lines. ‘I don't think you are getting the meaning of it very well. Let me try, said I, And taking the volume, I commenced where he paused, and read freely on, to the no small astonishment of the boys, who agreed that I knew more about Latin than they did. This raised me not a little in the estimation of those who used to think me a dull, lifeless creature, who moped over books while they were at play, and gave a fresh impulse to my classical studies,

“A volume which fell into my hands at this time had a powerful influence over my mind. This was Foster’s Essays. The Essay on Decision of Character I remember reading on a grassy knoll one fine sunshiny afternoon after my task on the loom had been finished for the day. The perusal almost overwhelmed me. I arose and looked down upon the village, the meadow, and the silver stream that meandered through the valley beneath, and I felt that nothing was too difficult for me, provided I applied my faculties to it, and perseveringly toiled on, The impulse received from this noble effort of genius was not soon lost, and even to this day I never take up the volume without feeling conscious that it has proved to me a real blessing.

“The lessons assigned by my cousin Thomas grew more and more interesting after I became familiar with the first elements. The window at which I sat weaving commanded a view of the narrow footpath along which he always came; and when I caught a glimpse of his manly figure as he approached, my heart leaped within me for joy. His patience was remarkable. He rarely censured me for doing too little, but often told me that I undertook too much.

“During the three winter months, my father sent me to evening school to study arithmetic. My teacher was in my estimation one of the most amiable and affectionate of men. The pupils were few in number, not more than seven or eight, so that he devoted a great deal of attention to us. There was one great drawback, however, to our progress,—we lost during the nine months much of what we had acquired in three, so that the second winter it required some time to review before we entered on new ground. The third winter that I had the pleasure of attending this much loved teacher there was a general stagnation in business, so that the weavers could get no employment. I could find nothing else to do, so I attended school all day as well as in the evening for eleven weeks; and this was the only period I was permitted to attend a day school since I was little more than nine years old.

“I was just beginning a course in geometry, when I was hired by a farmer in the neighborhood to watch a field of newly sown wheat to protect it from the crows, and afterwards I was employed in herding cattle. This broke in sadly upon my darling pursuits. The fences were so bad that | could rarely venture to open a book. On one occasion I sat down upon the top of a stone wall covered with turf, and read a portion of the Book of Job. My attention was soon riveted on the subject, and I entirely forgot my duty. When I looked up from the Bible, there was not a cow in sight. I ran to an adjoining height, and lo, the whole herd had jumped the fence, and were quietly feeding in an adjoining field. From that time I had to deny myself the gratification of reading, and a severe trial I found it to be. The times however improved, and as I succeeded in getting a web to weave, by which I could earn more money than by herding, I was released from this unhappy position, and restored to my old favorites.

“While I was thus struggling to improve my mind, I had no higher end in view than to raise myself above the humble condition in which I was placed. I could not bear to be looked down upon by those in more favored circumstances than myself. I attended church regularly twice every Sabbath, but it was not from love to the truth or a desire to profit by the Word, but simply from habit and obedience to my parents. My memory being retentive, I could in the Sabbath evening repeat large portions of the sermons; but this only tended to foster my pride, as I got credit for attention to the discourse, and was praised for being a good boy. Often, indeed, my heart was pricked by the faithful and earnest preaching under which I sat,—often was I inclined to cry out, ‘What must I do to be saved?’ Alas! how often did I quench the Spirit, yet He did not leave me to my own devices. When I saw the members of the church approach the communion table while I was left behind, I had sore misgivings. I felt that it was my bounden duty to acknowledge my Lord and Saviour before men and angels, and I often resolved that I would do so before the next communion. For six weeks previous to the celebration of the Supper, notice was given from the pulpit of the day in each week when the minister would be glad to converse with those who desired to unite with the church in sealing ordinances. This was to me a time of searching of heart. I read Willison’s Sacramental Meditations, and Henry's Communicant’s Companion, and other devotional works fitted to instruct and impress my mind, and at last I resolved to call upon the minister and state my convictions. I was then fourteen years of age, a poor weaver lad, almost entirely excluded from society,—so much so that I had never until now entered the house of our pastor. Each year, indeed, he visited his entire flock from house to house, and on these occasions he catechised the children, conversed with the parents regarding their spiritual interests, and prayed with the household; but these were the only opportunities I had enjoyed of access to him in private. As the ambassador of God, he appeared so venerable that I dreaded to approach him alone. And yet I preferred, I can hardly tell why, to converse with him rather than with my own father. On one of the appointed days I called at the manse and asked for the minister, I was introduced to his study, and told to be seated. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth. After some short conversation on other subjects, he interrogated me regarding the nature and end of the Lord’s Supper, my motives for desiring to participate in it, and the duties devolving on those who thus renounced the world. The interview was brief. He kindly encouraged me, and expressed himself satisfied with my answers. On parting he requested me to tell my father to call on him, as he wished to converse with him on the subject, and if entirely satisfied I should meet with the session on the Thursday previous to the communion. No obstacles were presented to my reception, and I became a member of the Secession Church of Earlston.

“This step I never regretted. It greatly strengthened me in my resolutions after amendment, and though I entered upon my Christian life in much fear and trembling, I was not left utterly to faint. When tempted to join with careless companions, I was withheld by the consideration, ‘I have vowed unto the Lord, and cannot go back.’

“About this time a young weaver, three years older than myself, often conversed with me upon spiritual subjects. We retired frequently together in the summer evenings to a field near our house, and there kneeled down and engaged in prayer. I have often looked back with delight upon these spiritual interviews, especially as my dear friend was, in the vigor of youth, seized with a brain fever, and after a severe struggle of five days yielded up his spirit into the hands of his Maker.”

Mr. Carter’s religious experience is a forcible illustration of the type of piety which is often seen where the training of children is faithful, and according to the Scriptural plan, where the parent is told to speak to his little ones “when thou sittest in the house, and when thou walkest by the way, when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.” Christian nurture produces the highest kind of Christian character, symmetrical, earnest, and duty-loving. Of him the elder brothers and sisters who knew him as a child bore witness, “Robert was always a good boy.” His sense of duty was ever strong, and even as a boy he lived not to himself. He assisted his parents in their responsibilities for the family, feeling as keen an interest as they did in the welfare of his brothers and sisters. Even to old age he never could understand how young men could work for themselves alone, without feeling the duty of helping their parents and extending to brothers and sisters a helping hand.

As an illustration of the way in which the daily life of his parents constantly preached to him, he used often in after life to tell a story of his walking one day with his father to a place at some distance. The way was hot and dusty, and they were feeling very thirsty, when in a little nook by the roadside they espied a crystal spring. The boy sprang eagerly forward to drink, but the man paused by the spring-side and raised the broad Scottish bonnet from his head, and the child saw his father’s lips move in prayer as he silently gave thanks to God before stooping to drink. It was an object lesson which he never forgot. Through life his grateful thought always went up to the Giver before enjoying the gift. It is pleasant to think that, as the son afterwards told the story in many a Sunday school, the simple act of that Scottish peasant, who would not take so much as a drink of water without thanking God for it, lived on for more than seventy years, and is still told “for a memorial of him.” He often used another memory of his father as an illustration of the Heavenly Father’s care. His vivid imagination, excited by the stories often told among the peasantry of “ghaists and bogies,” made him as a child timid when alone in the dark. One night he had been making a visit with his father to the house of a neighbor, and as they returned home a severe thunder-storm came up. His father noticed how the little fellow shrank and shuddered at the swift and vivid flashes of lightning, and, drawing him closer to his side, threw over his head the skirts of the long loose mantle he was wearing, and so the boy walked through the darkness, clinging to his father’s hand, and lapped in the folds of his cloak, until they reached the safe and happy fireside of their own home.