Robert Carter: His Life and Work. 1807-1889/Chapter 1
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,
“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.
His strong imagination had ample food to feed upon in the tales of the Scottish border which were rife about them. He often described to his children how the neighbors would gather about their blazing fire of a winter’s evening, and one and another would relate stories of life and adventure in the days of chivalry. Some of them he loved to repeat to the close of his life. Two of these stories he so often recounted to an interested circle of listeners, that they seemed to those who knew him best almost a part of himself, and as such are related here, as nearly as possible in his own words; but the Scottish accent that lent them such a charm must needs be missing.
James the First of Scotland was sent as a child to France to be educated; but on the way his vessel was captured by an English cruiser, and he was carried a prisoner to England and brought up there to a degree of culture which he never could have found at the Scottish court. When he returned as a young man to Scotland, he found many abuses had arisen under the rule of his turbulent nobles, and these he set himself to correct. He was accustomed to go about incognito among his people, that he might discover their needs. One day in the garb of a peasant he approached a stream which he wished to cross, and seeing a soldier fishing near by he called to him to know if he could get across.
“Ou, ay,” he replied, “there is a ford just here; but I’ll carry you across if you’ll gie me a gill o’ whiskey at Meggie’s,” pointing to a tavern across the brook.
“But what’ll ye do if ye drap me in?”
“Ou, then, I’ll gie ye twa gills.”
The king mounted the soldier’s back, and the two got almost across the stream, when, as the soldier stoutly maintained afterwards, the king “clinked” him, and they both went down. “Aweel,” said the soldier, “I'll have to pay you my twa gills.” So the two went into Meggie’s, and drank their two gills, but when it came to the reckoning the soldier found he had no money.
“Hech, sirs,” says the king, “what are ye gaun to dae noo?”
“O,” says the soldier, “I’ll pawn my sword.”
“But,” says the king, “the twenty-first of the month is coming roun’, and there’s to be a graund review o’ the troops, and what’ll ye do, wantin’ your sword?”
“I hae a timber sword just as like the ither as twa peas,—ye couldna tell the ane frae the ither. I’ll just carry that.”
The twenty-first of the month came round, and the king was to review the troops in person. A deserter was brought in, and taken before the king for him to decide upon his punishment. The king said that desertion was so common that it was necessary to devise some punishment that would strike terror into the hearts of offenders, and therefore he would condemn the culprit to decapitation, and would himself choose the comrade who must perform the execution. So the king walked along the line of troops until he came to his quondam friend of the brook, and, singling him out, he said, “You must be the executioner!”
The poor fellow sank down upon his bare knees, for he was a Highlander, and begged to be let off. “Send me agen the Southron, and I will fight to the death; but I canna imbrue my sword in the blood of a countryman, I canna do it.” But the king was inexorable, and the soldier was dragged forward, more dead than alive, to the place where a temporary scaffold had been erected. “May I not make a prayer with the unhappy wretch before he suffers?”
“Certainly, I canna refuse that,” said the king.
The soldier fell upon his knees and made a most fervent prayer that the eyes of those in authority might be opened, and that they might see the iniquity of taking away that which they never could restore, and that, in testimony of his displeasure, the Almighty would be pleased to turn his steel sword into a timber one. “Behold a miracle!” he then exclaimed, springing to his feet, and waving his sword above his head. “Behold a miracle!”
The generals standing by stepped forward, and examined the sword. “Please your Majesty, it is a fact. The sword is indeed a wooden one.”
The king was laughing in his sleeve, and with difficulty controlled himself sufficiently to order the release of the prisoner. Then he said to the soldier, “You are colonel of such a regiment,” adding in a whisper, “but ye maunna pawn your sword at Meggie’s again.”
The other story was called “Geordie and the Ambassador.”
When James the Sixth of Scotland came to the throne of England as James the First of that country, ambassadors came from all kingdoms of the Continent to congratulate him on his accession. Among the rest was the Spanish ambassador. One day he was talking with the king, who was a bit of a pedant, about the institutions of learning. He said, “There is one desideratum in our colleges which has never been attained. It is a professorship to teach dumb signs, so that when a Frenchman and a Spaniard and an Englishman come together they may make themselves understood by each other without difficulty.”
Said the boastful king, “I have such a professorship. It is in the most northerly college in my dominions, at Aberdeen.”
“I would gladly travel far to see such a wonder,” said the ambassador. “I shall go to Aberdeen.”
The embarrassed king wrote to the professors at Aberdeen that he was in a scrape, and they must get him out as best they could. When the ambassador arrived at Aberdeen, he was informed that the professor of dumb signs was from home for six weeks. “I am going to make the tour of the Highlands,” said he, “and will be back in six weeks.” When he returned, the professors concluded that he must be got rid of in some way, for it would ruin them to fête him during a long stay.
There was one Geordie, a butcher, blind of one eye. Him they dressed up in professor’s gown and a long wig coming down to his waist. Geordie was sworn not to speak, but only to answer the ambassador by signs. The ambassador was introduced, and the professors waited about the door. When he came out they asked, “How do you like our professor of dumb signs?”
“He is wonderful. I did not suppose such a man existed.”
“But, to descend to particulars, what did he do?”
“I held up one finger to intimate that there was one God. He held up two to show there was the Father and the Son. I held up three to denote the Trinity. He doubled his fist to show that there was Trinity in Unity. I held up an orange to show the bounty with which a kind Providence had blessed the earth. He held up a piece of oat cake to show that the staff of life was better than the delicacies of it.”
When Geordie came out, he was asked, “Aweel, Geordie, how did ye come on wi’ the ambassador?”
“The ambassador! If I had him at the dam, I would gie him a guid deuking.”
“Ye wadna deuk the ambassador, wad ye?”
“Atweel wad I.”
“But what did he dae?”
“He held up ae finger, making a fule o’ me wi’ my ae ee.” Geordie was blind of an eye. “I held up two to say that my ane was as guid as baith his. He held up three to signify there was only three atween us. I doubled my nieve [fist] to let him ken I was ready for him. Mair than a’ that, the puppy, he took out an orange to say that his country was a braw country, it could produce oranges. I took out a piece o’ cake to let him ken that the land o’ cakes was aye ready for his country, or else he needna be here.”
Robert Carter’s love for poetry was always very great. He became familiar with all the great poets, and learned his favorites by heart, and retained them through life, Gray’s Elegy he loved to repeat. Young, Burns, Scott, and Byron he quoted at great length, and even Homer and Virgil in their original tongues.
But to return to his own narrative:—
“From a very early age the harvest was a season of hard labor. When not more than six or seven years old, I accompanied my elder brother to the harvest to glean behind the reapers. To pick up, one by one, the golden ears of wheat or barley or oats till our little hands were full, and then to bind up the handful and lay it aside, and commence again and again till the close of the day, with the back continually bowed down till it was almost like to break, was no easy task. And in the evening to carry home the fruits of the day’s labor, sometimes a distance of one or two miles, required no small effort. Glad were we, worn out and weary, to sit down to our evening dish of oatmeal porridge and milk, and feel that our task for the day was done. During harvest I had no opportunity for reading. If I attempted to take a book in the evening, I invariably fell asleep. So that there was in each year a dreary blank which was worse than lost.
“As soon as I was able to wield a sickle, I became a reaper. At first, I could only do half duty, so that two of us stood for one. This work was to me extremely painful. My hands were soft, and for the first week or two were sorely bruised. I often felt as if the sun stood still. And O what a relief did Saturday evening bring! The Sabbath was truly a day of rest, though we were almost too tired to enjoy it.
“One harvest, in order to see a little of the world, three of us set out on an excursion to England. After an early breakfast, we walked for seven or eight hours till we reached the Cheviot Hills, which separated Scotland from England. The weather had been exceedingly wet; a freshet, the largest for thirty-six years, had deluged the valleys, and in many places had carried off the bridges, and of course rendered walking very toilsome. As we proceeded onwards, we came to a mountain stream which had only a few minutes before our arrival swept away a bridge of seven arches. The people of the vicinity were running to the spot, and wondering over the havoc. We inquired how we could proceed, and were told that we must ascend the banks of the stream till it divided into two, some miles above, and there they supposed it could be forded. We started on our weary way, and walked, hungry and tired, till we were almost ready to lie down in despair, when we saw a shepherd’s house among the hills at a distance. Thither we sped, and inquired how far we had to go before the river could be forded, and were informed that it was only a short distance off. The shepherd’s wife asked us if we would have a glass of milk, and when we gladly answered yes, she presented some brown bread and milk, which seemed the most delicious feast we had ever tasted. Much refreshed, we again sallied forth, and proceeded onwards till we came to the forks of the river, where, taking each other by the hand, we crossed in safety.
“Late that evening we reached a farmer’s house, where we asked for employment, and were accepted. We had, however, to wait a day or two before the grain was sufficiently dry for the sickle, and these days were employed in visiting the peasantry in the neighborhood. We were painfully affected by the gross ignorance that prevailed. Many of them could neither read nor write, and their conversation was of course entirely different from that of the same class in Scotland, though they were only a few miles from the border. An epidemic which prevailed the previous summer had carried off nearly a third of the inhabitants, and yet, alas! this chastening was in most cases without fruit. We shed many a tear with the poor survivors while they related their losses, but were pained by their vacant stare when we attempted to point out to them the resurrection and the life.
“Here we remained several weeks, and aided in gathering in the harvest. A quarter of a century has since passed away. Not one of the simple cottagers with whom we were thus temporarily associated have I ever since seen or heard from. Doubtless a large portion of them have passed that bourne whence no traveller returns. Did we aid them in preparation for that momentous change? I fear not. We were regular in our own private devotions, but I do not remember that we ever engaged in social prayer in any family of that neglected vineyard.
“In 1822, when I was fifteen years of age, a cousin who had a private school in the small borough of Selkirk, ten miles off, invited me to take his place for the winter while he took a term at the University of Edinburgh. This was an entirely new scene to me. On my way to Selkirk I passed Abbotsford, the fairy palace of Sir Walter Scott. He was sheriff of Selkirk, and was known in our vicinity as the ‘Shirra.’ Great was the love and reverence in which he was held. Many a time have I gazed upon the lovely scene on the banks of the Tweed where the Wizard of the North wrote his wonderful creations. It was nearly midway between my home and Selkirk. The winter I spent in that old borough was one of great value to me. I had the charge of sixty boys and girls, and it was to me a new life. I must have been a very unskilful teacher, but if I did not succeed in giving my pupils much instruction, I learned much myself.
“Mr. Campbell, the parish minister, asked me to visit the jail and give some instruction to a young man, more sinned against than sinning, who lay in his cell there. I went from time to time, and found him ready to drink in every kind of knowledge. I had never been in such a place before, and the sensation was a very strange one when the jailer opened the massive doors and shut them upon me. But when I saw the hapless youth gaze upon me with wistful eyes, and give me a hearty welcome, I felt there was a blessed work for me to do. I never had a scholar who made such progress in so short a time. He did not wish his friends at home to know that he was in prison. One day he asked me to look over and correct a letter he had written to his father, and one expression in it afforded me much amusement: ‘My present situation is very easy, but it is so confining that I am determined to leave at Whitsunday, when I hope to see you.’
“After my half-year in Selkirk, I returned to my loom again. In the following winter, 1823, I was urged to open an evening school in the spare room of our dwelling, I had twenty-eight scholars, most of them older than myself. Shortly after we began work, a tall, powerful young man rose before the close of school, and went off without leave. Next evening I handed him books and slate, and told him he could not continue longer in my school. He left me, and soon came back with a letter from his father, begging me to take him back, and he would make any acknowledgments I chose. I took him back, and he never gave me any trouble again. I had the most perfect command of the school, and, as they were all most anxious to learn, much progress was made. After school, I often studied far into the night by a coal fire instead of a candle. I was not allowed a candle, lest I should sit too late. Young’s Night Thoughts, especially the first four books, I almost committed to memory. Forty years later, after a long conversation with Archbishop Hughes, I quoted some lines from Young. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘Young has been my vade mecum from my very early days.’ I felt drawn to the aged prelate when I found he had drunk at the same fountain as I in life’s morning.
“In 1824, I taught school at a little hamlet four miles from home, and twice a week walked over the hills to meet my cousin, who heard me recite in Latin. I think I made more progress that season than at any other period, as I had no society to interfere with my studies. We held a prayer meeting in a shepherd’s house once a week, when I was refreshed by the warm prayers of the good old rustics, who ‘knew, and knew no more, their Bible true.’
“In 1825, I opened a school in my native village. I had seventy day scholars, twenty at night. In my spare hours I read the Latin and Greek classics, and became somewhat familiar with the current literature I could reach. The minister of the Relief Church, Rev. David Crawford, had his Sabbath school in my schoolhouse on Sunday afternoon, and a Bible class in the evening, and he invited me to take tea with him in the interval between the two sessions. This proved a great help to me, as he was a man of culture and refinement, and his library was open to me. His wife was a lineal descendant of the great Reformer, John Knox, and he sent me, after I came to America, a genealogical tree of her family, traced down through the three hundred years. He was afterwards called to Edinburgh to be a Secretary of the United Presbyterian Church.
“During this period, Professor Pillans of Edinburgh gave a course of lectures to the teachers of Scotland. Anxious to hear these lectures, I walked to Edinburgh, a distance of thirty miles. I left home on a Monday morning, a few minutes after midnight, and reached Edinburgh at ten o’clock, in time to hear the first lecture. The course was very suggestive to me, and enabled me to turn a new leaf. On Saturday at 1 P. M. I started for home, and reached it before midnight. Professor Pillans was the fellow student of Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott, and gave me many incidents of early days. He afterwards proved a most valuable friend.”
Mr. Walter Carter writes the following reminiscence of this time:—
To resume the narrative of Robert Carter:—
“After three years’ work in my native village (1825–1828) I walked one Friday afternoon to Melrose to visit a friend who was a student of theology. He received me very kindly, asked me to read to him in Latin and Greek, and then told me he had received a letter from Peebles, where he had taught for two years. The Rector of the Grammar School in which he had taught wanted a young man to fill the place he had occupied, and he urged me to go the following morning and apply for it. I told him I had not been at college, or even at grammar school, and that I was certainly unfit to take that place. He replied, ‘You read the classics more fluently than I do, and if you go I will guarantee you will get it.’ I started the next morning at five, and walked twenty-five miles, and reached Peebles before twelve. The Rector took me into his library, gave me one book and took another for himself, and asked me to read and translate. I did so. Volume after volume we took and read, and then he said, ‘When can you come?' I told him I had a school of seventy scholars, and must dispose of it first, but that I would come on Thursday week. ‘That will do,’ he said, and then invited me to stay to dinner. I then left him and walked the twenty-five miles I had traversed in the morning. I was then nearly twenty-one years of age, and full of hope. I reached home about ten, as my father was engaged in family prayers, in which I had a large share. After we rose from our knees, father, mother, brothers, and sisters, thirteen in all, surrounded me, and said they were glad I had returned, as they had feared I would go to Peebles. I told them I had been at Peebles, and was going back on Thursday week to commence work there. After securing a teacher for my school in Earlston, I began a new life. The school had forty boarding pupils, and nearly as many more from the town. Many of the boys were sons of the nobility and gentry, high-spirited youths, who were restive under control. The Rector was advanced in years, and the management of the boys devolved largely upon me. The tutor who had preceded me had left the school because he could not control the boys. They plagued him so that he sometimes told them with tears that they would break his heart; but there was nothing that they liked better than to break his heart, and his tears did not move them.
“The first morning that I was in charge, the boys behaved in a most uproarious manner, dancing and shouting about the room, heedless of my commands for order. I took the ringleader by the collar and laid him prostrate on the floor, saying, ‘Lie there, sir, until Mr. Sloan comes in.’ He saw that I was not to be trifled with, and begged to be allowed to rise. I told him he could do so if he was ready to behave himself, and he arose very meekly, and the others quietly took their places at their desks. From that time I had no trouble in securing order. But the work was very confining, as I was with the boys almost day and night, sleeping in one of the dormitories. I saw the stars but twice that winter. We were in the school-room from seven to eight, from nine to twelve, from two to four, and from six to eight. Supper and prayers were before nine, when we saw the boys to their rooms. After supper I studied far into the night, as I had to prepare for the Rector’s classes as well as my own, that I might assist the boys with their lessons.
“In stormy weather we had to keep them within doors all day, and it was no easy matter to keep them out of mischief. The Rector never found fault with anything I did, always meeting me with a pleasant smile; but neither did he express approval, and I feared I was not giving satisfaction, and I wrote home that I must look for employment elsewhere, as I knew I should not be wanted in Peebles after my year expired. One day the Rector said to me, ‘Next year your salary will be forty pounds.’ This was nearly double the first year: those were the days of small salaries.
“At the close of my second year, I resolved to go to Edinburgh College. The dear old Rector entreated me to stay with him, said I was a better scholar than he was, and yet he had always been a successful teacher. He offered to make the terms to suit me; but I felt the necessity of attending some higher classes in college, so I bade him an affectionate farewell.
“The classes in Edinburgh were very full that term (1830). Shortly after my entrance, Professor Pillans called up Lubienski, a Pole, and myself, to hold a conversation in Latin before the class (the educated Poles were taught to converse freely in Latin). He stood on one side of the room, and I on the other.
“I had fortunately read a volume of colloquies by Corderius, and acquired some knowledge of familiar phrases, and therefore succeeded better than I feared; but I was so frightened that I had to lay hold of a chair in front of me to steady myself.
“In midwinter the parish school of Smailholm, six miles from my home, became vacant. I went thirty-six miles from Edinburgh to apply for it; the clergyman knew that I was a member of the Secession Church, and intimated that I need not apply. I felt this deeply, and said to my father, ‘I shall not apply for a situation in my own land again; I will go to America, where my religious denomination will not stand in the way of my progress.’
“When I returned to my classes, Professor Pillans read out my name at the close of the hour, and asked me to stay and see him. He asked me if I was going to Smailholm. I said, ‘No.’ ‘What was the matter? I was sure yon would get it.’ I told him I was not even allowed to apply, because I was a dissenter. ‘I am glad of it,’ said he. ‘I have received a letter from Lord Althorp, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, asking me to send him a tutor for his son, and I will send you. He is to cruise two years in the Mediterranean; will visit Italy, Egypt, the Holy Land, Greece, and other parts. It will make a man of you. I told him that if I had known it three days before I should have accepted, but now my mind was made up; I was going to America; that my father had eleven children, and I wanted to prepare the way for them. He said to me, ‘If I were not too old, I would go to America also. It is the place for young men. I am acquainted with the good old Quaker, Dr. Griscom, who is at the head of the High School in New York, and I will give you a letter to him that may help you.’ That letter and several others he gave me did me great good.
“A few days later, I was again asked to stay after class, and Professor Pillans told me that the rector of an academy in the Isle of Man had died, and he would recommend me to the place if I wished; but I declined.”
It may be added here, that many of the letters of recommendation received by Mr. Carter at this time are still extant, and all speak in the highest terms of his scholarship and character, There is no faint praise. The Edinburgh professors, Mr. Sloan of Peebles, and his clergyman in Earlston, all express unmeasured commendation. Professor Pillans in one letter speaks of his “perfect regularity and uniformly correct and exemplary deportment,” and adds, that “he had acquitted himself remarkably well in public examinations, and gave proofs of great industry and proficiency.” In another he says, “It gives me much pleasure to state that he has throughout distinguished himself as one of the ablest and most diligent of my pupils.”
From Mr. Sloan and the clergyman of Peebles came letters of the most cordial praise, and it was added, “He is much beloved by the boys under his charge, which I consider no small recommendation in a teacher.”