# Robert Carter: His Life and Work. 1807-1889/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
One of the authors to whom Mr. Carter was friend as well as publisher was the Rev. Dr. Cuyler. He kindly furnishes the following reminiscences of their intercourse.
“The first time I saw my honored and beloved friend, Robert Carter, was about fifty-two years ago.
“I was then a schoolboy of sixteen, reviewing my studies in the Grammar School of the New York University in preparation to enter Princeton College. He was then keeping the little bookstore in Canal Street, which had lately become somewhat famous and popular by the issue of the cheap edition of Merle d’Aubigné’s ‘History of the Reformation.’ My good mother took me there with her when she was in pursuit of some devotional books, such as Jay’s ‘Morning Exercises.’ He had a taste and appetite for that class of savory books, as a Scotchman has for oatmeal porridge and Finnan baddies, and those who relished strong spiritual food knew that they would find it at the modest shop in Canal Street. Ministers resorted there somewhat on Monday mornings; but they came in much larger numbers when he opened his more extensive bookstore in Broadway, near Chambers Street. It was there that I formed my first personal acquaintance with him, about the year 1850. It soon ripened into friendship; and I have known him intimately and loved him warmly for forty years.
“Some of our most delightful intercourse was at Saratoga, where we spent several summers together under the ​roof of Dr. Strong. He was a great favorite there with everybody; and when he sat down for a talk on the piazza, the guests used to gather round and listen to his lively reminiscences and vivacious conversation, which was always ‘seasoned with salt.’ He was genial and relished pleasantries, but he was never frivolous, Into the daily exercises of family worship he entered with all his heart; and his prayers were wonderfully rich in expression and full of holy unction. The singing he enjoyed hugely, and I well remember the first time he heard that simple hymn, ‘The Sweet By and By,’ with its beautiful melody, it so delighted him that he went to the lady and asked her to sing it again for him.
“He used to drive out with his wife in the summer afternoons, and often invited me to accompany them. We scoured together all the country roads around Saratoga; and we had some rare talks about old and cherished friends, such as Dr. James Hamilton, Dr. Guthrie, and good old Dr. John Griscom, who had been almost his earliest friend and adviser upon his arrival in America. I knew Griscom well, and how dearly he was attached to Robert Carter.
“It was at Saratoga that he delivered that remarkable address before the ‘State Institute of Teachers’ at one of their annual meetings. In that address he narrated in the most racy style the story of his childhood in Earlston, and the struggle through which he passed in gaining his early education. It was very like the story which the great missionary, John G. Paton, tells of his own boyhood in his godly father’s cottage in Dumfriesshire. The address was listened to with the keenest delight by the whole assembly.
“When we got home I said to him, ‘Brother Carter, you ought to write out and print that charming bit of autobiography; it is as racy as Benjamin Franklin's story of his own boyhood and youth.’ It is from such pictures of personal experience that we get our best insight into the heart and ​home life of the past generation, Even dear old Scotland is changing so fast, that the manner of life depicted by him and by Paton will soon be a beautiful reminiscence of things utterly departed.
“In 1862 I met Mr. Carter in London, and we attended together a service preparatory to the communion in Dr. James Hamilton’s Regent Square Presbyterian Church. That man of blessed memory, Dr. Arnot, was with us. I gave a brief discourse on ‘Love-service for Jesus,’ and we all had a pleasant interview afterwards. Those three beloved friends, Hamilton, Arnot, and Carter, are now together ‘before the throne of God and of the Lamb.’
“In the last letter that I ever received from Dr. John Brown, the immortal author of ‘Rab and his Friends,’ the Doctor wrote, ‘Give my love to dear old Robert Carter, and tell him that Earlston still flourishes.’
“The hours which I have spent with your venerated father were among the happiest and most profitable of my life. He was a full man, and his talk was like turning the faucet of a reservoir. His letters also were the outflow of a beautiful and sincere affection. He belonged to that remarkable group of New York laymen which embraced also such choice spirits as Apollos R. Wetmore, William B. Crosby, Theodore Frelinghuysen, James Lenox, and William E. Dodge. To him the Church of Christ and many a movement of Christian philanthropy owe a debt of profound gratitude. He contributed more than money, he gave himself.
“It was a precious privilege to spend a half-hour with my beloved old friend when he was lying calmly on that pillow from which in a few days he passed sweetly into heaven. His blood-washed spirit was already in the ‘land of Beulah,’ and in the full view of the Celestial City. Having lived so long and so well, he had nothing to do but to die. Death was to him the translation to glory. When he left us, he left no more sturdy or steadfast servant of God ​behind him. I rejoice that I had such a happy friendship with him for forty years, and shall always cherish the memory of my revered and beloved friend, Robert Carter.”
The visits to Saratoga were very delightful to Mr. Carter. Dr. Strong’s house was a sort of ministerial caravansary, and the society was very congenial, For a time he went there every summer for a few weeks, and once, when recovering from a long and severe illness, was there for three months. That summer Dr. Mark Hopkins was there for a while, and they had long talks on the piazza together. The grand old Doctor had just resigned the presidency of Williams College. In one of their chats, he told Mr. Carter that his dear friend, Mr. William E. Dodge, had for some years supplemented the President’s salary by giving him the interest of $30,000. When he resigned the presidency, he said to the directors that he could no longer take this, but it must go to his successor. The directors told him that he must settle that with Mr. Dodge. Accordingly Dr. Hopkins spoke to him about it. Mr. Dodge made answer, “You may do as you please about taking the money, but it was intended for you personally, and not as President, and if you do not accept it, it reverts to me. If you take it as long as you live, at your death it will go to the College.” With the utmost simplicity, Dr. Hopkins, after finishing the story, said, “Mr. Carter, what could I do?” With a twinkle in his eye, Mr. Carter responded, “Surely there was but one course open to you.”
Another incident of this summer was connected with the Rev. Joel Parker, D.D., who was spending some weeks with his wife at Dr. Strong’s, and with whom Mr. and Mrs. Carter became quite intimate. One day ​a man came to Mr. Carter seeking a supply for a church a few miles off, and asked him if there were any good preachers at Dr. Strong’s. Mr. Carter told him he could find no one better than Dr. Parker, and accordingly brought the two together. Dr. Parker agreed to preach, and after going through the day’s services one of the trustees asked him what he charged. He made answer, that he was not accustomed to make a charge, but took whatever the congregation thought right to give. “I suppose your return ticket cost you one dollar and eighty cents. Here are two dollars,—never mind the change.” When Dr. Parker returned and told his story to a group of ministerial friends, there was a good deal of laughter at his expense, and one of the listeners said, “Mr. Carter got you the job, and you ought to divide the profits with him. You certainly owe him ten cents.” “On the contrary,” said Mr. Carter, “Dr. Parker ought to have received at least twenty dollars for his services, and I ought to share the loss, and here are the ten dollars.”
Mr. Carter while at Saratoga regularly attended the noonday prayer meeting, and frequently took part in it. Prayer was to him “vital breath” and “native air.” He went to such meetings, not from a mere sense of duty, but from keen enjoyment.
Another author with whom Mr. Carter had very delightful relations was Dr. Bickersteth, now Bishop of Exeter. He had long known and loved the Bishop’s father, Rev. Edward Bickersteth, one of England’s most saintly clergymen, and when the son published “Yesterday, To-day, and Forever,” Mr. Carter read it with exceeding pleasure. He at once brought it out in America, and it was one of his most successful publications, reaching a circulation of more than fifty ​thousand copies. Dr. Bickersteth was from this time one of his regular correspondents, and when he visited America, in 1870, they had much tender intercourse. Two letters of Dr. Bickersteth’s are here inserted. The first bears date November 10, 1871:—
“I was so grieved to hear from Dr. Ray Palmer this week that you have been suffering from intermittent fever. I fear from what your brother wrote, two or three months ago, that you have been far from strong this summer, but had cherished the hope that the change of air would have recruited you. But our Father’s ways are not as ours,— only, however, because they are so infinitely higher, wiser, better, and tenderer. And you, dear friend, who have proved His love for so many years of your pilgrimage will find His everlasting arms beneath you, and His Spirit’s consolations over you in your hours of weakness. ‘Jesus constrained his disciples to get into a ship,’ though He knew the tempestuous, weary night was before them. Yet He was praying for them on the mountain top, and at His own chosen hour, in the fourth watch towards morning. He came when they were least expecting him, saying, ‘It is I, be not afraid.’ May He thus speak to your heart, and manifest Himself to you as not to the world, and fill you with the joy of His presence and His peace, and if it be His gracious will, raise you up to testify in after years that He is indeed a watchful Friend in sorrow,—the Brother born for adversity. I must not attempt to write more, for I know sickness cannot bear many words, but must assure you that our poor prayers will be with you and with your anxious loving wife, to whom and to your brother please convey my most grateful remembrances.”
The second letter is dated from Cromer, Norfolk, August 24, 1873:—
“I do not know whether the great sorrow which has shadowed my home will have caught your eye in any English ​paper, but on August 2d my fondly loved wife was called to her rest, after only three days’ serious illness, in this lonely seaside place, whither we had come for a few weeks’ recreation. It was heart complaint. I had no serious fear until late on Wednesday, July 30th, and at four o’clock on Saturday morning my beloved one was with her Saviour.
“Not a shadow of fear clouded her peaceful and holy death-bed. She gathered our twelve children all around her bed, and spoke words of priceless love and motherly counsel to each.
“You will pray for us.
“The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. The Voice has been heard every hour, ‘It is I, and Jesus has been with me in the deep, deep waters which have gone over my soul. He has been so near and so tender! There has not been one drop of bitterness in the deep cup of sorrow,—nothing but love, Divine love, the love we cannot fathom or explain.
“We return to our shadowed home, D. V., next week. You will, I know, pray for us. Will you forward this note to dear Dr. Tyng and Dr. Ray Palmer. I find it very difficult to write all the letters which my heart prompts me to send. But it is sweet to think how much brotherly love will pour itself out for us in prayer in America.
“Believe ever, in the bonds of the Gospel, your sorely stricken and yet comforted friend.”
Another very intimate and beloved friend was Rev. Dr. Muhlenberg, so long prominent in benevolent work. He was a kindred spirit with Mr. Carter, who entered heartily into the Doctor’s philanthropic schemes, which gave constant opportunities for their being together. Dr. Muhlenberg spent his latter days at St. Luke’s Hospital, which he himself founded, and which is his appropriate monument. In his last illness Mr. Carter constantly visited him there, and used to say he was like St. John ​in Patmos, with his thoughts filled with bright visions of the celestial country he was so soon to enter. Their communion was most sweet, and it was a very precious memory to Mr. Carter that at their last interview Dr. Muhlenberg drew him towards him for a farewell embrace and kiss.
On March 18, 1884, came the Golden Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Carter. The family had been looking forward to it as a time of special rejoicing, though all the wedding days were regularly kept. On this there was to have been as great a jubilation as Mrs. Carter’s very feeble health would allow, but just the week before she was stricken down with a very dangerous illness, and almost passed through the gates of death. When the wedding day came, though convalescent, she was confined to her bed, and none were admitted to her room but her children, who assembled about her, offering their congratulations very quietly. It had been arranged that each one of the children and grandchildren should write them a congratulatory letter, and these letters were afterwards bound together in a book with Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s pictures. This was an entire surprise to the recipients, and gave them the greatest possible pleasure. The letter of the oldest son is here inserted as giving an idea of the volume.
“As I begin to write to congratulate you on the fiftieth return of your wedding anniversary, there come floating through my brain a host of texts from that volume, which, thanks to your training, has become the best loved and most studied of all books. I remember with gratitude how I used to sit beside mother in my eighth year reading the Bible, and asking her questions about its meaning, and how during that year I finished reading the good book through. Thus ‘from a child’ I have ‘known the Scriptures,’ because you taught ​your children to obey the command and ‘search the Scriptures.’ And not merely did you teach us to read the Bible and explain to us its meaning, but your lives in general as seen by us and your conduct towards us in particular have given object lessons enabling us to understand more deeply and appreciate more fully than many can the meaning of not a few texts of Scripture.
“The fatherhood of God has to us a meaning that it cannot have to many. We remember how as faithful parents you have chastened us for our profit, and also how, like the father of the prodigal, you have watched for the evidence of repentance, and at once given us the kindly word and the assurance of forgiveness. Our relation to you enables us to find a peculiar preciousness in what the Word of God says about the Great Father, ‘of whom the whole family in heaven and earth is named.’
“We remember with delight the gatherings early on winter evenings to listen to Bible stories from dear mother, till the good father came home from outside work, like David, ‘to bless his house.’ The happy home in which we all lived together and the happy home where we still delight to meet are beautiful types of the Father’s house in which we all hope to dwell. The large-hearted love with which you have always welcomed the steadily increasing number of your children to a New England place of rest, gives us beautiful reminders that the Father’s house has ‘many mansions,’ and that ‘yet there is room’ for us all where some of us have already entered.
“And when sorrow has come, how unspeakably precious has been your sympathy, which has taught us what is meant by the words, ‘Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him,’ and, ‘As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you.’
“We thank God that our parents have imitated the Psalmist in his resolve, ‘I will walk within my house with a perfect heart.’ We rejoice that our father has been like ​Abraham, ‘who commanded his children and his household after him,’ and like Joshua, able to say, ‘As for me and my house we will serve the Lord’; while our mother, like Hannah and like Eunice, has dedicated her children from the birth and trained them in the fear of God. When we think of the first commandment with promise, we are glad that we have parents whom we have such good cause to honor. Though we each have families of our own, we still rejoice to ‘hear the instruction of a father,’ and as for our mother, ‘her children rise up and call her blessed.’ May your lives long be spared, that we may long enjoy these privileges!”
Some of the letters from the grandsons at college were very full of fun, dwelling on family jokes, and not hesitating to indulge in what might be called teasing of the venerable bride and groom. Some one who read the letters said, “Is it possible that a man of Mr. Carter’s dignified character allows his grandchildren to address him in such familiar terms?” “You little know Mr. Carter,” was the reply, “if you imagine that his grandchildren stand in awe of him. They themselves do not enjoy their fun more than he does.”
Many beautiful gifts were sent him, some of them with a tender sentiment attached. One that pleased him much was a vase with fifty lovely roses, from the printer that he had employed for fifty years.
On the 1st of April he passed the fiftieth anniversary of entering into business. The publishers of New York united in sending him the following testimonial.
New York, April 1, 1884.
Mr. Robert Carter, New York: Dear Sir,—Your friends and associates in the book-publishing and book-selling trade of this city desire, on the ​fiftieth anniversary of your entrance upon the business, to convey to you their best regards and congratulations.
Some of us are the sons and successors of your early contemporaries; others are the representatives of a later generation; but the good will and kindly feeling which you commanded at the beginning, you have continued to retain through all the succeeding years of an honorable career. In your fifty years of business life, you have seen the wonderful growth of the American publishing trade, and have borne a conspicuous part in the development and maintenance of that important branch which you originally chose, and to which you have ever adhered. You have survived, with but one or two exceptions, those who were in business when you began, and are still able to take a part in the management of your well established house.
In all these years of activity and of many changes, you have made no enemies, and have constantly added to the number of your friends. You have conducted an exacting and difficult business with dignity and success, and in the serene years of later life are permitted to fully enjoy the substantial fruits of your industrious enterprise and unquestioned fidelity.
Be pleased, then, on this notable anniversary, to accept our congratulations and hearty good wishes for your continued health and prosperity, and believe us,
Very sincerely, yours,
There were many notices of this anniversary in the secular press and also in religious papers of all denominations. From an article in the Observer, by Mr. A. D. F. Randolph, the following is quoted:—
“You will agree with me that fifty years of a life devoted as this has been to the making of books, not one of which might make men worse, but ought to make them better, may well have a word of recognition in the Observer… He chose to be a publisher of religious books; to his early choice he has ever substantially adhered, while from the day he began down to the present hour he has never forgotten his responsibility as a publisher. And thus for half a century he has been doing a wholesome, honest, beneficent work. He has seen great changes,—seen also the wonderful development of the publishing business in this country. He has passed though many seasons of general business depression, and yet maintained his own credit unimpaired. Year by year, as his business grew into larger proportions, he still continued to conduct it with dignity, integrity, and success. He has kept before the public such old worthies as Matthew Henry, Poole, Rutherford, Boston, and others of the elder saints, while he has given us Chalmers and Guthrie and Hamilton, and Ryle and Bonar and Macduff, and a host of other theological and practical writers, to say nothing of the long list of minor authors,—those who have written for children and young people. Not an evil book in all the list,—not one that does not teach some important truth. Who can estimate the value and extent of his influence as a ​publisher?—what a factor it has been in the religious education of the country?
“And he has been something more than the successful business man. In the church and its benevolent boards, in assemblies and synods, in religious and educational societies, as among his brethren in the trade, he has ever been known not only for the consistency of his walk, but for the wisdom of his counsel and the constant liberality of his gifts.
“He remains still vigorous, cheerful, hopeful, still interested in the world’s needs and progress, and ever ready to aid a worthy cause. Beloved and honored by all who personally know him, he is not only without enemies, but with troops of friends the whole world over.
“So much have I ventured to say to the public through you of our old and dear friend, who has so long been a teacher and benefactor of his fellow men.”
To this Dr. Samuel Irenæus Prime added:—
“He was the first publisher whose acquaintance I formed in New York, and the acquaintance ripened into a pleasant friendship, now as bright as it ever was. In all these years no book from his press has afforded me a chance (and I have kept a sharp lookout) for unfavorable criticism. Every one has been in the line of Christian usefulness. Men who hold views of religious doctrine not in the same line with his may not approve of them all, but I am not afraid to say that good, strong, stalwart Christian citizens are fed on such meat as he sells, and the more of it that is consumed, the more wholesome and happy will be the church and people.
“To make a really good book is grand. To publish hundreds of thousands of such books, and to pass half a century in the work, is sublime. Therefore I congratulate my friend Robert Carter on the comfortable completion of his fifty years as a publisher, on the prosperity of his business, which has abundantly provided for him in his old age, on the peace and happiness with which the evening of his life is ​blessed, and on the assurance that his sun is setting to rise in eternal day.”
We here insert an extract from a letter from Dr. Macduff, of Glasgow, which was received about this time. It was one of many in which this dear friend indulged in pleasant reminiscence of intercourse in bygone times. The letter bears date Chiselhurst, Kent, February 3, 1885.
“I have duly received, and with most cordial thanks, your kind letter and its enclosures. Can it be, as you say, twenty-four years since you and I met in Paris, then in Geneva, and on a chilly early morning walked up and down the railroad station at Basle? Yes, and another memory: since James Hamilton and myself met you in the back room in Berners Street, the former hailing you in the broadest of broad Scotch? It looks all so dream-like and so recent! Then to think that Hamilton, Watson, Taylor, Murray, and old William Nisbet, whose face and form were so familiar in that ‘Evangelical haunt,’ are all passed away to their rest, after having done in their various ways good and noble duty for the Master. You and I God has in His great mercy still spared to wait His gracious summons. But I must not wander into the region of sentiment.”
The spring of 1885 brought him a great sorrow in the failing health of his son-in-law, Rev. I. W. Cochran, who died in his house in February, 1887. This he was heard to say was the greatest grief of his life, until in July of the same year his beloved wife was taken from him. At the time of her death, they were staying in a beautiful place on Long Island Sound, where for some years they had assembled the family gathering in the summer. As there was no church near, and as the party was a very large one, they were accustomed on ​Sundays to assemble under the trees, and have a regular church service of their own in the open air, at which one of the ministerial sons generally preached. The last Sunday of her life was a perfectly lovely day, and, as usual, this open-air service was very delightful to her. She greatly enjoyed the reading by her husband of a sermon by Spurgeon, who was a great favorite of both. In the afternoon, she attended the usual family Sunday school, and through the day there was much singing of her favorite hymns. She spoke of it in the evening as a perfectly happy Sabbath.
The next day she was not very well, and kept her bed, but was quietly happy. No one entered her room but received some word of tenderness. Afterwards many of the loving speeches that were habitual with her, but would not have been remembered if they had not been her last, were treasured up as a sacred legacy by those to whom they were spoken.
When her husband awoke on Tuesday morning, he said that his heart went up in thankfulness to God that she had had an unusually good night, for ill health often made her wakeful. He dressed quietly that he might not disturb her, and then noticed that her head had sunk into an uncomfortable position. He attempted to raise it, and saw that there was something wrong, and called for assistance. A doctor was hastily summoned, and said that she had had a stroke of apoplexy. She lay in an unconscious state, looking as if asleep, and breathing softly as a little child, until about two o’clock, when gently, without a struggle, she went home. After she had passed away, her husband took up her lifeless hand, saying, “I am alone now.”
His grief was pathetic in its gentleness and tenderness and submission. He said over and over again, “I ​don’t want to murmur; I hope I don't murmur.” But no one but himself would ever have thought of using the word in connection with his saintly though deep-seated grief. It was a comfort to him that his wife was spared all suffering in death, falling asleep on earth to wake in heaven. She had always feared death, being timid and self-distrustful in her disposition, and it seemed as if God had mercifully spared her all knowledge of the great change that was taking place until she saw Him, and was satisfied. Hers was a lovely life, crowned with a peaceful death.
Mr. Carter received a very large number of letters of sympathy. One young friend, who had gone to a Western home, wrote: “I cannot forget my parting with her when I first came West. She told me that she felt that she should never see me again on earth, and directed me to live close to my early teachings. I am not what I should be, but the memory of those loving words has often been the cause of my resisting temptation, and now that she is gone to that better land above, they will be the more vividly impressed on my memory.”
Dr. Cuyler wrote:—
“I fear that the announcement which I see in the New York papers means that your dear wife is no more! No more in this world, except in the hearts of her loving husband and grateful children. To be no more here is to be forever with the Lord.
“If this be indeed your life companion who has been taken, (and I know of no other Robert Carter,) then I extend to you my most heartfelt condolence. I recall the pleasant rides and talks with you both at Saratoga in the years gone by, and I can imagine how lonely you must be after a half-century of loving fellowship. Not long, however, will you be sundered. ‘The miles to heaven,’ as holy Rutherford says, ‘are few and short.’
​“But we want you to stay with us as long as you can. I had a talk about you with Mrs. William E. Dodge last week at Lake Mohonk. Her husband and you were my ideals among the veteran Christians of New York.
“May the Everlasting Arms uphold you!”
One of the grandchildren was at a distance, and did not hear of her death till the night of the funeral. A letter from him is inserted, as showing the tender communion and confidence that subsisted between the older and younger members of the family.
“I have just received the sad news of dear Grandma’s death. I cannot realize that I am not to see her face again. I have always loved her more than I can ever tell, and have learned lessons from her lips which I can never forget. And now that she is gone, I do not know what to say to you, upon whom this sorrow has fallen so heavily. The burden will be a hard one to bear; it is hard for us; it must be harder for you, who have been the fifty years’ companion of her we have lost. And yet with all the sorrow can there not be found some joy in your lonely heart to-night,—joy over fifty years of the sweetest and holiest communion of life with life,—joy over the ending of what must almost have become a weary pilgrimage for Grandma, with her feeble strength and almost never-ceasing pain,—and, most of all, joy over the knowledge of her entrance into that home for which I am sure she has long been yearning? Grandma loved her own people dearly, but she loved her God more, and I am sure if that is the case heaven is a better place for her than earth. A life of joy and peace without pain, without disappointment, without sorrow, is so much better than a weak, worn life.
“I would I could tell you all I feel, Grandfather. I know how black it all looks ahead, but I also know how well you know where to look for light. Grandma had more than completed her threescore years and ten; the full measure of life had been hers, and now that the cross is laid down, is it not ​better so? The time will not be long before you meet again; but a few years at the most separate you from her, and the meeting will be very soon.
“I would have liked to be with you to-day, and see her face once more, but the news did not come till to-night, and so I can only write. I think of Grandma here just as reverently as if I were in the place of mourning.
“Dear Grandfather, I love you, and want so much to help you now. May God bless and keep you! may His everlasting arms be around you, and may you find in Him all the peace and love and rest you need!”
The Sunday after Mrs. Carter died, the little “church in the house” assembled again in Centreport, sorely missing the dear one who had so greatly enjoyed the services of the Sunday before. Again the volume of Spurgeon’s sermons was used, and it was found that the next discourse in order was entitled, “Why they leave us,” with the text, “Father, I will that they also whom Thou hast given me be with me where I am, that they may behold my glory which Thou hast given me.” It was preached after the deaths of Hugh Stowell Brown and Charles Stanford. The sermon was to Mr. Carter exceedingly helpful and comforting, and he wrote to Mr. Spurgeon, telling him about both services,—how he had given to the wife the last pulpit message that she had heard on earth on that beautiful earthly Sabbath, which seemed a type of the heavenly Sabbath she was so soon to enter, and that he had comforted the husband as he sat sore amazed and disquieted, mourning the departure of his beloved one. He received the following reply.
“Dear Friend,—I pray the Lord to sustain you under your grievous loss. It is well for us that the Holy Spirit himself undertakes the part of Comforter, for He is able to carry it out to the full.
​“You are a happy man to have had so good a wife for so long a time. In her departure there is great mercy also, for she passed away so sweetly. Nothing remains to be desired, for she has gone home beyond all question, and though she has left you, she has left you almost at the gates. Peace be to you!…
“Your kind letter cheered me greatly. I have been sore sick, but am slowly recovering. I rejoice greatly to have given comfort to your dear wife, and all of you.”
In less than a month after Mrs. Carter’s death, her dear old friend, Mrs. Downs, mother of Mrs. Samuel T. Carter, died in the same house after a lingering illness. Mr. and Mrs. Carter had greatly loved and esteemed her for her sweet Christian character. She died upon a Sunday, and in the afternoon Mr. Carter with his three children and their children, and Mrs. Downs’s own family, assembled in the sitting-room and had a very touching service commemorative of the three dear ones who had so recently gone home from their midst, Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Downs, and Mr. Cochran. Each one gave some tender memory of the loved ones gone,—sorrowing, yet rejoicing at every remembrance of them.
“For all Thy saints who from their labors rest, Who Thee by faith before the world confessed, Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.”
Even the very little ones brought their tribute of praise and love to those whom they held so dear, and every heart was quickened with the desire to live as they had lived,
“And win with them the victor’s crown of gold.”
“O blest communion, fellowship divine! We feebly struggle, they in glory shine, Yet all are one in Thee, for all are Thine.”
On this occasion he quoted Cowper’s Lines on the Receipt of his Mother’s Picture, a poem which had always been a great favorite with him, and expressed a desire that all his children and grandchildren should learn it.
It was now decided that Mrs. Cochran, with her fatherless little ones, should come into his home, to bear him company and guide his household. Some might have questioned the wisdom of bringing seven children under sixteen years of age into the home of a man nearly eighty, and one of his old friends wrote to him remonstrating, saying that Mr. Carter might be able to stand such an arrangement, but he was sure he never could. But the union proved a blessing to both old and young. Mr. Carter frequently spoke of it as one of the great blessings which God had vouchsafed to him in his bereavement. He often referred to his friend’s warning, adding, “But he was wrong; I have never had the slightest reason to regret it.” The children afforded him pleasurable occupation. Every evening he heard the Latin and Greek lessons for the next day; he examined all the school reports, and rejoiced in every sign of progress. Little two year old Annie was his special friend. She seemed to comfort him more than anything else, perhaps because of her unconsciousness ​of grief. He had to be merry with the merry, loving, happy little baby. They would walk up and down the long parlor hand in hand, while the old man forgot his sorrows as he talked in simple language to the little child. But this desire of his eyes was taken from him at a stroke. In two days scarlet-fever laid her low, and she was buried by the side of her father in the old graveyard in Mendham. Of such bright, gentle, loving, docile, and happy spirits is the kingdom of heaven. Mr. Carter deeply mourned his little granddaughter, and his affections centred again upon the next oldest child, beautiful little golden-haired Kitty. She would nestle up to him saying, “I’m your baby now, Grandpa,” and he poured out a wealth of love upon her. He would make her stand beside him at evening prayers and read the Bible verses alternately with him and her little brother, and he almost always remarked at the close, “I never heard a child read as Kitty does.”
Five weeks from the Sunday when little Annie died, Kitty went with her mother to Dr. Hall’s church, and heard him preach on the whole of the twenty-third Psalm. As soon as the sermon began, she whispered, “Where’s the golden text?” and seemed very much astonished when she found it was a whole Psalm. In coming out of church, as soon as her little feet touched the pavement,—they were never again to stand in any earthly Zion,—she said, “Mamma, I know the golden text,” and she repeated the Psalm through. When her grandfather came in from his church service a little later, she ran up to him before he had a chance to take off his overcoat, and said, “Grandpa, do you want to know the golden text?” and he stood still, hat and cane in hand, to hear her repeat it, the little one evidently enjoying the fact that she was taking him in by giving ​him a Psalm when he expected a verse. It was a picture never to be forgotten by the loving eyes that witnessed it, the old man and the graceful little golden-haired child as they enjoyed together the Psalm, verses of which are now engraven upon their burial stones. That week she was taken with that most terrible of diseases, membranous croup. The bright little “Sun-beam,” the ray from the Sun of Righteousness, was not to be left longer to irradiate her earthly home, but was taken to the city where she shall shine forever.
Thus again, and for the last time, Mr. Carter was obliged to taste of the bitter cup of sorrow, Thus four very dear to him were carried from under his roof in thirteen months. He was ready to say with holy men of old, “I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, because Thou didst it.” “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” He neither “despised the chastening of the Lord” by feeling lightly the dispensations of his hand, nor “fainted when he was rebuked of him” by yielding to undue gloom and despondency. His eyes were ever directed above to the home where his beloved are, and he knew well that the Lord of the many mansions would erelong receive him unto himself.
The next summer he spent at Atlantic Highlands. He had for the last four summers gone to some seaside place, and he greatly enjoyed the water. He never tired of rowing and sailing, and never refused an invitation to do either. He grew as bronzed as an old sea captain, and was sometimes called the Ancient Mariner. He greatly enjoyed the services in the Methodist tabernacle there, and took part in the Love Feasts and other services, as if he had always been accustomed to them. His voice was frequently heard in the social meetings.
​In the fall of this year, 1888, he made his last visit to his familiar haunts in Mendham, a place greatly endeared to him. On his last Sunday there, he went, as was his frequent custom, to the Methodist Sunday school, where he always received a hearty welcome. In addressing them, he said that he did not suppose he should ever stand before them again. As he concluded, the school started the hymn, “We shall meet beyond the river.”
That fall and winter he had a good deal of sickness, premonitory of his final illness, but in the intervals resumed his wonted activity. At the time of the Centennial Celebration, in 1889, Mr. Carter's children had rather taken it for granted that, with his failing health and debility, he would not care to see the procession, although his store would be furnished with scaffolding for the benefit of those who wanted to witness it; but they had greatly underestimated their father's vitality and public spirit. Some one had made a remark, taking for granted that he would not go, and he sat silent for a few moments, and then said, “I think I should like to go down to the procession. There will be a good many at the store who would like to see me.” And after a moment’s pause he added, “and a good many whom I should like to see.” Of course all were delighted to have him there, and he entered into all the doings of both days with the interest of a boy. His was a spirit that never grew old.
When the General Assembly met in New York, in 1889, Mr. Carter was confined to his room while recovering from a severe illness. He was well enough, however, to receive a large number of his old friends, and to take a lively interest in reports of the proceedings. He especially enjoyed at this time a visit from ​his nephew, Rev, Dr. Thomas Carter Kirkwood of Colorado. This dear friend, when asked, a year later, for suggestions as to his uncle’s Memorial, answered, “Lay stress upon the mention of his great kindness to theological students.”
Early in June, he went with his son Robert and his granddaughter to visit his oldest son at Boonton, New Jersey, while his daughter with her children went to their old home in Mendham. After his arrival in Boonton, he penned to his daughter what was perhaps his last autograph letter, in which he says: “All are very kind. I need no help which is not readily given. But still I miss your loving care. You have been a great comfort to me since your dear mother left me. I do not know how I could have lived had I not had your constant care. But, after all, I must look higher. How low my aims are! I hear the call, Look unto me, but it often is unheeded. Give my love to the dear ones around you. How many you have to cheer you in Mendham! Meetings are as frequent as ever, and all take part.”
On the evening of Sunday, June 23d, a praise service was held in the church. The writers whose hymns were sung that evening were Robert Murray McCheyne and Dr. and Mrs. Horatius Bonar. The Bonars were old friends of Mr. Carter, who, by request of his son, gave some very interesting reminiscences concerning them. He closed his address with the words, “The night cometh. Shall we all meet together in the morning?” As the old man spoke, his aged friend, Bonar, the poet preacher, was stepping down to the banks of Jordan, and only one more Sabbath was the speaker himself permitted to spend in the earthly sanctuary. On that Sabbath,—June 30th,—Mr. Carter visited the Sunday ​school, heard his son preach twice, and spoke at an open-air prayer meeting in the woods. As he rose to speak, one who noticed how feeble he was moved his own chair so that he might catch him if he fell.
He had expected to go with some of his children and grandchildren to Sharon Springs on July 8th, and every arrangement was made for the journey; but on Saturday, July 6th, he was taken with a return of the illness which he had had several times the winter before. A message was sent to his daughter late on Saturday night, and at an early hour on Sunday she was at his side. One of his grandchildren, looking from the window, said to him, “Grandpa, here is aunt getting out of a carriage at the door.” “Ah! I knew she would come,” he said, in tones of joy and affection, and his welcome was with all his wonted tenderness,—more was hardly possible.
Then began a struggle, which lasted nearly six months, in which skilled physicians and loving watchers strove to ward off the assaults of disease and death. It was an unequal struggle, and would have been still more so, at his advanced age, but for his splendid powers of endurance. His physician never examined him without exclaiming over the breadth and depth of his chest, and saying, “Mr. Carter, that is what is pulling you through.”
Old and attached family servants came to assist in caring for him. Such had always been at his command, for in all his fifty-six years of housekeeping a servant had seldom left his house, where many had learned the way of salvation, except to enter a home of her own. Though often in great suffering, and always in much weakness, not a murmur ever passed his lips. On the contrary, words of thanksgiving and praise were often there. ​For weeks he was confined to his bed, or lifted from it with great care to a lounge. Then he rallied sufficiently to sit up a little in an invalid chair, and finally was able to walk, with two supporting him, through the hall and adjoining rooms. This was a great pleasure to him, and he evidently was very proud to show off his powers of locomotion to his physician. He always wanted family prayers held in his room. On a very few occasions, when he seemed too ill, they were held in the sitting-room, but his disappointment was so great that it was thought best to have them as quietly as possible at his side. The Bible was read to him a great deal, and every morning he wanted to hear the daily portion from Dr. J. R. Miller’s beautiful “Come ye apart.” This was the third year of his reading it through, and he enjoyed it as much as ever. All through his illness he frequently repeated Cowper’s hymn,—
“Hark, my soul, it is the Lord, ‘Tis thy Saviour, hear his word. Jesus speaks and speaks to thee, Say, poor sinner, lov’st thou me?”
He never tired of the beautiful words, and wanted all his grandchildren to learn them.
His brother, Mr. Peter Carter, visited him at least once a week while he was at Boonton. Three of his children were with him all the time, and the fourth, at Huntington, Long Island, came as often as possible. Two of his clerks who had been with him, one for thirty-seven, the other for thirty-three years, also came out to see him. The firm of the Carters had been remarkable for the long continuance of employees in its service. One, who died in 1885, had been with them for forty years. Like all their employees, he was a man of sterling integrity. The same year their ​porter died, having been thirty-three years with them. At the time of these deaths, there was no one in the establishment who had not been there twenty-five years.
One day, in the early part of his illness, he said to his brother Peter, who was a partner in the business: “I have been for many years a member of the Board of Foreign Missions, and it has been a great blessing to me. I want you to send a thousand dollars to the Board from me. And the work of Christ in our own country is of equal importance, so I want to send a thousand dollars at the same time to Home Missions.” He did not say it, but it was evident that he felt that these were dying gifts. He had always felt very strongly the duty of being his own executor, making all his gifts with the living hand.
On the first day of September there was a communion service in the church. An attached domestic who had lived with him thirteen years first made the suggestion that the Lord’s supper should be given to him. After a little consultation, he was asked if he would like such a service, and he eagerly assented. After church the elders came over to the parsonage, and, with those of his children, grandchildren, and servants who were in Boonton, assembled in the sick-room. He sat pillowed up in bed, looking very venerable and saintly, like the patriarch Jacob surrounded by his children. His eldest son conducted the service, which was a very tender one. He spoke of its being just sixty-seven years that month since his father first partook of the communion, and of all who then were with him having passed over the river. “Rock of Ages,” and “Jesus, Lover of my Soul,” were sung. Mr. Carter said afterwards, that it was most delightful to have so many of his children ​with him, adding, “God bless them all.” It was something to remember in eternity, The wonderful mingling of joy and sorrow on such an occasion is something that the world cannot comprehend. He was to drink no more of the fruit of the vine until for him the kingdom of God should come.
For a while after this he seemed to be a little stronger. He was not in the least nervous, and the going and coming of a large family about him seemed very pleasant to him. Grandpa’s room was the centre of everything to the large household. By and by he was able to be carried down to the sitting-room daily, and even to take his place at the table, to which he was wheeled in an invalid chair. Several times he was lifted into a carriage and took a short drive. The first time he went, he remarked, “I never expected to drive out again.” One day he happened in conversation to speak of Cowper’s “Negro’s Complaint,” and said, “That is a very fine poem. I wish my grandchildren would learn it. I will give a dollar to every one of them who will repeat it to me.” He seemed greatly gratified as one after another of the children visiting or living in the house came to him to recite the verses, until he had given his dollars to thirteen of them.
On October 15th he was taken back to the city. He was lifted into an easy carriage at his son’s door, lifted again, and laid on the sofa of the drawing-room car. where he said he was just as comfortable as in his bed at home. His skilful and kind physician accompanied and saw him safely in his bed in his own house, and then gave his case over into the hands of his New York doctor, who was equally skilful and kindly. As he was carried into the house, he exclaimed, “I never expected to see my home again.” He was frequently ​heard to thank God that he had allowed him to spend that last summer in the household of his son, and spoke with great affection of the constant solicitude of his children for him.
Several times after reaching the city, he was able to be carried down stairs, and go for a drive in the Central Park, but at last his physicians decided that this was too great a risk. It was a great disappointment to him to give up his drives, but he bore it cheerfully, as he did all privations and sufferings. The doctor laid his hand on his shoulder one day, and said, “Mr. Carter, you are the most patient man I ever saw in my life. A team of horses could not draw a complaint from you.”
Another day a friend said to him, “It must be a great pleasure to you to look back on your well-spent life, and think of all the good you have done.” “Oh no, no! I have been very, very unworthy. I have no reliance but in the atoning sacrifice of my Saviour.”
He was able to see his friends, and his social nature took great pleasure in their visits. His brother Peter came to him every day, and all through his illness he kept the run of the business and knew all that was going on at the store. He kept watch of political matters, and in the question of the revision of the Confession of Faith took a keen interest, having all the newspaper reports read to him. Once when there was something said in debate that seemed to him personal and unchristian, he said, “We have had enough of that. Read something else.” In this question of revision his feeling was that there were some expressions that might better be changed, but he did not favor wholesale alterations. In all such matters his motto was, “In essentials unity, in non-essentials liberty, in all things ​charity.” His mind was so clear and his interest in all about him so keen, his conversational powers so unimpaired, that the visits of his friends were a great pleasure to him and to them. Dr. John Hall was a frequent visitor, and when one of the family thanked him for his kind attention, he replied, “No need of thanks, my visits are not at all unselfish, It is a pleasure to have intercourse with such a man as your father.” He greatly enjoyed a call from Dr. McCosh, and the two talked over the question of revision at great length, and with entire unanimity. It seemed as if all his old friends rallied about him with words of affection and cheer.
His eighty-second birthday was on November 2, and was remembered by many thoughtful friends with gifts and visits and letters. His grandchildren at a distance, even very little ones, wrote their congratulations. The following letter from Rev. Dr. J. R. Miller, whose “Come ye apart” was his daily companion, was received at this time:—
“I have just seen a notice in the New York Evangelist, that to-morrow will be your birthday. I am constrained to write a word of sincere congratulation. There are many things upon which you are to be congratulated. One is, that through the grace of Christ in you, your life has been such a blessing to the world, so full of usefulness, such an educating, uplifting influence. You will never know the full value of what you have done until in eternity you see all the results and inspirations when the harvest is gathered.
“Another thing on which your friends cannot but congratulate you and felicitate themselves is, that your useful life has been so long spared, that year has been added to year until you have now passed your fourscore. It has been a great joy and blessing to all who know you that the tree ​has been left standing so long, that hungry ones might sit in its refreshing shade and eat of its ripened fruits.
“Another thing on which you should be congratulated is, that you have outlived neither your usefulness nor your welcome in this world, Some old people do both. But you are enjoying in the mellow eventide of your life the love of loyal friends, and the esteem and regard of the thousands to whom you have been a blessing, and are still bringing forth fruit in old age.
“One other cause for congratulation is that you have an immortality before you, bright with rich possibilities of growth, in which you are going to continue to work for Christ. This is the best of all. The ‘endless life’ beyond the shadows of mortality is a great deal more real than the broken years we live in this world. There the oldest are the youngest, and all life is toward youth.
“May God continue you for many other years of usefulness here, and then introduce you to an eternity of glorious life.”
A few days later came the following letter from Dr. Cuyler:—
“I often, often think of you, and wish I was so near that I could come in and enjoy a grasp of your honest hand, and a look into the face that has shone for half a century in the light of God’s countenance. How I love you, and rejoice to have spent so many hours with you in this world! But many more, I trust, up yonder.
“I send to you one of my late articles, written for those shut up in sick-rooms, entitled ‘Prisoners of Jesus Christ.’ Perhaps it may be to you also a love message. I hope that I can get over soon to see you, but my work is heavy, constant, pressing, and I am not quite so hearty as usual.
“Thanks,—thanks for the unspeakable gift of Christ Jesus to us both, and to our loved ones.
“Ever yours, till the day break in glory.”
On his birthday and all through his sickness, he greatly enjoyed the beautiful flowers that were sent him, and his grandchildren loved to bring them to him and witness the look of pleasure that spread over his face as he received them. He had always been very fond of flowers, and as he walked the street in his days of health, he would stop before the florists’ windows and rejoice that there were so many more of them than there used to be to delight the passer by. Often he would quote from Milton’s Lycidas the description of the flowers brought
“To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies,”
and remark that “the glowing violet” had a line all to itself. When some one reminded him of the enormous sums spent on floral decorations, so perishable in their nature, he said, “It is certainly a very different extravagance from that which squanders money on cigars and whiskey.”
His love of conversation continued strong to the last. He indulged in lively reminiscences of his past days. On the last Sunday, December 15, in which he was able to converse. one of his grandsons who sat beside him drew him on to speak of many of the prominent men and women whom he had known, and at last said, “Grandfather, whom do you consider the most remarkable person you ever knew?” He turned to him with a bright look, and said earnestly, “My wife.” The true and tender heart beat faithfully for her alone, until death stilled it.
As Christmas approached, he remembered his ​accustomed gifts. For several years he had not been able to do any Christmas shopping, but had sent instead a check to each of his sisters, and also one to each of his children to be divided among the grandchildren.
One of the last things he spoke of consciously was to tell his son Robert to be sure not to forget the grandchildren’s money, and his brother Peter to be sure to send the sisters their checks, and not to neglect the contribution sent every December from the firm to Foreign Missions. His ruling passion of benevolence was strong in death.
His last conscious moments were on Christmas day. The grandchildren living in the house brought their offerings to him, and he spoke admiringly of a Japanese vase filled with beautiful roses; and when two of the younger ones gave him an illustrated copy of “Rab and his Friends,” he spoke of the author, and said, “I knew him well years ago.” These were his last words. He sank into a sleep, and never awoke till he was in the presence of the King in his beauty. He entered into rest in the early morning of Saturday, December 28, 1889. His life of love and service on earth is ended, but in the heavenly home Christ’s “servants shall serve Him, and they shall see His face, and His name shall be in their foreheads.”