preaching to your own people. I will give you free papers, and support you while you study for the Methodist ministry.” The next year he came North again, bringing the man’s wife and little child. He gave them all manumission papers, and interested himself for them until his death. “O Mr. Carter,” said the poor man the tears rolling down his cheeks, “he was a good man, my massa. He was the best man I ever saw in my life.”
The former slave was now settled in a little African Church in New York. Mr. Carter asked him how he was off for books. “That is my worst trouble I have hardly any books. It is like making bricks without straw.” Mr. Carter laid out a long row of commentaries and other books, and asked him if he had any of those. “Not one of them. But, Mr. Carter, I have no money, I cannot buy books. The money you have given me is for the church.” Mr. Carter told him they were his as a gift. “O how can I thank you! I never saw so many nice books together in my life.” They were made up in a huge bundle, and lifted to his shoulder, and Mr. Carter said his beaming face, as he went off with his load trying to bow his thanks to the very last, was a sight to see, He came about the store a good deal while he was stationed in New York, but finally removed to a distant part of the country.
Mr. Carter was greatly interested in the colored race. A colored Sunday school connected with the Scotch Church always met with hearty support and co-operation from him. His brother Peter was its superintendent for more than thirty years, and the families of both brothers were largely represented among its teachers.
One of the oldest members of the Scotch Church and
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