When John G. Paton set out on his own, his father walked with him for six miles, praying for him. That symbol of love and affection helped carry him through various early trials and constantly direct him to trust in his Savior.
This is the third in a series of episodes from the life of John G. Paton, adapted from his autobiography for young readers.
12 min read
Before taking up the work of harvesting, I had applied for a position in Glasgow that perfectly suited my heart’s desire, but I had little hope of hearing any more. The West Campbell Street Reformed Presbyterian Congregation was looking for a young man who would visit absentees from the Sabbath School, and they offered £50 per year and a year’s training at the Free Church Normal Seminary. Both the work and the study were important parts of preparation for the Holy Ministry. Along with their application and certificates, the candidates were to send an original essay on some subject and in their own handwriting. I submitted two long poems on the Covenanters, those who had fought to keep the Presbyterian Church of Scotland free from royal control. But to my surprise, at the end of my harvesting, a letter arrived stating that I and another young man were being considered for the position. We were both requested to appear in Glasgow on a given day to compete for the position. Two days later, I started out from my quiet country home on the road to Glasgow.
Forty miles of my journey was on foot—from Torthorwald to Kilmarnock. Railways in those days were still few, and traveling by coach was far beyond my means. From Kilmarnock I could take the train to Glasgow. A small bundle held my Bible and all my personal belongings. Thus I was launched upon the ocean of life. Yet I thought of the One who says, “I know your poverty, but you are rich” (cf. Rev. 2:9).
For the first six miles, my dear father walked with me. Years later, his counsels, his tears, and his heavenly conversation during that parting journey remain fresh in my heart as though it were yesterday. For the final half-mile or so, we walked in near silence. He carried his hat in his hand (as was often his custom), and his lips kept moving in silent prayers for me. His tears flowed as our eyes met in looks for which all speech was vain. On reaching the appointed parting place, we halted. He grasped my hand tightly in his for a minute’s silence, then solemnly and affectionately said, “God bless you, my son! Your father’s God prosper you and keep you from all evil!” Unable to say more, his lips kept moving in silent prayer. In tears we embraced and parted.
I ran off as fast as I could. When about to turn a corner in the road where he would lose sight of me, I looked back and saw him still standing with his head uncovered where I had left him, gazing after me. Waving my hat goodbye, I turned the corner out of sight in an instant. But my heart was too full and sore to carry me further, so I darted aside from the road and wept awhile. Then, rising cautiously, I climbed the little hill to see if he still stood where I had left him, and just at that moment, I caught a glimpse of him climbing the hill to look for me. He did not see me, and after he had gazed eagerly in my direction for a while, he got down, set his face toward home, and began to return, his head still uncovered, his heart (I felt sure) still lifting me up in prayer. I watched through tears till his form faded from my gaze. As I hastened on my way, I vowed, by the help of God, to live and act so as never to grieve or dishonor such a father and mother as He had given me.
My father’s advice, prayers, and tears—the road, the hill, and his climbing up on it and then walking away, head uncovered—have often, often, all through life, risen vividly before my mind, and do so now as if it had been but an hour ago. In my early years, when exposed to many struggles and temptations, his parting form would often rise before me like a guardian angel.
I arrived in Glasgow on the third day. Buoyant, full of hope, and trusting in God for guidance, I appeared at the appointed hour before the examiners, and so did the other candidate. Having carefully gone through their work, the examiners asked us to retire. When they recalled us, they told us that the choice was difficult, and they suggested that one of us might withdraw in favor of the other, or that both might submit to a more difficult examination. Neither of us seemed inclined to give it up, and both were willing for a second examination. But then the patrons made another suggestion: They had only £50 per year to give, but if we would agree to divide it and go into one lodging, we might both be able to struggle through. They would pay our entrance fees at the Free Normal Seminary and provide us with the books required. By dividing the mission work appointed, and each taking only half, more time also might be secured for our studies. Though we had never seen each other before, we at once accepted this proposal and got on famously together, never disputing about anything of common interest throughout our whole career.
Our fellow-students at the seminary were all far advanced beyond us in their education, so we had to grind away incessantly, late and early. Before the year closed, both of us broke down in health, partly by hard study but chiefly for lack of a nourishing diet. I developed a severe cough, and I began spitting blood; a doctor ordered me at once home to the country and forbade all attempts at study. My heart sank; it was a dreadful disappointment and a bitter trial. Soon after, my companion, though much stronger than I, likewise became ill, and he never fully recovered. Though for some years he taught in a humble school, he long ago fell asleep in Jesus, a devoted and honored Christian man.
I, however, after a short rest, nourished by the hill air of Torthorwald and by the new milk of our family cow, was soon at work again. Renting a house, I began to teach a small school at Girvan, and gradually but completely recovered my health. Then, having saved £10 by my teaching, I returned to Glasgow and was enrolled as a student at the College. Sadly, before the session was finished, my money was exhausted. I had lent some to a poor student who failed to repay me; only nine shillings remained in my purse. There was no one from whom to borrow, had I been willing, and I had failed to find work as a private tutor. No course seemed open for me except to pay what little I owed, give up my College career, and seek for teaching or other work in the country.
I wrote a letter to my father and mother, telling them of my circumstances—that I was leaving Glasgow in search of work and that they would not hear from me again till I had found a suitable position. I told them that if unsuccessful, I should fall back on my own trade, though I shrank from that as not tending to advance my education. But I assured them that I would do nothing to dishonor them or my own Christian profession. Having read that letter over again through many tears, I said, “I cannot send that, for it will grieve my darling parents!” So, leaving it on the table, I locked my room door and ran out to find a place where I might sell my precious books and hold on for a few more weeks. But as I stood outside one shop, I wondered whether these folks would care to have a poor student’s books. As I hesitated, knowing how much I needed them for my studies, my conscience smote me; I imagined that the people were watching me like one about to steal; and I made off from the scene at full speed, feeling intense shame at having dreamed of such a thing! Passing through one short street into another, I marched on mechanically, not knowing that the Lord God of my father was guiding my steps.
A certain notice in a window, into which I had probably never in my life looked before, caught my eye: “Teacher wanted, Maryhill Free Church School; apply at the Manse.” A coach or bus was just passing when I turned around; I leapt into it, visited the minister, arranged to undertake the school, returned to Glasgow, paid my landlady’s lodging score, tore up the letter to my parents, and wrote another full of cheer and hope. Early the next morning, I entered the school and began a tough and trying job.
The minister warned me that the school was a wreck. It had been broken up chiefly by coarse and bad characters who labored in the mills and coal-pits and who attended the evening classes. They had abused several schoolmasters in succession.
The minister, laying a thick and heavy cane on the desk, said, “Use that freely, or you will never keep order here!”
I put it aside into my desk drawer, saying, “That will be my last resource.”
There were very few students for the first week—about eighteen in the day school and twenty in the night school. The clerk of the mill, a good young fellow, came to the evening classes, claiming to want to learn book-keeping, but privately, he said he had come to save me from personal injury.
The following week, a young man and a young woman began to attend the night school, and they showed from the first moment that they were bent on mischief. When I again asked them for quiet and order, they became more boisterous and greatly amused some of the other students. I finally urged the young man, a tall, powerful fellow, to be quiet or leave at once, declaring that at all hazards, I must and would have perfect order; but he only mocked me and assumed a fighting attitude. Calmly locking the door and pocketing the key, I turned to my desk, armed myself with the cane, and dared anyone at his peril to interfere.
It was a rough struggle—he smashing at me clumsily with his fists, I with quick movements evading and dealing him blow after blow with the heavy cane for several rounds—till at length he crouched down at his desk, exhausted and beaten, and I ordered him to turn to his book, which he did in sulky silence.
Going to my desk, I addressed them and asked them to inform all who wished to come to the school that if they came for education, I would heartily do everything in my power to educate, but any who wished for mischief had better stay away, for I was determined to conquer, not to be conquered, and to secure order and silence, whatever the cost. Further, I assured them that that cane would not again be lifted by me if kindness and forbearance on my part could possibly gain the day, for I wished to rule by love and not by terror. Moreover, this young man knew he was in the wrong, and it was that which had made him weak against me, though he was far stronger than I. Yet I would be his friend and helper if he was willing to be friendly with me, the same as if this night had never been. At these words, a dead silence fell on the school, everyone buried their face diligently in their book, and the evening closed in uncommon quiet and order.
Attendance grew till the school became crowded day and night. The cane became a forgotten implement. The sorrow and pain which I showed to badly-done lessons or anything blameworthy proved to be a far more effective penalty.
The school committee had promised me at least ten shillings per week and guaranteed to make up any deficit if the fees fell short of that sum. But if the income from fees exceeded that sum, all was to be mine. Affairs went on prosperously for a season; indeed, too much so for my selfish interest. The committee took advantage of the large attendance and better reputation of the school to secure the services of a master of the highest grade. The parents of many of the children offered to take and seat a hall if I would remain, but I knew too well that I had neither the education nor the experience to compete with an accomplished teacher. Their children, however, took up a testimonial and subscription, which was presented to me the day before I left, and I valued it chiefly because the presentation was made by the young fellows who at first behaved so badly but were now my devoted friends.
Once more I committed my future to the Lord God of my father, assured that in my very heart I was willing and anxious to serve Him and to follow the blessed Savior, yet feeling keenly what intense darkness had again enclosed my path.
John G. Paton was a nineteenth-century Scottish missionary to the New Hebrides, where he preached the gospel to heathen cannibals for over thirty years.
