Thirty Years in the Itinerancy

by W. G. Miller

In March, A.D. 1845, a letter from Rev. Wm. H. Sampson, then Presiding Elder of Green Bay District, Rock River Conference, found me at Waupun. The intervening nine months, since our arrival in the preceding July, had been spent in making improvements upon the land I had selected, and in the erection of a lumber mill, of which I was in part proprietor.

The bearer of the letter found me in the mill, engaged in rolling logs to the saw and in carrying away the lumber. I opened the letter and glanced at its contents. To my surprise and utter consternation it contained a pressing request that I would take charge of the Brothertown Indian Mission until the next session of the Conference, as the Missionary, Rev. H.W. Frink, had been called away by family afflictions. I instinctively folded the letter and then crumpled it in the palm of my hand, inwardly saying, "Hast thou found me, oh! mine enemy?" No rash answer, however, was given. This question of duty was certainly assuming grave aspects. For four years it had haunted me at every turn. And even in the wilds of Wisconsin it was still my tormenter. Like Banquo's ghost, it would not down at my bidding. I now tried to look the question fairly in the face, and make the decision a final one, but found it exceedingly difficult to do so. To yield after so long a struggle, and especially to surrender all my fondly cherished plans for the future, appealed at first to my pride, and then to what I conceived to be my temporal interests, and the appeal for a moment seemed to gain the ascendency. But how then could I answer to God? was the startling question that burned into my soul at every turn of the argument. In the midst of my embarrassment the thought was suggested, "It is only until Conference, and then you can return and resume your business."

Catching at this straw, thus floating to me, and half believing and half hoping that three months of my incompetency would satisfy the church and send me back to my business again, I consented to go. Leaving my temporal interests in the hands of my father, I hastened to make the necessary preparations for my new responsibilities. The outfit was provokingly limited. The horse and saddlebags, the inevitable Alpha, if not the Omega, of an Itinerant's outfit, were wanting, as such conveniences had hardly, as yet, found their way to the northern portions of the Territory. But in their place were put good walking ability and a small satchel. A few pieces of linen, a few books, but no sermons, were put into the satchel, and I was immediately stepping to the measure of the Itinerancy.

My first point of destination was Fond du Lac, the residence of the Presiding Elder, where I must necessarily report for instructions. The walk of twenty-two miles, with no other companion than a plethoric satchel, passing from hand to hand as the weary miles, one after another, were dismissed, was not the most favorable introduction to my "new departure," but, bad as it was, I found relief in the thought that my Eastern friends, who had so kindly and repeatedly proposed to give me a comfortable seat somewhere in the New York Conference, were in blissful ignorance of the sorry figure I was making. Whether Jonah found his last conveyance more agreeable than the first, I cannot say, but certain it is, I found my first entrance upon the Itinerancy a tugging business.

I reached Fond du Lac before nightfall, and was hospitably entertained. Notwithstanding the cordial reception I received, however, from both the elder and his good wife, I felt embarrassed by the searching look they occasionally gave me. Whether it was occasioned by my youthful, green or delicate appearance, or my light, feminine voice, I could not divine.

The conversation soon turned upon the state of affairs at Brothertown, and I speedily forgot my embarrassment. In the course of the conversation I inquired whether the proceeding would not be considered irregular, to place an exhorter in charge of the Mission. The elder replied, "Necessity knows no law, and, besides, our Quarterly Meeting at this place will soon be held, when we will relieve that embarrassment." I was doubtless indebted to this law of necessity for the privilege of holding one office in the church not provided for in the Discipline, and one that has seldom if ever been accorded to others. Carefully instructed in the best method to manage certain difficulties pending in the Mission, I took early leave for a further walk of sixteen miles.

Across the prairie at the head of Lake Winnebago, I found the walk very agreeable. Passing Taycheedah, I then struck out into the deep woods that skirt the eastern shore of the lake. I was now between my guide and instructor, and the difficult work committed to my charge. Thought was busy. An oppressive sense of my own insufficiency for so momentous a work, came over me, as it had done before, but never in such overwhelming power. I was now face to face with the great work from which I had shrank for several years, and there was no retreat. Imagination lifted the little hills of difficulty before me into mountains that seemed impassable. In the deep shade of the wood I found a moss-covered rock for a seat, and gave myself up to reflection. The troubled currents of the stream ran on this wise. To go forward in my present undertaking may involve a committal to a work that a few short months shall not terminate. In such case, there will follow a life of toil and sacrifice, on stinted allowance, beset with trials and perplexities, and clouded by cold unfeeling criticisms, censures and misjudgings, of both motive and labor, of which I can now entertain no adequate conception. But if this work be not the dictate of duty, then why this unrest of soul which has so long disturbed the even flow of my religious life, or why the uniform urgency of the authorities of the church both east and west in this direction? On the contrary, if my feet are now in the path of duty then why hesitate? A brave soul never falters in the presence of difficulty or peril, but always deals the strongest blows where the conflict rages the sharpest. The struggle was brief and the result satisfactory. Kneeling by the side of the rock, prayer was offered for Divine guidance and help, and there fell on the soul a baptism of serene peace and holy joy, which hallowed each remaining step of the journey.

Arriving at Brothertown the letter of introduction from the Elder was presented to A.D. Dick, Esq., one of the Stewards. The residence of this brother was located in the central portion of the town, and gave evidence of good taste and comfort. Both himself and wife were members of the church, and their house the home of Itinerants. It was now nearly twelve o'clock. I was invited to the parlor where I awaited dinner. These few moments afforded an opportunity to survey my surroundings and master the situation. My early reading had introduced me to the Indian, both in his native wilds and as seen on the borders of civilization, the former as the noblest specimen of the natural man on the planet, and the latter as the most degraded of mortals. But now I was in the very presence of the red man and even a guest in his dwelling. Nor is it too much to say that my curiosity was not a little excited. My reception, however, had been so cordial that I soon found myself at ease in my new associations.

The letter was opened and read. During its reading I noticed that the eye of mine host often wandered from the page to the newly arrived guest. By an occasional glance I tried to read the thoughts of the reader, but found that the dark face was not disposed to be communicative. This much, however, I think I read pretty clearly: "Well, the Elder has sent us a pretty slender specimen as a minister, but we will try him and see what he can do."

The dinner was announced, conversation became lively, and before we were aware of it the distinctions of race and color had faded out of sight, and a life-long friendship was founded. It was now arranged that, during my stay on the Mission, I should make my home under this hospitable roof.