TO THE REVEREND NATHANIEL WOODARD, PROVOST OF ST NICOLAS COLLEGE, SHOREHAM. MY DEAR FRIEND, I cannot deny myself the pleasure of dedicating this Sermon to you. For to you I owe it that I was allowed to take so prominent a part on a day which was a bright spot in the midst of much darkness and sorrow. When our Church was mourning over the apostasy of so many of her children, and when distrustful surmises and insinuations were daily multiplying the losses we had actually sustained, you called on us to look forward hopefully, and cheered us with the prospect that, if we do not slothfully or contentiously neglect to carry out the good work which you have been commissioned to set before us, she will be greatly strengthened for the conflicts which await her. some You are aware how cordially from the first I have rejoiced at your undertaking. The want which you are endeavouring to remedy, I had long felt and deplored, and had earnestly desired to see measures adopted for relieving it. Hence, when I first read your Plea for the Middle Classes, it seemed to me almost like the voice of my own heart, like a realization of what I had been longing for: and the practical wisdom manifested in your plan, combined with the self-devoting zeal, which, it was evident, had dictated and was animating your enterprise, encouraged the hope that, what others had vainly dreamt and talkt of, you, under God's blessing, which is ever vouchsafed to such zeal, would be enabled to effect. Under this persuasion, I have taken every opportunity of doing and saying what I could to forward your work, and to allay those jealousies and suspicions, whereby, in these days more than ever, a man of strong convictions is sure to be assailed. With this view I spoke at some length about your School in my Charge for 1849; and great would be my delight if I could see our brethren casting aside their party animosities, and joining heartily in promoting a work, which is truly of national importance, and worthy that all loyal members of the English Church should unite for its accomplishment. I know too well that this is hardly to be expected. Even the good have ever been prone to conceive that there is only one way in which any real good can be done, that which leads from their own house to their own church and the deplorable weakness of our Faith is continually betraying itself by leaning on the crutches of some favorite notions, and fearing lest it should stumble if it stretch out its hand to Charity. Meanwhile the sluggish and worldly-minded are glad to avail themselves of every excuse, and will take up any cant cry, which may seem to warrant them in clinging to their pet maxim, that Charity is to begin at home, and will act wisest in ending where it begins. With these latter opponents you will hardly prevail, at least until your success has become so conspicuous that their support will be of comparatively little importance. With the former class, though it is almost as easy to break through a hedge of cactuses, as through a hedge of religious prejudices, the case is not quite desperate. The milder and more candid amongst them may be induced after a while to do you justice, when they see with what singleness and straightforwardness, as well as self-denying, self-sacrificing zeal, you pursue your noble object, the education of the whole body of our Middle Classes in the fear and love of God, as dutiful children of our National Church. The pledges which you have already given, your assurance, on the day on which this Sermon was preacht, that the grand building which we were then inaugurating, should be vested in the hands of Trustees for the education of the children of the Middle Classes according to the principles of the Church of England, and that, in determining what those principles are, you would be guided by the authority of our Bishop, ought to have conciliated and convinced your adversaries, and must in time lessen their number. The manly Christian generosity with which our Bishop himself spoke on that occasion, the confidence which he exprest in you,-plainly as in the last year he has manifested his intense repugnance to Popery, ought to have exercised an influence upon those who had nothing beyond idle rumours to counterbalance his careful scrutiny of your character and aims. It has been objected indeed that, when you said on that day, that, if the Bishop's decision should press too hard upon you, you would then leave the Diocese, you were contemplating the possibility of joining the deserters who have gone from us to Rome. Surely however it ought to be recognised that he who is consecrating such a work, a work to which he has not only given up his whole substance, but all the energies of his heart and mind for a number of years, to the service of our Church, cannot be harbouring any lurking thoughts of being ever induced or driven to forsake her. Can a parent forsake his child? the object of so many anxious cares, of so many yearning desires, of so much labour and toil, of so many ardent hopes, of so many fervent prayers? What a joy will it be to you to see this work completed! What thanksgivings will burst from your heart to Him who has blest your efforts! And can any one think it possible that you can be cherishing a thought of abandoning it,-of abandoning the noble work to which you have devoted your life? A candid interpreter would have perceived that you were only speaking of an extreme case, of the possibility that some Bishop hereafter might entertain views on the principles of our Church contrary to your own, and might attempt to enforce them upon you; in which extreme case, you said, you would have to withdraw to another Diocese, and commence a like work there, leaving the Hurstpierpoint School behind you as a legacy to our Diocese. Surely they who are continually talking about the liberty of conscience, ought not to grudge you thus much of that liberty, which you could not assert except at the cost of such a sacrifice. I know, my dear Friend, you counted the cost, before you entered on your work. You were not ignorant that you would have to encounter many difficulties, in addition to those which always beset a great work, and without which it could not be so great; that you would |