England's Stewardship The Substance of a Sermon Preached on the Fast-Day, in Trinity Church, Tunbridge Wells — Story, Setting & Ideas
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Read the Text
Transcribed from the 1857 Thomas Hatchard edition by David Price, email [email protected]
ENGLAND’S STEWARDSHIP:
THE SUBSTANCE OF A SERMON PREACHED ON THE FAST-DAY, IN TRINITY CHURCH, TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
BY THE REV. EDWARD HOARE, M.A., INCUMBENT.
LONDON: THOMAS HATCHARD, 187, PICCADILLY. TUNBRIDGE WELLS: MRS. HASTING, AND ALL BOOKSELLERS.
MACINTOSH, PRINTER, GREAT NEW-STREET, LONDON.
ENGLAND’S STEWARDSHIP.
“Give an account of thy stewardship.”
AT no time in England’s history has she been called to humble herself before God under more harrowing circumstances than the present. We have not to deplore the discomfiture of our armies, or the hardships of our soldiers,—not the privations on the heights of Sebastopol, or the deadly conflicts of Balaklava and the Redan,—events which are, more or less, to be expected in a soldier’s life; but we are now summoned to prayer by the cries of tortured infants, by the unutterable agonies of heartbroken mothers, of daughters, sisters, and wives, who have been called to endure outrages and witness scenes in comparison of which it would have been a light matter to have been torn limb from limb by the tigers of the jungle. Satan appears to have been let loose in India, in all his deadly and corrupt ferocity. There has been a kind of filling up of God’s four sore judgments. Famine, pestilence, and war had already followed each other in quick succession; but we thought we were free from noisome beasts. But now we have something incomparably worse let loose on our fellow-countrymen to fill the fair plains of India with wailing, lamentation, and woe.
But it is not needful to recapitulate these tales of horror. I am persuaded that I need not stand here to excite your sympathy for the sufferers. You have felt that already, and I trust that many an earnest cry has long ere this gone up from your homes for India. If not, just think on the little garrison at Lucknow, hemmed in by rebel thousands, with provisions every day diminishing, with the massacre of Cawnpore before their eyes, and with the horrid murderer at the head of the blockading force thirsting for their blood, and eager, if ever he can gain the power, to re-enact the same barbarities on themselves. Think what those women must endure, as the little stores are doled out day after day; and they know that, unless they are relieved, they have no prospect but the foulest massacre; and every heart must acknowledge that the time is come, if it be not already past, for the universal cry of wrestling prayer, and most earnest pleading with God on their behalf.
But this is a day for humiliation as well as prayer, and national judgments are so intimately connected with national sins, that the nation’s prayer should clearly be accompanied by the nation’s humiliation. It behoves us, therefore, to consider what ground there is for such humiliation, and what sins there are to call forth our repentance and confession. But we need not in this inquiry occupy time by the consideration of those sins which are more especially connected with home, for the finger of God points to India. It is there that the blow has fallen, and there that we must look for this sin. It is clearly on Indian matters that God now has a controversy with his people, and therefore our conduct with reference to India should be the subject of especial enquiry. Let us, then, examine, in the first place, England’s stewardship; and afterwards, England’s account of that stewardship.
There can be no doubt that England stands in a position of a steward before God. We are all stewards of the various talents and opportunities which we possess. The minister is a steward of the mysteries of God, and I stand here myself this very day as his steward, or servant, to declare his word. The parent is a steward; and what a stewardship it is to be entrusted with the training of immortal souls for the kingdom of the Lord! The rich man is a steward; his property is not his own, but he is entrusted with it in order that he may lay it out for man’s happiness and God’s glory. On the same principle, nations are entrusted with their various stewardships. The Jewish nation, for example, was the steward of Scripture: “Unto them were committed the oracles of God;” and whatever be the particular power or privilege of a nation, that power or privilege is a talent, or stewardship, to be employed in the service of Him who gave it.
Edward Hoare's fast-day sermon, preached at Trinity Church, Tunbridge Wells in 1857, opens with a stark juxtaposition: the expected hardships of war—Sebastopol, Balaklava, the Redan—are set against the 'unutterable agonies' of women and children in India during the Rebellion. This contrast frames the sermon's central argument: national calamity demands national humiliation, not merely sympathy. Hoare immediately shifts from the visceral horrors of Lucknow and Cawnpore to a theological accounting, invoking Luke 16:2: 'Give an account of thy stewardship.'
From Battlefields to Domestic Atrocity
Hoare deliberately distinguishes the Rebellion from conventional warfare. He dismisses the 'discomfiture of our armies' and 'deadly conflicts' as expected in a soldier's life, then pivots to what he calls 'something incomparably worse': the torture of infants and the violation of women. This rhetorical move does more than shock; it redefines the crisis as a moral and spiritual rupture, not a military one. The phrase 'Satan appears to have been let loose in India' is not mere hyperbole but a theological diagnosis. By cataloguing God's 'four sore judgments'—famine, pestilence, war, and noisome beasts—Hoare positions the Rebellion as the fourth and worst, a filling up of divine wrath. Yet he refuses to dwell on the horrors, insisting his congregation already feels them. Instead, he channels that emotion into a call for 'wrestling prayer' and, crucially, national self-examination.
The Arithmetic of Neglect
Hoare's indictment of England's stewardship rests on a specific numerical contrast. He notes that by 1853, the Bible had been translated into ten languages, 2,015 missionary schools existed, and there were 112,000 converts. But then he delivers the damning figure: only 395 'American or European labourers' for all of India—'not one for half a million of the Indian population.' He updates this for his own Church of England societies: 48 clergy from the SPG, 90 from the CMS, plus 20 laymen, totalling 158. This is set against the 'steady stream of gallant young men' seeking civil or military posts. The contrast is deliberate: the same nation that eagerly fills Company appointments cannot find missionaries. Hoare's use of precise numbers—drawn from reports, not speculation—gives his sermon a forensic quality, grounding moral failure in quantifiable neglect.
The Reed That Pierces the Hand
Hoare's metaphor of the broken reed—'pierced through the hand that leaned on it'—encapsulates his view of imperial overreach. England relied on its own military strength and governed for its own purposes, forgetting that India was a trust from God. The rebellion is thus a divine demonstration of human frailty. But Hoare immediately warns against focusing solely on governments: 'the Church of God has had its trust likewise.' He traces the church's stewardship from the 18th century—when only a few names like Schwartz and Martyn stood out—through the lost first half of the 19th century, despite the removal of government opposition in 1813. The opportunity was 'the noblest and most magnificent for Christian Missions that the world has ever witnessed,' yet the church failed to seize it. Hoare's sermon is thus a double-edged critique: of the state's secular imperialism and the church's spiritual lethargy.
Hoare's sermon is best read as a primary document of mid-Victorian religious and imperial thought, not as a historical account of the Rebellion itself. His use of statistics, biblical typology, and rhetorical contrast reveals how a clergyman could interpret national crisis as divine judgment while still affirming England's providential role. Readers should note that the excerpts end before Hoare's concluding application; the sermon's full argument may extend beyond the evidence here.
Reading Hoare’s sermon, I kept thinking how strange it is that we ask the divine to judge our stewardship of a land we barely understand. That unease lingered, and later I found myself drifting back to Celtic religion in pre-Christian times — Text and Context, where faith feels older, more rooted, less like a ledger of success and failure.
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