On August 30, 1843
a lady wrote to the Venerable's sister, Jemima, expressing her dismay over his withdrawal from the Oxford Movement and the rumors that he was considering Roman Catholicism. Apparently, he himself received many, many similar letters, and they were one of the great difficulties along his path into the Catholic Church.

I have been thinking that among all the opinions and feelings your brother is called upon to sympathise with, perhaps he hears least and knows least of those who are, perhaps, the most numerous class of all, people living at a distance from him, and scattered over the country with no means of communication with him as with one another, yet who all have been used to look up to him as a guide. These people have a claim upon him: he has witnessed to the world, and they have received his witness; he has taught and they have striven to be obedient pupils. He has formed their minds, not accidentally: he has sought to do so, and he has succeeded. He has undertaken the charge and cannot now shake them off. His words have been spoken in vain to many, but not to them. He has been the means under Providence of making them what they are. Each might have gone his separate way but for him. To them his voluntary resignation of ministerial duties will be a severe blow. If he was silenced, the blame would rest with others; but, giving them up of his own free will, they will have a sense of abandonment and desertion. There is something sad enough and discouraging enough in being shunned and eyed with distrust by neighbours, friends, and clergy, but while we have had some one to confide in, to receive instruction from, this has been borne easily. A sound from Littlemore and St. Mary's seems to reach us even here, and has given comfort on many a dreary day; but when that voice ceases, even the words it has already spoken will lose some of their power; we shall have sad thoughts as we read them. Such was our guide, but he has left us to seek our own path; our champion has deserted us—our watchman, whose cry used to cheer us, is heard no more.

In spite of the sorrow and the fear that such a step may excite, I know it may be right to do it—and if your brother does so, I shall try to think it is; but it seems right that he should know all the consequences. We shall not leave the Church as others may. We have no longings for Rome; but it is a strong step to make our home feel cheerless, and this will tend to do it—at least for a time. But it is a large subject and you will say it far better than I. I have said this as a sort of relief to my feelings; you will judge whether this view of the subject is worth noticing.