The result of the visit to New York is known. Mrs. Ware had not over-estimated the importance of the period. It was a crisis. The second Sunday of her husband's absence was the last time that he ever attempted to preach. He was attacked in the pulpit with bleeding, as he supposed from the lungs, and did not finish the service. It was the end of his career as a preacher, and the extinction of many bright hopes in those united minds and devoted hearts. For to Mrs. Ware, also, was this a disappointment of cherished purposes, not simply as his wife, but from her own fervid interest in the Christian ministry, and her sympathy with the aspirations and the struggles of those engaged, or about to engage, in this great work.
Her account of the change, and other changes that followed, closing the Cambridge life, may be best given in extracts from various letters, which will constitute a journal of the time.
"March, 1842. Mr. Ware had not been well for two months previous to his going to New York; no difficulty upon the lungs,—simply out of order from too close and wearisome attention to a vexatious variety of duty, having no rest, and not time enough to do any thing well. His system seemed disarranged, and he thought he should be most benefited by going away, changing the scene entirely, and obtaining rest to mind and body. He went. Every letter spoke of improvement, and I had made up my mind, that, in spite of all my fears, he was doing the best possible thing. So I said to his father on Sunday evening; and on Monday I received his letter, telling me of his having been taken in church with raising blood. Of course I went immediately to him, arriving at his lodgings at nine, Tuesday morning. The weather was very mild, and the uncertainty of its continuing so made me anxious to get him home. After some reluctance on the part of his physician had been overcome, we decided to return that day. So, after spending eight hours in New York, I turned my face homeward, and in forty hours after leaving my own door landed at it with my precious charge, none the worse for the journey. You may suppose it all seemed a dream to me. It was, however, a sad reality to him, a very sad disappointment.... Your picture of 'rest' is a beautiful vision,—one which many of our friends have brought before our eyes at this time. But what can a man do, with seven children, and only his own hands to depend upon? I scruple not to say, that a ten-foot house, and bread and water diet, with the sense of rest to him, would be a luxury, and I trust some door will be opened to us by which we shall obtain it. Now he is tied, bound hand and foot; and if he does not die in the bonds, it is more than any one has a right to calculate upon. How various the trials of life! and how difficult always to feel that elasticity of spirit which is needful to make one as cheerful as we ought to be at all times!"
"May 1, 1842. You will hear in a few days of the change that has come to us. I have been entirely satisfied, ever since last October, that it must come to this, and I felt, the sooner Henry stopped, the better for him. But the utter uncertainty as to the future support of such a large family, and a reluctance to leave his father's side in his declining years, important as he is to his parent's comfort, could not but make him deliberate.... And now, dear Nancy, we are once more afloat on the world's wide sea. You will easily guess how much there is of deep, soul-stirring emotion in all this, and how much more there must be before we quit for ever our dearly loved home, rendered doubly dear by the hours of sickness and sacred sorrow experienced in it. What will be our destination, I know not. We have some plans, but the execution of any must depend upon contingencies now hidden from us. The first thing to be thought of is Mr. Ware's restoration to health; and had we the means, I should like to spend a week or two in riding about home, or in little excursions, giving him the opportunity of doing what he could by conversation for the class about to leave the School. Should he ever get well, there are some possible projects already presented which would support us, but in the mean time all is dark,—that is, we know nothing about it. I am satisfied that we have done right, and I am ready for the consequences, be they what they may. I am not as strong as I once was to meet hard labor, but I am willing to work to the extent of my ability; and I know that no amount of bodily labor can be so wearisome as the mental struggle of the last two years. I feel as if I could meet any thing better than seeing my husband declining; can he only be spared, no matter what comes. Do not think that I am unmindful of the difficulties which poverty brings,—the hindrances to the satisfactory education of children, the loss of intellectual privileges, and the wear and tear to the spirit by the uncertainties of daily supply for even the necessary wants of life. I understand it all; and I know that in all there is useful discipline for heaven, and I think for my children, that, if the means of one kind of education are denied them, they may in other ways gain the essentials for spiritual life more readily. I cannot distrust or doubt the good providence of God under all circumstances; how can I, after the experience I have had in life?... If Mr. Ware and I should ride off anywhere, it will probably be towards Worcester. O the money, the money! what can be done without money! I have written to the end of my paper, and all about self; but I have much to say about other things."
"May 8, 1842. I have tried in vain, dear Emma, to find time and ability to answer your kind notes, for I have longed to tell you something of the mighty movement which has been going on within our little domestic world, as well as to satisfy you of Mr. Ware's gradual progress towards health. But for the first three weeks of his sickness, his case demanded my undivided attention; and since the day he wrote his letter of resignation, I have been, with the exception of three 'poor days,' sick myself. Not made sick by that fact, I beg you to understand,—unless the reaction of relief from anxiety might make one sick, and the exhilaration consequent upon it act too powerfully upon the nervous system. It is indeed an unspeakable relief to my mind, and I could see that it was also to Henry, for he began to improve at once when the deed was done. It is a great step, at our time of life, with so large a family, and so little substantial health in the acting portion of it, to be launched forth upon the wide world to obtain a support we know not how. But of what use is experience, of what value is faith, if they cannot enable one to meet the changes of life without fear?... I have been quite sick, having had a sudden and severe attack threatening fever. I felt for a little while as if I could not have one of my long sicknesses just at this juncture, as if I was for once too important a person to be laid upon the shelf, and I never was more truly thankful than when I found myself relieved by the first applications. I have not yet been down stairs, but expect to ride to-morrow, if it is pleasant. The breaking up will be severe, I know; but I think I am prepared for it. It is not the first time that the strong ties which bind me always to my home have been severed. And although I have never before felt so much that my home was indeed my own creation, the thought that it is right to leave it, and the oppression of spirit which the last two years have witnessed here, reconcile me to all the suffering in prospect. Don't think me a romancer, that I can feel joyous when I know not how we are to be fed and clothed. If God gives me strength, I am willing to work, and prefer that my children should be obliged to; and I have no fears but that, if we do the best we can, God will take care of us. He has many agents of mercy."
Mr. Ware was able to remain in office the rest of the theological term, and to carry through the graduating class, with whom his last exercises were deeply affecting. Very soon after this, in the summer of 1842, the family left Cambridge; having fixed upon Framingham, Mass., as their place of retreat, after looking at many places, and weighing all considerations of position and expense.
Of the last days in Cambridge, we have obtained the recollections of their oldest son, himself a member of the class just spoken of, as the last that enjoyed the instruction and benediction of his father. We give the account in his own unstudied words.
"That last summer was a very pleasant one, as I remember it. Things were very much as ever; if any thing, the little social gatherings of neighbors were more frequent, as all felt they must be few. The drives with father to find a place, the selection of Framingham, the pilgrimages there, occupied a good deal of the time, as also the gradual preparation, and the many adieus. The 'breaking up' was one of the gravest trials of mother's life. Thoroughly convinced of its necessity, looking forward to it as a relief in all ways, yet the whole summer was tinged by the thought of it. I remember long talks; one in particular, in which she drew nearer to me and I to her. I think that, feeling obliged to keep up before father, she yearned to confide in us. When it came to the last, it was hard. The children and all were gone. Mother, father, and I were left, and I was to be left, for I was just going into the world myself. The wagon was at the door. Father got in, merely wringing my hand, but most deeply moved. I could see it and feel it. If he had spoken, it would have been more than he could bear. I never till that moment imagined, so feverish had been his desire to get away, how much his heart was in that spot. Mother was behind, and had got down one step, when she turned round and threw her arms about my neck, and there we stood. It was one of the moments of life. 'God bless you, my child!' I have heard her say it many times, but it never meant more. Father could not bear it. He urged her away; the horse started at his quick word; I was alone,—and that chapter of life was ended! We never all three of us entered Cambridge together again, until the night that mother and I brought with us from Framingham 'the last of earth.'
"Since writing this, I have chanced upon father's first letter afterward. He says: 'The struggle at the last moment was a hard one; but we got composed after a while, and then found ourselves excessively overcome with weariness.'"