To which we all agreeing, he read what follows, which I copy from his book:-- "The times wherein old PUMPKIN was a saint, When men fared hardly, yet without complaint, On vilest cates; the dainty Indian maize Was eat with clam-shells out of wooden trays, Under thatched roofs, without the cry of rent, And the best sauce to every dish, content,-- These golden times (too fortunate to hold) Were quickly sinned away for love of gold.
'T was then among the bushes, not the street, If one in place did an inferior meet, 'Good morrow, brother! Is there aught you want?
Take freely of me what I have, you ha'n't.' Plain Tom and Dick would pass as current now, As ever since 'Your servant, sir,' and bow.
Deep-skirted doublets, puritanic capes, Which now would render men like upright apes, Was comelier wear, our wise old fathers thought, Than the cast fashions from all Europe brought.
'T was in those days an honest grace would hold Till an hot pudding grew at heart a-cold, And men had better stomachs for religion, Than now for capon, turkey-cock, or pigeon; When honest sisters met to pray, not prate, About their own and not their neighbors' state, During Plain Dealing's reign, that worthy stud Of the ancient planter-race before the Flood.
"These times were good: merchants cared not a rush For other fare than jonakin and mush.
And though men fared and lodged very hard, Yet innocence was better than a guard.
'T was long before spiders and worms had drawn Their dingy webs, or hid with cheating lawn New England's beauties, which still seemed to me Illustrious in their own simplicity.
'T was ere the neighboring Virgin Land had broke The hogsheads of her worse than hellish smoke; 'T was ere the Islands sent their presents in, Which but to use was counted next to sin; 'T was ere a barge had made so rich a freight As chocolate, dust-gold, and bits of eight; Ere wines from France and Muscovado too, Without the which the drink will scarcely do.
From Western Isles, ere fruits and delicacies Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces, Or ere these times did chance the noise of war Was from our tines and hearts removed far, Then had the churches rest: as yet, the coals Were covered up in most contentious souls; Freeness in judgment, union in affection, Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection.
Then were the times in which our Councils sat, These grave prognostics of our future state; If these be longer lived, our hopes increase, These wars will usher in a longer peace; But if New England's love die in its youth, The grave will open next for blessed truth.
"This theme is out of date; the peaceful hours When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers, Not ink, but blood and tears now serve the turn To draw the figure of New England's urn.
New England's hour of passion is at hand, No power except Divine can it withstand.
Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out, Than her old prosperous steeds turn heads about; Tracking themselves back to their poor beginnings, To fear and fare upon the fruits of sinnings.
So that this mirror of the Christian world Lies burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furled.
Grief sighs, joys flee, and dismal fears surprise, Not dastard spirits only, but the wise.
"Thus have the fairest hopes deceived the eye Of the big-swoln expectants standing by So the proud ship, after a little turn, Sinks in the ocean's arms to find its urn: Thus hath the heir to many thousands born Been in an instant from the mother torn; Even thus thy infant cheek begins to pale, And thy supporters through great losses fail.
This is the Prologue to thy future woe-- The Epilogue no mortal yet can know." Mr.Ward was much pleased with the verses, saying that they would do honor to any writer.
Rebecca thought the lines concerning the long grace at meat happy, and said she was minded of the wife of the good Mr.Ames, who prided herself on her skill in housewifery and cookery; and on one occasion, seeing a nice pair of roasted fowls growing cold under her husband's long grace, was fain to jog his elbow, telling him that if he did not stop soon, she feared they would have small occasion for thankfulness for their spoiled dinner.

Mr.Ward said he was once travelling in company with Mr.
Phillips of Rowley, and Mr.Parker of Newbury, and stopping all night at a poor house near the sea-shore, the woman thereof brought into the room for their supper a great wooden tray, full of something nicely covered up by a clean linen cloth.

It proved to be a dish of boiled clams, in their shells; and as Mr.Phillips was remarkable in his thanks for aptly citing passages of Scripture with regard to whatsoever food was upon the table before him, Mr.Parker and himself did greatly wonder what he could say of this dish; but he, nothing put to it, offered thanks that now, as formerly, the Lord's people were enabled to partake of the abundance of the seas, and treasures hid in the sands.

"Whereat," said Mr.Ward, "we did find it so hard to keep grave countenances, that our good hostess was not a little disturbed, thinking we were mocking her poor fare; and we were fain to tell her the cause of our mirth, which was indeed ill-timed." Doctor Clark spake of Mr.Ward's father, the renowned minister at Ipswich, whose book of "The Simple Cobbler of Agawam," was much admired.
Mr.Ward said that some of the witty turns therein did give much offence at the time of its printing, but that his father could never spoil his joke for the sake of friends, albeit he had no malice towards any one, and was always ready to do a good, even to his enemies.

He once even greatly angered his old and true friend, Mr.Cotton of Boston.