Today in Salem: Melancholy, she said. She’d had a baby, then had a fit of sickness and felt melancholy. So she’d left the baby in the care of her older children while she took long walks in her orchards, taking comfort in the scent of ripening apples and praying that God would forgive her. That was twelve years ago, she said, ten since the baby had died.
She pauses and looks up at the prominent Rev Increase Mather, who, after receiving so many petitions to let the confessors recant, has come to the jail to hear the women’s stories for himself. He’s certain at least some of them are guilty. But all of them?
“Go on,” he says to the woman.
Now she’d been accused, she said, and the judges had pressed her to confess. They said she must be guilty, that she knew the time when she’d consorted with the Devil, she just needed to tell them. And, well, that spell of melancholy must have been it. Even if she truly in her heart did not believe she was guilty of witchcraft – which she didn’t – the judges would not relent. So she told them about it. The judges had seized on it, she’d confessed in fear, and now she was in jail.
Mather nods as if he sympathizes, but his expression is stern as he turns to the next woman, and the next, and the next, each saying that she’d confessed out of fear and under pressure.
Meanwhile even more petitions are arriving in the Court. The ruthless Judge Hathorne has begun putting them in a pile on the corner of his table, held down by a smooth stone that his ten-year-old son had slid into his pocket. It was a rare moment of playfulness on the boy’s part, and Hathorne had disciplined him for it. But he’d kept the stone. He doesn’t know why.
A petition signed by 39 people attesting to Rebecca Nurse’s good character.
Today in Salem: The cruel judge John Hathorne rubs the thick paper between his thumb and forefinger. This is no accident. The man who has written it, with such a deliberate hand, is married to Hathorne’s sister. He’s also from the richest family in the Village, a position that the judge respects, and one that made for a good match for his sister.
Now the man has handed the document, a petition, to Hathorne, and asked for his consideration. 39 people have signed it, attesting to Rebecca Nurse’s good Christian character. She is 70 years old and frail, and has been in jail for more than a month. Now, at the behest of her worried husband, the judge’s brother-in-law has sent it to some of the more influential families.
“We have knowne her for many years and Acording to our observation her Life and conversation was Acording to her profession and we never had Any cause or grounds to suspect her of Any such thing as she is nowe Acused of.”
Most of the signatures are those of married couples, the men signing for themselves and for their wives. There are tavern owners, a prominent landowner, and the grandson of a governor. Most interesting are the signatures from Putnams and Porters, who are usually feuding and rarely agree on anything.
The judge floats the paper onto his desk and turns away. He’ll consider it.
LEARN MORE: Why couldn’t the women sign their own names? Was illiteracy common?
50 years before the Salem Witchcraft Trials, Massachusetts passed a law requiring that children be taught to read and write. In some ways, this literacy law was born of fear and resolution. Not long before that, the Mayflower had arrived, with half of its passengers dying within the first year. It took life-saving help from indigenous people, not to mention more immigrants, for the colony to take root and begin to grow.
For that to continue, the Puritans believed that its men needed to be able to read and understand the laws. And everyone, especially children, needed to be able to read the Bible. So the Puritan leaders mandated that all heads of households teach their dependents — apprentices and servants as well as their own children — to read English or pay a fine.
Many parents were half-hearted in their efforts, though, so another law was passed, requiring that towns with 50 or more families hire a schoolmaster. But many towns were reluctant, and for some, the fines were cheaper than the cost of a school. In Salem, the Town complied (it already had a fine school for boys heading into the ministry). But the agricultural Village didn’t.
Even if a school did exist, parents weren’t required to send their children. When they did, the kids that did go were typically free, white boys. Families couldn’t or wouldn’t spare the labor of slaves or indentured servants. And girls, who would never be leaders in the community or church, weren’t expected to need much education. They sometimes learned to read the Bible, but rarely to write.
In the existing documents from the Salem Witchcraft Trials, men often signed their names, and women usually made marks. This is why, as in the petition for Rebecca Nurse, the women’s ”signatures” are in their husbands’ handwriting.
Pages from “The New England Primer,” published around 1690, just before the Salem Witchcraft Trials. This reading book was in use for 150 years, and is where the prayer “Now I lay me down to sleep” first appears.
Today in Salem: The powerful Thomas Putnam is shaking the cramp out of his hand, trying to write quickly with a scratching quill that’s leaving ink blots in its wake. The specter of Rev George Burroughs had tormented Ann last night, and bragged that he was more than a witch or wizard, that he could do the Devil’s work for him. The bitter, former minister of Salem Village has a vendetta against the Village, especially the Putnam family, and now he has the power to inflict great harm. This witchcraft threat is bigger and more complicated than anyone had realized, and the magistrates need to know.
The warrant for the arrest of nine people, signed on April 21, 1692
“After most humble and hearty thanks,” Putnam writes, “for the great care and pains you have already taken for us … we thought it our duty to inform your Honors of what we conceive you have not heard, which are high and dreadful: of a wheel within a wheel, at which our ears do tingle …”
In another part of Salem, the cruel magistrate John Hathorne writes an arrest warrant in a slow and deliberate hand, then signs it with a flourish before giving it to the Marshall and “any or all constables in Salem or Topsfield or any other Towne.” They are to arrest nine people and bring them to Ingersoll’s Ordinary tomorrow morning for examinations. The Marshall doesn’t speak; he just looks at the paper and then at the judges. There are already 14 people in jail, and some have been moved to Boston due to overcrowding. Where will they put nine more?
In the Salem jail, Mary Warren has now spent two nights sleeping on the jail cell floor, and she’s bleary-eyed when the judges come to question her again. She’s been evasive for weeks. First she was afflicted, then she was suddenly cured when her masters beat her, then she said the other girls were lying, then the girls accused her of being a witch herself, then she almost confessed, and now she’s re-joined them and is afflicted again. What’s the truth?
The judges show her a large Bible. ”Is this like the book you signed?” they ask. ”Was it a Bible that your master handed you?” Mary says that it was the Devil’s book she’d seen, but she didn’t know it until she held it. And she didn’t sign it, not really. She just made a mark, accidentally.
The judges pounce. Wrong! It’s impossible to afflict others unless you sign the Devil’s book on purpose. But Mary is steadfast. Her masters, the Proctors, tortured her, she said, threatened to drown her, or burn her with hot tongs. They forced her to leave her mark. The judges step back. Once again they are unsure, and once again they leave her in jail.
LEARN MORE: What is a wheel within a wheel?
Thomas Putnam’s letter is referring to the Bible’s book of Ezekiel.
Ezekiel was a prophet who had a vision of a wheel within a wheel, and with rims that were high and dreadful. People have been trying to understand this vision for 2600 years, but it’s generally thought to mean that God was angry with Jerusalem, and as punishment would allow it to be destroyed (with the promise of rebuilding).
The phrase “wheels within wheels” is also used to describe a situation that’s complicated and affected by secret influences.
Engraved illustration of the “chariot vision” of the Biblical book of Ezekiel, chapter 1, after an earlier illustration by Matthaeus (Matthäus) Merian (1593-1650)
Today in Salem: The three accused witches are finally behind bars, and 9-year-old little Betty, the tomboy Abigail Williams, and the 17-year-old servant Elizabeth Hubbard are feeling somewhat better.
Ann Putnam is still tormented, though, this time by the specters of a woman and a little girl. Ann doesn’t know who the woman is, but she recognizes the girl: It’s the beggar Sarah Good’s 4-year-old daughter, Dorcas. Sarah has her baby in jail with her, but has left Dorcas behind in the care of her hapless father.
Can it be? Is it possible for a small child to be a witch? If any child could be, it would be Dorcas. In the best of times Dorcas is a wild child, dirty, disheveled, and often hungry. Now, though, with her mother gone, the little girl is frightened and furious, and her specter bites, pinches, and chokes Ann in revenge.
Meanwhile the magistrates are interviewing the three imprisoned witches at the jail. It doesn’t matter that the two Sarahs have denied being in league with the Devil. The magistrates know they’re guilty, and they must confess.
The beggar Sarah Good has been brought back to Salem, and now she’s twisted at an awkward angle, nursing her baby in one arm. The other is bruised and swollen from leaping off the constable’s horse, and she holds it close, as if it’s in an imaginary sling. In another corner of the jail cell, the sickly Sarah Osborne is sleeping in dirty straw, breathing shallowly. The cruel magistrate John Hathorne prods her with his foot until she rolls over to look at him.
“What promise have you made to the Devil?” He looks back and forth to each of them. None, they both say at the same time. “Have you signed his book? Tell the truth!” The beggar just laughs and holds her baby closer. The sickly Sarah Osborne sighs. No, they say.
As for the slave Tituba, she’s been pacing in a small circle all day. She’s already confessed, but to prove her worth, she adds a new detail: when the previous minister’s wife and child died, it was because of witchcraft.
LEARN MORE: What was the jail in Salem like?
The Salem “Gaol” was only eight years old when the witchcraft trials began. The floor was dirt, and the windows had iron bars. But we don’t know much more about the building, except that it was described as “thirteen feet stud, and twenty feet square, accommodated with a yard.” It’s hard to translate that into today’s measurements. Was the facade of the building 20 square feet? Or did that refer to the length and width? Did it have two stories? What was the distance between studs? Was it built of stone or wood? We know it had a yard, but was it secured to the exterior of the building, or was it a central courtyard?
The most important thing we know is that the conditions were appalling. It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and smelled of dung, vomit, dead vermin, and unwashed bodies year-round. It was miserably overcrowded, and prisoners were infested with fleas and lice thanks to vermin, which spread “jail fever” (typhus). An earlier prisoner said he was “almost poisoned with the stink of my own dung and the stink of the prison having never so much as a minute’s time to take the air since I came into this dolesome place.”
WHO was Dorcas Good? Dorcas was the 4-year-old daughter of the beggar Sarah Good. Dorcas was accused of witchcraft, like her mother, and confessed that her mother had given her a little snake that sucked on her finger. The magistrates took this to mean she had a “familiar” and was, therefore, guilty. Dorcas stayed in prison for eight months and was emotionally damaged for the rest of her life.
Today in Salem: the village has turned out in full force to goggle at the slave Tituba, sickly Sarah Osborne, and the beggar Sarah Good, clustered in the middle of the meeting house. The tavern owner’s wife has already examined the accused women for witch’s marks, but hasn’t found any. Now it’s the judges’ turn to look for evidence.
When they’re not staring at the accused witches, the crowd is gaping at the four afflicted girls. Little Betty Parris hides behind her tomboy cousin Abigail Williams, both of them breathing hard through tears. The girls’ leader Ann Putnam stands at the front of the group, gasping and wringing her hands. The servant Elizabeth Hubbard stands back, holding her neck with both hands and choking as if she’s being strangled.
The crowd quiets as the two magistrates intone the opening prayers. Then the Sheriff takes the slave Tituba and the sickly Sarah Osborne out, leaving the beggar Sarah Good behind, her baby in her arms, and her pipe clenched firmly between her teeth.
The aggressive magistrate John Hathorne attacks first. What evil spirit is Good familiar with? None! Have you made a contract with the Devil? No! Why do you hurt these children? I scorn it! The quieter magistrate Jonathan Corwin watches carefully as the girls insist that Sarah’s specter is lunging at them this very minute. But when her own husband tells the judges that she is an enemy to all good, it’s over. The magistrates send Sarah with her baby to stay with a relative, who is a constable and can keep her and her baby under lock and key.
When the sickly Sarah Osborne is ushered in she denies being a witch. But yes, she did have a nightmare once about a black Indian who grabbed her by the hair. And yes, she’d once heard a voice telling her not to go to church. The judges squint. Couldn’t the Devil be the nightmare Indian? And couldn’t the voice she was hearing actually be his? Unlike the beggar’s husband, Sarah Osborne’s husband testifies that she’s telling the truth. The judges aren’t sure, though, and releasing her is risky. So they send her to jail to wait for a trial.
The slave Tituba confronts the same questions and denies all evil-doing, but the judges’ eyes narrow when she pauses. Perhaps remembering yesterday’s beating, she changes course and spills out a partial confession. Actually she did see the Devil, she says in her exotic accent, and four witches, too. And yes, she admits that she agreed to join the witches, but then she changed her mind. And yes, she has hurt the children, but only because the Devil man threatened her.
Judge Hathorne leans in and begins rapid-firing questions. Who were the other witches? She doesn’t know two of them, but the other two are the beggar Sarah Good and the sickly Sarah Osborne. She pauses, and suddenly the details pour out. She’d seen them around a hog, a black dog, also a red cat and a black cat, plus a yellow bird, she says, with two imps warming themselves by the fire in the parsonage last night. She gives detailed accounts of the witches’ clothing and the Devil man’s appearance, and finally, in the face of the non-stop questions, closes her eyes and says she is suddenly blind, and then mute, and then chokes and gasps just like the afflicted girls. Then, recovering her voice, she says the specters of the two Sarahs are attacking her. Tituba has confessed, so the judges send her to jail to await trial and sentencing.
LEARN MORE: Is a magistrate the same thing as a judge? In a way, yes, but a magistrate is lower level, a lay judge who deals with minor offenses. They may also hold preliminary hearings for more serious offenses that will later go to trial.
In Salem, the magistrates were local politicians and/or respected merchants. They usually dealt with minor charges like drunkenness. For the Salem Witchcraft Trials, they held examinations, or hearings, for people accused of witchcraft to decide whether a more former trial should take place. If the magistrate decided there was enough evidence to suggest guilt, the accused person would go to jail until a grand jury could convene for a trial.
WHO was magistrate Jonathan Corwin? Jonathan Corwin — Age 51. Magistrate. Corwin was a wealthy merchant who was elected to the colonial assembly twice, and was an active magistrate of the local courts, hearing cases dealing with petty crimes and minor charges such as drunkenness and burglary. With his friend and fellow judge John hathore, he presided over many of the initial hearings for the witchcraft trials and was relentless in seeking confessions.
Corwin’s personal life was hardly peaceful. Four of his children had recently died when he called the first witchcraft hearing into order, and another had nearly drowned. One of his other children was said to have been afflicted by one of the accused women. Later his mother-in-law would be accused of witchcraft, though she was never arrested.
Corwin never expressed regret or remorse for his role in the trials, and died 26 years later a wealthy and respected man. His house is still standing and is known today as the Witch House. Case files: Jonathan Corwin
WHO was magistrate John Hathorne? Age 51. Magistrate. Hathorne began his business career as a bookkeeper, but quickly moved to land speculation. Eventually he acquired a ship, a wharf, and a liquor license, and made enough money to build a mansion in Salem Town, plus a warehouse near the wharf.
Hathorne had served the Salem community as a judge for about five years when the trials began. He was fierce in his questioning, always assuming the accused person was guilty and that the afflicted girls were truthful. It was a perfect example of “guilty until proven innocent.”
Hathorne was thought to be an aggressive and even cruel judge, and showed no introspection or remorse after the trials ended. Some of his descendants were ashamed of their connection to him, including his great-great-grandson Nathaniel Hawthorne, who added a W to his name before writing “House of the Seven Gables.” Case files: John Hathorne
