Tag: Sarah Good

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Dorothy Good had a little mark on her finger, perhaps a flea bite, that she attributed to a little snake her mother had given her. Instead of a sweet memory between Sarah Good and her child exploring the outdoor world, it prodded outcries of witchcraft.

Dorothy was only four years old. Her mother Sarah had been locked up in prison for witchcraft for weeks. And Dorothy was too young to understand some people considered her own words were tantamount to a confession of having an animal familiar, and would later judge her mother of a capital crime. Dorothy spent eight and a half months in jail before Samuel Ray paid a 50-pound recognizance bond for her release. She never faced trial, but losing her mother and the nightmare of those dark times had a profound effect on her mental health. In his 1710 petition for restitution, her father William Good declared that Dorothy, “being chained in the dungeon was so hardly used and terrified that she has ever since been very chargeable having little or no reason to govern herself.”

By 1699, William Good, his second wife Elizabeth, and daughter Dorothy were living with Lieut. Benjamin Putnam (1664-1715), who was compensated by the town for their expenses. By 1708, when she was of age, Dorothy’s name was recorded separately in the Salem Town Records, though she continued to live with the Putnams at least through 2 January 1716. Dorothy reappeared on record 5 September 1720, when she was “warned out of this town.” She didn’t leave. Instead, Dorothy lived in several villager households and occasionally in the House of Correction partway through 1738.

Rambling About

Dorothy Good disappears from the Salem records after 1738, though she turns up in the Bristol county, Massachusetts, court records the same year: “To the Constables of Swansey [Swansea]… Whereas Dorothy Good late of Beverly hath come to dwell in said Swansey the sixth day of July last … warn the abovesaid Dorothy Good to depart this town … August 23d, 1738.” (Some of her aunts and cousins lived in Beverly.)

Based on the records, it also appears Dorothy had three children. In the fall of 1720, the town paid Nathaniel Putnam “for 11 weeks keeping & nursing Dor[othy] Good … & child.” In November 1722, Benjamin Gillingham, late master of ye House of Correction, claimed 18 weeks for “keeping of Doro Good & for sireing.” Salem selectmen paid the town of Concord because in June 1725, Dorothy “strayed hence & lay’d in there of a bastard child.” In March 1727, Jonathan Batchelder agreed “to keep Doro Good at his house … and keep Doro Good from straying and rambling about as formerly.”

In August 1761, a newspaper article published by the New London News and picked up by other papers, including the New York Mercury, Boston News-Letter, Boston Evening Post, and New Hampshire Gazette reported: “Dorothy Good, a transient, vagrant person, was found dead in a bog meadow near New London last Friday [7 August 1761]…. As decent a burial was given her as the circumstances would admit.”

The uncommon name and the description fit Dorothy Good. Plus, the death notice was picked up by numerous newspapers in New England, suggesting a sort of notoriety beyond her poverty. With almost no doubt, this was the end of Dorothy Good, the poor little girl imprisoned for witchcraft in 1692.

Missed a post? Sarah Good’s families: Part 1 Sarah Solart | Part 2 Sarah Poole | Part 3 Sarah Good | Part 4 William Good | Part 5 Dorothy Good

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William Good's petition for restitution.

William Good first appears in Chelmsford, Massachusetts, in 1672, when he was warned for not living under family government. This didn’t mean William had a tendency of wandering away from his home and family like Roger Toothaker (1634-1692). The Puritans had a neighborhood watch system whereby single men and women were prohibited from living alone in case they got into ungodly mischief. William was an “able-bodied man” who paid his minister’s rate, bought gunpowder, and then in December 1675 he joined Capt. Mossely’s military company in Dedham. Some time after he returned, in 1677, Chelmsford selectmen provided William with four acres of land to build a house and to follow his trade, expecting him to settle down and become a good citizen. He apparently did not, for in December 1682, he was living in Andover.

Several years later, William married the widow Sarah (Solart) Poole. It’s likely that he knew of Sarah’s 40-pound inheritance due from her father’s estate (but not her dead husband’s debts) before they married. After all, Sarah clearly suffered from melancholia and grief, being known for living in barns and outhouses, suffering from “extreme foolishness or incomposure of mind,” and incapable of taking care of herself—all strong reasons why not to wed! In late March 1686, William Good of Salem Village, weaver, sold his wife Sarah’s inherited land to Freeborn Balch. By 1692, he’s called a laborer, but William didn’t make enough money to secure his small family with food, shelter, and other essentials. Between the stresses of survival, the seeming lack of her own relatives’ compassion and support, hunger and probable mental illness, Sarah Good was a cantankerous woman. In December 1691, she gave birth to her second child, which made her situation more dire.

In February 1692, when asked to name the witches who caused their strange afflictions, the minister’s nine-year-old daughter Betty Parris and her 11-year-old cousin Abigail Williams pointed at Sarah Good. She must have been scary, unkempt—an outsider who was ungracious when receiving alms and belligerent when denied much-needed support. William quickly turned against her when he told the magistrates “he was afraid that she either was a witch or would be one very quickly.” Sarah Good was executed for witchcraft on 19 July 1692.

On 7 June 1693, William Good married Elizabeth Drinker, daughter of John and Elizabeth Drinker of Beverly. They had a son born 18 January 1695/6 in Salem Village, who died young.

Supporting the Goods

The selectmen paid local residents to house, feed, and clothe a destitute person or family. By 21 November 1699, William Good and his family were receiving help (again) from the town. On that date, Benjamin Putnam received £3 for the relief of William Good and family for the upcoming winter.

In 1712, the Massachusetts Bay Colony answered petitions to pay reparations to the victims or their families for expenses related to the Salem witch trials. William Good petitioned for “the damage sustained by him in the year 1692 by reason of the sufferings of his family upon the account of supposed witchcraft”: for his wife Sarah who was imprisoned and executed; a suckling child who died in prison; and daughter Dorothy who was imprisoned (RSWH, 871). Although William did not specify a specific amount—since he no doubt did not pay any jail fees (food, blankets, shackles, confinement)—his caretaker, Benjamin Putnam, received £30 on William’s behalf. The amount was higher than many others; it may have taken into account William’s situation and his long-term dependency on public funds.

William died before 20 November 1714, on which date the Salem selectmen gave “to our neighbors of the village 20 shillings towards Wm Good’s funeral.” His widow Elizabeth died, age 73, on 3 January 1728/9. The selectmen made a final payment to David Judd for keeping and caring for Elizabeth Good until her death.

updated 27 May 2024

Missed a post? Sarah Good’s families: Part 1 Sarah Solart | Part 2 Sarah Poole | Part 3 Sarah Good | Part 4 William Good | Part 5 Dorothy Good

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Deposition of Ann Putnam Jr. against Sarah Good

On 30 March 1672, William Good of Chelmsford was “warned for living from family government” (Middlesex Co.: Abstracts of Court Records 1643-1674, 2:144). Besides married people who deserted their spouses, this charge was given to single men and women of marriageable age who were not allowed to live alone because they could be tempted into unclean acts or ungodly behavior. That same year, Good’s minister’s rate was 1s 8d, and he owned no animals (Waters, History of Chelmsford, 617).

On 1 September 1674, Good was one of “Chelmsford’s able-bodied men” who purchased 1s 6d of gunpowder (Waters, 89). During King Philip’s War, he was recorded in Dedham as part of Capt. Mossely’s Company on 9 December 1675 (NEHGR 8:242). On 26 February 1677[/8?], the town of Chelmsford gave him 4 acres of land “to build a house on it to follow his trade” (Waters, 578). In 1682 and 1683, however, Good appears in the Andover Tax and Record Book.

Woo the widow?

The selectmen of Salem failed to secure widow Sarah (Solarte) Poole’s inheritance being held by her stepfather Ezekiel Woodward in Wenham, as demanded by the Essex County Court in June 1685. The skeptic in me wonders if that money may have been the incentive for bachelor William Good to meet Sarah. The couple married sometime after that court date but before 30 March 1686, when Good and his wife were sued for debt by John Cromwell—for Sarah and her late husband Daniel Poole’s November 1682 spending spree (his suit, her two petticoats, and yards of cloth).

The Court seized three acres in Thorndike’s meadow recently acquired from Woodward to satisfy judgment. Four months later, William Good sold what appears to be the last bit of Sarah’s inheritance, one and three-quarters of an acre of meadow in Wenham to Freeborn Balch for 5 pounds (EQC 9:579-580; Boyer & Nissenbaum’s SV Witchcraft 139-147).

About 1689, Sarah and William Good, “being destitute of a house to live in…they being poor,” boarded with Samuel and Mary Abbey in Salem Village until Sarah became “so turbulent a spirit, spiteful, and so maliciously bent” that the Abbeys turned them out of their house. Afterwards, Sarah behaved “very crossly and maliciously to them and their children, calling their children vile names and have threatened them often” (RSWH 423). Sarah also begged door to door, and was known for cursing and muttering, especially when she went away empty-handed.

On 29 February 1692, 38-year-old Sarah Good was one of the first to be charged with witchcraft that year. She was executed in Salem on 19 July 1692.

William and Sarah Good had the following children:

  • Dorothy Good, born about 1687/8; died in New London, Connecticut, 7 August 1761. She was arrested for witchcraft 24 March 1692 and released 10 December 1692 upon recognizance paid by Samuel Ray.
  • [female] Good, born in Salem Village 10 December 1691. As a suckling child, she was imprisoned with her mother Sarah and died before 2 June 1692 in Boston prison. (She was not born in prison and her first name is not recorded.)

William Good married second, Chebacco/Ipswich 7 June 1693, Elizabeth Drinker (1654-1729). He died shortly before 20 November 1714 when the Salem selectmen paid Salem Village 20 shillings for his funeral.

Continue to Part 4. Missed a post? Sarah Good’s families: Part 1 Sarah Solart | Part 2 Sarah Poole | Part 3 Sarah Good | Part 4 William Good | Part 5 Dorothy Good

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After her father John died in June 1672, several events happened that affected Sarah Solarte’s life and her future. In December 1672, her mother Elizabeth became Ezekiel Woodward’s second wife. Her brother John, who had been in England, died by early 1675. Mother Elizabeth died on 3 February 1677/8, followed by 20-year-old brother Joseph in the fall of 1678. In 1679, stepfather Ezekiel married his third wife, Sarah. Woodward continued to live at the Solarte family’s inn and he still held onto their inheritances.  

Sarah meets her match

On 27 June 1661, the Salem court bound six-year-old Daniel Poole* as an apprentice to John Rowden of Salem, planter, for fourteen and a half years (EQC 2:311). After his term was over, Daniel continued to live with the Rowdens, who had no children of their own. Daniel even pledged to take care of Rowden’s wife after John’s death. In his will, dated 21 April 1682, John Rowden gave most of his estate to “Daniel Poole who hath been brought up by me from his childhood being mine by adoption and given me by his natural parents” (EQC 9:127).

By the fall of 1682, the courtship between Sarah Solarte and Daniel Poole was in full swing. On 1 November 1682, the couple went on a spending spree, charging—on John Cromwell of Salem’s account—kersey, canvas, serge, and other materials, plus a suit of clothes for him and two petticoats for her. For Sarah, it must have been a thrill to have someone lavish attention and gifts on her.

Perhaps in expectation of upcoming nuptials for sister Sarah, the Solarte sisters (and husbands) asked the Court on 30 November 1682 to divide their dead brother Joseph’s share of their father’s estate. Also filed but undated was another petition that must have been written for the March 1683 court held in Ipswich, based on the line: “your honors have declared at the last court at Salem that his portion shall be divided amongst us.” This second document more forcefully claimed, “Ezekiel Woodward that married with our mother did refuse to enter into any obligation to pay our portions.” In fact, “our sister Sarah the wife of Daniel Poole, she is now 28 years of age and she is yet without her portion.” At issue was the need for a legal instrument to require Woodward to comply to the ruling on the earlier case.

From these two petitions, we know Sarah Solarte married Daniel Poole after 30 November 1682 and before the Court convened on 27 March 1683.

Sarah’s sorrows

On 12 October 1683, John Rowden wrote a second will. This time he left his estate to Nathaniel Felton Sr. of Salem, who was to keep and provide for wife Mary Rowden (EQC 9:127). The change was made because, by that date, Daniel Poole had died. To confirm it, in the next action against Ezekiel Woodward in November 1683, Sarah is referred to as the widow of Daniel Poole.

The loss was too much for Sarah. After Daniel’s death, “Sarah disposed of his whole estate, viz., a horse, two cows, and all his moveables.” John Price, speaking for the selectmen of Salem to the Court, declared Sarah Poole, widow, formerly of Wenham, “was not capable of governing herself, but either through extreme foolishness or incomposure of mind, exposed herself to hazard and suffering, lodging in barns and outhouses, without anything to relieve her necessities. Being informed that there was an estate of 40 pounds belonging to her in Wenham, they requested that someone be appointed to take care of the estate and also have charge of her person that she be kept in good order, for they thought that the town should not be charged with it, so long as she had an estate of her own.”

In response, “the Court considering the motion of the selectmen of the town of Salem relating to Sarah Poole, widow, finding that she not capable of providing for herself or improving what belonged to her, ordered the selectmen to dispose of her both for employment and maintenance and also to take into their hands what belongs to her in Wenham or elsewhere and sell or otherwise dispose of it for her use” (EQC 9:486-487).

Instead of being a dependent of her stepfather Ezekiel Woodward in Wenham or living with a sibling, Sarah became a ward of Salem.

Sarah and Daniel had no children.

*Daniel Poole may be the son of William Poole. At the general town meeting in Salem on 1 March 1655/6, a William Poole petitioned to become a resident but he was denied (Salem Town Records 1:156). Other men named Poole do not seem to fit, including the well-to-do John Poole of Lynn, though an unrecorded man is possible too.

Continue to Part 3. Missed a post? Sarah Good’s families: Part 1 Sarah Solart | Part 2 Sarah Poole | Part 3 Sarah Good | Part 4 William Good | Part 5 Dorothy Good

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Witch Trials Memorials, Salem, Mass.

On 29 February 1691/2, two warrants signed by magistrates John Hathorne and Jonathan Corwin put into motion the Salem witch trials. Sarah Good was on one warrant, while Sarah Osborne and Tituba were on the other. The three women had one thing in common: villagers questioned their belief in the Puritan faith. Sarah Good, the beggar, insulted “the godly” who gifted her with alms. Sarah Osborne, bedridden for 14 months, skipped religious services. Tituba, the Indian servant of Rev. Samuel Parris, probably came from Barbados so who knew what islanders believed. However, their stories ended three different ways: Sarah Osborne died in the Boston jail on 10 May 1692; Sarah Good was hanged for witchcraft 19 July 1692; and Tituba was released from jail sometime after the 9 May 1693 grand jury declined to convict her for covenanting with the devil.

Several notable items in the Records of the Salem Witch-Hunt include: William Good saying he feared his wife was a witch due to her bad carriage to him; Sarah’s siblings neither testifying for or against her; and Samuel and Mary Abbey testifying that the Good family lived with them because they were “destitute of a house to dwell in” but it didn’t last long because Sarah was “so turbulent a spirit, spiteful, and so maliciously bent” that the Abbeys had to kick the family out (p. 423).

By studying her birth family and two marriages, we learn much about Sarah’s temperament before she was accused of witchcraft, and what may have led her to being one of the first accused.

Solarte family

Sometimes called “Frenchman,” Sarah’s father John Solarte purchased a house and 10 acres of land in Wenham in 1652, where he became an ordinary keeper. It was a lucrative business. In the spring of 1672, however, John declared his will before two men because “I being often troubled with fainting fits and do apprehend I have not long to live.” On 24 June 1672, John drowned—by suicide, according to a jury of inquest. His estate was worth 500 pounds, and was divided 165 pounds to the widow; 84 pounds to son John; two daughters already had their shares; and 42 pounds to each of the other six children—including Sarah.

Widow Elizabeth Solarte married six months later to widower Ezekiel Woodward (1625-1699), who took up the ordinary license and held onto his stepchildren’s inheritance even after his wife Elizabeth died and he had remarried.

John Solarte, born say 1625, died in Wenham 24 June 1672 (recorded as “John Soolard, Frenchman”). He married about 1650 to Elizabeth (–), who was born say 1630 and died in Wenham 3 February 1677/8. Elizabeth married second, Wenham 20 December 1672, Ezekiel Woodward (1625-1699). He married first, about 1650, Ann Beamsley (1633-1671), and third, in 1679, to Sarah, widow of Nathaniel Piper.

John and Elizabeth (–) Solarte’s children were:

  • Mary Solarte, d. bef. 30 November 1682 when husband claimed her portion of father’s estate for her heirs; m. Beverly May 1666 John Edwards (c. 1644-1697), son of Rice Edwards.
  • Elizabeth Solarte m. c. 1672 Joseph Lovett (b. 1650), son of John and Mary Lovett. Lived in Beverly.
  • Sarah Solarte b. c. 1654; d. Salem 19 July 1692 hanged as a witch; m1. 1682 Daniel Poole; m2. William Good.
  • John Solarte, mariner, d. betw. 26 Sept. 1672 (will, EPR 25862) and 1 Sept. 1675 (wife’s remarriage) m. bef. Sept. 1672 Sarah Cocke (1655-1739). Lived in England.
  • Hannah Solarte, b. 1658; d. Lexington 12 April 1722; m. c. 1681 John Trask of Beverly (d. 1735).
  • Joseph Solarte, b. c. 1658, d. bef. 3 March 1679 (inventory, Early EPR 3:294), unmarried. In November 1682, his siblings petitioned the court for their shares of his estate.
  • Martha Solarte, b. Wenham 25 Aug. 1659; m. c. 1680 Thomas Kilham (1654-1725), son of Corp. Daniel Kilham (d. 1700) and Mary Safford.
  • Abigail Solarte, b. Wenham 15 Aug. 1664; d. 1741-1742; m. Beverly 10 Nov. 1681 Mordecai Larcom (1658-1717), son of Mordecai Larcom (d. 1713) and Elizabeth.
  • Bethia Solarte, b. Wenham 28 Feb. 1666, d. Wenham 4 Aug. 1729; m. Beverly 21 April 1684 John Herrick of Beverly (b. 1662), son of Ephraim Herrick (1638-1693) and Mary Cross.

Continue to Part 2. Missed a post? Sarah Good’s families: Part 1 Sarah Solart | Part 2 Sarah Poole | Part 3 Sarah Good | Part 4 William Good | Part 5 Dorothy Good

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On 28 July 2022, Elizabeth Johnson Jr. was officially exonerated by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for the crime of witchcraft.

During the Salem witch trials, Andover neighbors and afflicted accusers claimed 22-year-old Elizabeth Johnson Jr. was a witch. At her examinations on August 10-11, 1692, Elizabeth confessed to signing the Devil’s book, participating in a mock sacrament, and afflicting numerous people. On 5 January 1693, the grand jury indicted her for afflicting Ann Putnam Jr. Elizabeth was convicted of witchcraft less than a week later. Fortunately, Governor William Phips gave a temporary reprieve to several condemned witches, including Elizabeth, shortly before their execution date (RSWH, pp. 541, 543-544, 771-772, 811).

However, those convicted of a capital crime lost their civil rights and liberties. On 13 September 1710, Francis Johnson petitioned for restitution for his sister Elizabeth Johnson Jr. He also submitted a claim for 3 pounds for providing Elizabeth with provisions during her six-month imprisonment. His request was noted but ignored.

In 1711, a Reversal of Attainder nullified all witch trial judgments against George Burroughs, John Proctor, George Jacobs, John Willard, Giles Corey, Martha Corey, Rebecca Nurse, Sarah Good, Elizabeth How, Mary Easty, Sarah Wildes, Abigail Hobbs,* Samuel Wardwell, Mary Parker, Martha Carrier, Abigail Faulkner,* Ann Foster,* Rebecca Eames,* Mary Post,* Mary Lacy,* Mary Bradbury,* and Dorcas Hoar.*

Omitted from the 1711 act, on 19 February 1711/2, Elizabeth petitioned on her own behalf for a reversal of attainder and for restitution. No action was taken. When Elizabeth Johnson Jr. died on 3 January 1746/7, the weight of her conviction remained (RSWH, pp. 875-876, 887-888, 901).

In the 20th century, six more victims of the Salem witch trials were vindicated. Finally, in the 21st century, students from the North Andover Middle School took on Elizabeth Johnson Jr.’s case and she finally was acquitted of witchcraft.

Resolve relative to the indictment, trial, conviction, and execution† of Ann Pudeator, Bridget Bishop, Susannah Martin, Alice Parker, Margaret Scott, Wilmot Redd, and Elizabeth Johnson Jr. for “Witchcraft” in the Year Sixteen Hundred and Ninety-Two.

Whereas, Ann Pudeator, Bridget Bishop, Susannah Martin, Alice Parker, Margaret Scott, Wilmot Redd, and Elizabeth Johnson Jr. were indicted, tried, found guilty, sentenced to death, and executed† in the year sixteen hundred and ninety-two for “Witchcraft”; and

Whereas, The above named may have been illegally tried, convicted, and sentenced by a possibly illegal court of Oyer and Terminer created by the then governor of the Province without authority under the Province Charter of Massachusetts Bay; and

Whereas, Although there was a public repentance by Judge Sewall, one of the judges of the so-called “Witchcraft Court,” and by all the members of the “Witchcraft” jury, and a public Fast Day proclaimed and observed in repentance for the proceedings, but no other action taken in regard to them; and

Whereas, The General Court of Massachusetts is informed that certain descendants‡ of Ann Pudeator, Bridget Bishop, Susannah Martin, Alice Parker, Margaret Scott, Wilmot Redd, and Elizabeth Johnson Jr. are still distressed by the record of said proceedings; therefore be it

Resolved, That in order to alleviate such distress and although the facts of such proceedings cannot be obliterated, the General Court of Massachusetts declares its belief that such proceedings, even if lawful under the Province Charter and the law of Massachusetts as it then was, were, and are shocking, and the result of a wave of popular hysterical fear of the Devil in the community, and further declares that, as all the laws under which said proceedings, even if then legally conducted, have been long since abandoned and superseded by our more civilized laws no disgrace or cause for distress attaches to the said descendants or any of them by reason of said proceedings; and be it further

Resolved, That the passage of this resolve shall not bestow on the Commonwealth or any of its subdivisions, or on any person any right which did not exist prior to said passage, shall not authorize any suit or other proceeding nor deprive any party to a suit or other proceeding of any defense which he hitherto had, shall not affect in any way whatever the title to or rights in any real or personal property, nor shall it require or permit the remission of any penalty, fine, or forfeiture hitherto imposed or incurred.

Resolve of 1957, chapter 146 (approved 28 August 1957) as rewritten after amendments on 31 October 2001 and 28 July 2022 incorporated.

For related stories on Elizabeth Johnson Jr., see:

Footnotes:
RSWH: Records of the Salem Witch-Hunt by Bernard Rosenthal et al.
* not executed
† Elizabeth Johnson Jr. was found guilty but not executed for the crime of witchcraft.
‡ Elizabeth Johnson Jr. had no descendants and remained unmarried during her long life.

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Indictment v. Candy for afflicting Mary Walcott

A conversation between Tony Fels and Margo Burns about the confessions during the Salem witch trials. Read the original post, part 1, and part 2.

Tony Fels responds.

Margo, I’m afraid you have posited a straw argument concerning the confessors in order to knock it down. No serious historian of the Salem witch hunt believes that the confessors thought that, in confessing, they had obtained a “get out of jail free card” or had “caught on to the deal” about how to handle the witchcraft interrogators. Nor would any serious historian contend that simply because no suspect who confessed was executed, that this fact alone meant the authorities had decided on a policy to spare those suspects’ lives. Indeed, we know that the witchcraft court convicted five confessed suspects (leaving aside Samuel Wardwell, who recanted his confession) at the court’s fourth and last session in mid-September. These individuals might have met their deaths if events had turned out differently.

The whole Salem witch hunt process was a terrifying ordeal that unfolded without any certain outcome. As you point out, confession was nothing anyone would take lightly, since the last person who had confessed to witchcraft, Goody Glover in Boston just four years earlier, had been put to death for the crime. For strictly religious reasons alone, no pious Puritan—and nearly all of the adult confessors could be classified as such—would have casually acknowledged such terrible acts of blasphemy in their own behavior. And yet, of the 150 or so accused in the Salem witch hunt, roughly one-third of these suspects confessed to the crime, and none of these confessors was ultimately executed. Plenty of evidence, much of which is included in your own 2012 article (“‘Other Ways of Undue Force and Fright’: The Coercion of False Confessions by the Salem Magistrates,” Studia Neophilologica 84: 24-39), suggests why this outcome was not purely coincidental: confessing increased one’s chances of survival.

I agree with you that such a likelihood could not have been discerned before the trials themselves got underway with the court’s first session on June 2-3. Eight people had confessed by this point (Tituba, Dorothy Good, Abigail Hobbs, Deliverance Hobbs, Mary Warren, Sarah Churchill, Margaret Jacobs, and Rebecca Jacobs). In your post, you mention 11 confessors before the first trial, but I’ve never seen the names of the three additional people you are referring to. You know the examination and related records better than I do, and these additional names may have surfaced since the publication of your own article. But just focusing on these eight, while one (Good) was a young child and two (Warren and Churchill) quickly recanted their confessions, the other five were all people who could have been selected to be tried at the court’s first session (June 2-3) or its second session (June 28–July 2), but none was. Instead, one non-confessing suspect (Bridget Bishop) was tried and convicted at the first session and on June 10 hanged, followed by five non-confessing suspects (Sarah Good, Susannah Martin, Rebecca Nurse, Elizabeth How, and Sarah Wilds) tried and convicted at the second session and hanged on July 19. At this point (roughly mid-July; there were no confessions in June) it seems possible to imagine that some of the remaining suspects and others still to be named might have begun to see an advantage to confessing.

One (the Salem slave Candy) did so on July 4, followed by five people (Ann Foster on July 15, and then Mary Lacey Sr., Mary Lacey Jr., Richard Carrier, and Andrew Carrier, all on July 21-22), all from Andover, the town to which the witch hunt had by now spread. These latter five were all linked to Martha (Allen) Carrier, an Andover woman strongly suspected of witchcraft by many of her neighbors and who had been accused and arrested at the end of May. It is reasonable to believe, though we have no direct evidence to this effect, that all five, which included two of Carrier’s children, confessed in the hope that their confessions might insulate them from sharing in what appeared to be the impending fate of Martha Carrier. The non-confessing Carrier was indeed tried first at the court’s third session (August 2-5) and was hanged along with the session’s four male convicted suspects, all also non-confessors (John Willard, George Jacobs Sr., John Procter, and George Burroughs) on August 19.

The approach and aftermath of the court’s third session opened a floodgate of further confessions coming from Andover or Andover-related suspects: two more relatives of Martha Carrier on July 23 (niece Martha Emerson) and July 30 (sister Mary Allen Toothaker); a middle-aged woman (Mary Bridges Sr.) on July 30 and her five daughters on August 3 (Mary Post) and August 25 (Mary Bridges Jr., Sarah Bridges, Susannah Post, and Hannah Post); two more of Martha Carrier’s children (Sarah and Thomas) on August 11; Rebecca Eames on August 19; and at least seven more Andover individuals (Elizabeth Johnson Jr., Mary Barker, William Barker Sr., Mary Marston, Elizabeth Johnson Sr., Abigail Johnson, and Abigail Dane Faulkner) by the end of the month. September brought perhaps another 22 confessions along with the court’s fourth session (September 6-17), during which some of the first confessing suspects (Abigail Hobbs, Ann Foster, Mary Lacey Sr., Rebecca Eames, and Abigail Dane Faulkner) were convicted based either on their guilty pleas or by a jury’s decision after a trial. Still, even these convicted confessing suspects avoided execution on September 22, on which date eight more convicted non-confessors (Martha Cory, Mary Esty, Alice Parker, Ann Pudeator, Margaret Scott, Wilmot Redd, Mary Parker, and Samuel Wardwell) were hanged.

(I have checked all of the above names and dates with the authoritative Records of the Salem Witch-Hunt, ed. Bernard Rosenthal, Margo Burns, et al., 2009. The same information may be found in Margo’s article, referenced above. Most historians, including Margo, seem to use Thomas Brattle’s assertion, written on October 8, 1692, that there were 55 confessors among the accused. Nobody, so far as I know, has published a complete list of these names. Based on data found in Records, I include Abigail Dane Faulkner among the August confessors. When she, along with Elizabeth Johnson Sr., and Abigail Johnson, are added to the other August confessors, the total for that month reaches 15, not 12, as noted in Margo’s Table 2 on p. 26 of her article. If 55 is the correct total for the overall number of confessors, then 22 additional suspects must have confessed in September.)

Why did all these individuals confess to crimes we know now they had never committed? We cannot expect the suspects themselves to have explained their motives at the time, because a confession by definition offered an admission of guilt. To the examiners and their surrounding communities, these people acknowledged they had entered into a pact with the Devil to hurt others through witchcraft. In your own article on the subject, Margo, you have emphasized the role played by judicial intimidation, which included everything from intense questioning and incarceration under harsh conditions to the occasional use of physical torture. This is undoubtedly a part of the story. For myself, I would emphasize the role played by guilt for these highly religious people. Under the frenzied conditions of a witch hunt, it was not hard for many of them to imagine that in some way or other they had allowed Satan to enter into their lives by wishing someone harm or hoping to gain personal advantage in some way that the Puritan community frowned upon. There is explicit evidence of this motivation in the confessions of Abigail Hobbs, Margaret Jacobs, Abigail Dane Faulkner, and others.

But confession also carried the hope that the Puritan belief in public repentance might take precedence over the Biblical injunction to “not suffer a witch to live.” Most confessions, beginning with Tituba’s, included anguished portions in which blame was shifted to someone else, typically to suspects who had previously been named. Confessors claimed that these other persons—for example, Sarah Good and Sarah Osburn for Tituba, Martha Carrier for many of the Andover confessors, George Burroughs for nearly all of them—had forced them to carry out the Devil’s wishes. In so doing, they likely hoped to elicit some sympathy for their plight as victims. Family members and friends also played key roles in exerting pressure on suspects to confess, believing that this might be the only way to save their lives. Andover resident Mary Tyler’s brother insisted repeatedly that she do so, both because he thought she must be a witch if so many people had said so and also because “she would be hang’d, if she did not confesse.” A petition submitted in January 1693, urging the newly reconstituted court to ignore the confessions made earlier by some of the Andover suspects, acknowledged the same motivation when it stated, “Confessing was the only way to obtain favor, [and] might be too powerful a temptation for timorous women to withstand, in the hurry and distraction that we have heard they were then in.” That these desperate strategies probably worked to some degree is suggested by the facts that it took until the witchcraft court’s fourth session before any of the confessing suspects were brought to trial, and that when the first group of confessors were finally convicted, this step seems to have been forced on the justices, who were coming under criticism for apparent hypocrisy in overlooking such “obviously” guilty suspects in favor of going after only those who had forthrightly proclaimed their innocence. Even after their conviction, these confessed suspects were still shown a final, and, as it turned out, decisive bit of leniency in receiving temporary stays of sentencing or execution, which Thomas Brattle stated, “for two or three [of them] because they are confessours.” (Abigail Faulkner received a stay of execution by reason of her pregnancy, and Dorcas Hoar, convicted during the same fourth session of the court, also received an unusual stay of execution following her confession just after her sentencing.)

Confession also had a larger impact on the overall course of the witch hunt. From Tituba’s admission of guilt at its start all the way up through the first group of Andover confessors in mid-July, confessions gave credence to the accusations of witchcraft and accelerated the drive to uncover more witches in the communities. Only toward the witch hunt’s end did the sheer number of confessions serve to undermine the credibility of the charges and help bring the panic to a close.

As I see it, the crux of the dispute between you, Margo, and me, lies, as with so many of the controversies generated by the study of the Salem witch hunt, in the question of where blame should be placed. In rejecting what you see as a “nice [but fictitious] story” that draws a moral distinction between those suspects who went to their deaths upholding the truth that they were not witches and those suspects who confessed to crimes they had not committed, you appear to want to concentrate all of the blame for the witch hunt on the Puritan judicial establishment, making sure that nobody gets distracted into thinking that confessors bear at least part of the blame. Hence your emphasis as well on the coerced nature of these confessions. There really was no meaningful choice for a suspect to make, you assert, since all were headed for execution anyway. Confessors did no greater harm than truth-tellers at Salem.

But the Salem magistrates, it’s worth remembering, were not autocrats but elected officials. The Puritan colony of Massachusetts, from top to bottom, fully supported the witch hunt when it was at its height, and even after the English-appointed governor in early October had abolished the first witchcraft court (which the Massachusetts House of Representatives endorsed only in a very close vote of 33-29), it took years for most residents to recognize that a serious miscarriage of justice had been done. In 1695, three years after the witch hunt’s end, a majority of Salem villagers could still sign a petition in support of Rev. Samuel Parris, perhaps the chief instigator of the panic.

In my view, the colony as a whole bears the lion’s share of the blame for the witch hunt, chiefly because of the extremism of its religious views, which lent themselves to picturing the world as a Manichean struggle between Christ and Satan, good and evil. In this context, the determination of thoroughly average people like Rebecca Nurse, Martha Carrier, and George Jacobs Sr. to tell the truth about themselves at all costs—itself one of the great virtues taught by Puritanism—may be seen as genuinely heroic, because it was the accumulated truth-telling of those 20 martyred individuals that did more than anything else to put an end to the catastrophe Massachusetts had brought on itself. The confessors, too, ironically testified to the great power of telling the truth, because when they later recanted their confessions after the witch hunt was over, the aspect of their behavior that they regretted most was that they had “belied themselves” before God.

Continue to Part 4.

Tony Fels is Professor Emeritus of History at the University of San Francisco, where he taught for 29 years. At USF he taught, among other courses, American religious history and historical methods, the latter of which centered on the historiography of the Salem witch hunt. His book, Switching Sides: How a Generation of Historians Lost Sympathy for the Victims of the Salem Witch Hunt, was reviewed on Witches of Massachusetts Bay. For more about Tony Fels, go to https://www.tonyfels.com.

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Ann Foster examination, 1692

A conversation between Tony Fels and Margo Burns about the confessions during the Salem witch trials. Read the original post and part 1.

Margo Burns responds.

Tony, respectfully, it’s necessary to look at the historical data more closely—per case and on a timeline—before making claims about patterns that may have been discernable by the accused at the time they were accused. It’s simply not possible that the 11 people who confessed between February and May could have discerned any “pattern” about how their cases would be handled and made choices to confess. The magistrates easily forced confessions out of these people, people who were vulnerable and easily manipulated to say anything the authorities demanded of them—youths, people with low social status, or with some mental defect. And hardly people who were looking at some “big picture” or as some kind of “legal strategy.” No one knew anything about the plans or timing for prosecution anyway, or for certain who the Crown’s attorney or Chief Magistrate would be. At that point, June 2, over 70 people were in custody and 11 had confessed. Before then no one could have thought that confession might be some kind of get out of jail free card, especially considering that in the most recent witchcraft case in Boston, just three years earlier, with Stoughton on that bench. Goody Glover confessed and was hanged. Why would they think it would be different for them?

The first mittimus, in late May, to bring accused people back to Salem from jail in Boston for trial comprised a list of eight people who would ultimately put on trial that summer, plus Tituba, a confessor. While Tituba was the only one not tried that summer, she completely disappears from the legal record until she pops up again a whole year later to have her case dismissed. There is no way to figure out why. She is not part of any of the trials, including Sarah Good’s, for which she should have been a prime witness but she’s not there. The second best convictive standard as evidence in a witchcraft case was the testimony of a confessed witch—so why wasn’t Tituba called as a witness? By mid-July, this is all anyone knew about how things were going to unfold. A single data point, Tituba, does not make a pattern, and she wasn’t used as a witness against anyone.

By late June, before the court hanged 5 more people, the first prosecutor left, and frankly, a lot of things were up in the air about how the following cases would be handled. Ann Foster was interrogated five separate times in mid-July to produce a pretty amazing confession. How could she have concluded anything except that the authorities demanded a confession from her and would not stop until she had? And so she did. That is the purpose of interrogation: to elicit a confession to make prosecution easier. It’s hard to argue with evidence of someone speaking against their own self-interest. Before the Court had even convened in early June, only those 11 people had confessed. ALL the rest of the confessions, 43 of them, starting with Ann Foster’s, came from Andover residents or those who lived near enough to attend the church in Andover or were part of a family from Andover. You’d think that if there was a pattern to be discerned, people in other towns would have figured it out, too, to save themselves. Maybe you’d have some people who were already being prosecuted who would have caught on to the “deal” and recanted their claims to innocence at trial and thrown themselves on the mercy of the court, but no one did.

It’s also important to look at the recantations from several fully covenanted members of the Andover church who confessed in August under pressure and immediately recanted when the interrogations ended. Why would they recant? None of them claimed they’d confessed because they knew it would help them in any way, despite what they may have been told during the interrogations. For the rest of that summer, the interrogators used high-pressure interrogation tactics to coerce false confessions. The case of Samuel Wardwell in September is telling. He was the first confessor to be tried, and was hanged. When the time came for him to acknowledge his confession, he refused. He had discerned a pattern: everyone who was indicted end up being hanged. He knew that it didn’t matter if he confessed or not, and he knew his confession had been coerced. The court was going to hang him either way, so he recanted it.

In September, Dorcas Hoar possibly made a legal last-ditch effort to get some extra time before certain execution by confessing after she was sentenced. She probably did see that the four confessors sentenced to die got temporary stays, but it seems really unlikely that she was in a position to leverage four ministers to come to her aid to close the deal, unless it was in their best interest somehow, perhaps to show that it was still possible to save one’s soul.

I appreciate your effort to make the people who were executed “noble” for not confessing, but it’s revisionist history.

Continue to Part 3.

Margo Burns is the associate editor and project manager of Records of the Salem Witch-Hunt (Cambridge University Press, 2009), the most complete compendium of the trial documents. She’s been the expert featured on several Who Do You Think You Are? TV episodes and regularly speaks on the Salem witch trials at History Camp, historical societies, and libraries. Check out her 17th-Century Colonial New England website.

#CommissionsEarned on Amazon links.

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Wicked Salem by Sam Baltrusis covers 300-plus years of history and people in three categories: the Witches, the Murderers, and the Cursed. The book includes stories about Bridget Bishop, George Jacobs Sr., and Mary Estey; self-confessed Boston Strangler Albert DeSalvo, Giles Corey, and Captain White’s murderer, Richard Crowninshield; Rev. Cotton Mather, Sheriff George Corwin, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Harry Houdini. According to Baltrusis—a tour guide and paranormal researcher—each person profiled has a particular “haunt” in Salem.

Despite his scaredy-cat persona, Baltrusis tells intriguing stories filled with detailed information about actual people and places in Salem, intermingled with his personal and professional experiences. He interviews modern-day practicing witches, including Laurie Cabot the Official Witch of Salem and tour guide Thomas O’Brien Vallor. And in case readers get confused, Vallor adamantly explains: “The victims of the witch trials were definitely not witches.” The book also includes sidebars—most notably with Margo Burns, project manager of Records of the Salem Witch-Hunt, and Kelly Daniell, archivist for Peabody Historical Society—for historical perspective.

In many instances, Baltrusis judiciously uses the word “allegedly,” especially in reference to oft-repeated “quotes” from long-dead people. In retelling a ghost sighting at the Samuel Pickman House, he admits, “after doing exhaustive historical research, I found no real proof to suggest the story of the murder or the supposed demonic infestation at the house is true” (17). I’m curious why it’s included, even if it’s a hotspot of paranormal activity. Baltrusis said he “made a concerted effort to stick to the historical facts, even if it resulted in debunking an alleged encounter with the paranormal” (235).

Lingering Lore and Legends

Baltrusis claims Wicked Salem is about “correcting the misinformation associated with the witch trials hysteria of 1692. Over the past decade, I have noticed a shift toward untangling these historical inaccuracies, but we still have a long way to go” (240). Yet much of the book, Baltrusis admits, came from updated excerpts from his nine previous books and published articles. (That must be why 18 pages about the U.S.S. Salem’s haunted attraction in Quincy was included, though the ship had nothing to do with the city of Salem.) In addition, he conducted interviews, read paranormal books on Salem, and checked out related blogs and websites for this volume.

However, Baltrusis repeats myths that have been corrected ages ago by historians and genealogists. Here are just a few:

  • Joanna Chibbun “declared that [Sarah] Good, who was pregnant in 1692 and lost her unborn child in Ipswich, actually murdered the infant” (72). Good’s infant daughter was born 10 December 1691, before she was charged with witchcraft (see New England Historical & Genealogical Register 157:9, published 2003).
  • In 1981, David L. Greene sorted out the identities of accused witches Bridget Bishop and Sarah Bishop (The American Genealogist 57:129-131). Although acknowledging the confusion, Baltrusis writes: Bridget “lived in Salem Village (present-day Danvers) but owned property on the eastern side of Salem’s current Washington and Church streets … that she sometimes leased out to tenants” (26, 41). Sarah Bishop and her husband ran an unlicensed tavern in Salem Village while Bridget Bishop lived in Salem Town. That’s why, regarding her Salem Village accusers, Bridget explicitly said: “I never saw these persons before; nor I never was in this place [Salem Village] before.”
  • On Bridget Bishop’s hanging, one of Baltrusis’ interviewees claims: “They could have just put the noose around Bridget’s neck and killed her instantly. But they didn’t. The executioners actually positioned the noose so she would die a slow, horrible death. She was hanging in the gallows—convulsing and losing control of her bowels—in front of a crowd of people. They were publicly shaming her before they killed her” (28-30). That’s not exactly true. Yes, hordes of people attended such a public spectacle, believed to be for their own edification. While we don’t know if the victims were hanged using the gallows or a tree, a quick death only happened if the victim’s neck snapped as their bodies dropped. That rarely happened; it often took “up to 20 minutes for the victims to die” by strangulation, as Margo Burns explains (67). And, yes, after death, the spontaneous relaxation of muscles sometimes caused bodily fluids to seep out.
  • Howard Street Cemetery is not where Giles Corey was crushed to death (18, 104, 106). The obstinate Corey suffered the medieval torture of peine fort et dure at the now-demolished 1683 jail at the corner of Federal Street and Prison Lane (now St. Peter’s Street). Like many of the witch trial victims, we don’t know where Giles Corey’s broken body was buried. But it’s not at Howard Street Cemetery, where the first burial occurred in 1801. (American Ancestors Magazine 15.4:36-37, published 2014)

More Weight

Throughout Wicked Salem, Frank C. Grace’s photographs capture the essence of the city’s past, while Baltrusis offers educational and entertaining stories—without the profound weight of history.

Granted, I’m not the intended audience of Baltrusis’ works. I’m skeptical about the existence of ghosts and paranormal phenomena. I’m disturbed by the continual misappropriation of the Salem witch trials with Halloween, Haunted Happenings, and horror thrills. And I have a penchant for being a mythbuster when it comes to innocent people accused of witchery.

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seasonal magazines on Salem witch trialsEvery October it’s inevitable that new publications on the Salem witch trials are published. It’s odd because the witches of our Halloween imaginations have nothing to do with the innocent people hanged in 1692. This time one of the new entries, The Salem Witch Trials: The True Witch Hunt of 1692 and Its Legacy Today, you’ll find tucked between other seasonal special issues on the magazine shelves.

The Time-Life branded magazine covers a broad sweep of history in its 96 pages, from European origins and witch hunts of today to Arthur Miller’s play, The Crucible, and modern witchcraft. Like many ideas designed to make a quick buck, this one is rife with mistakes big and small. To be fair, that’s one of the most difficult problems with telling the Salem story: for more than 300 years, this one event has been cloaked in embarrassment while physical and historical details have been lost. Not having a witch-hunt historian to oversee or edit this project results in all sorts of difficulties.

Let’s hit on the easy mistakes. The trials occurred in Salem, now a city, though the first accusations of witchcraft happened in Salem Village, now known as the town of Danvers. Throughout the magazine, this geographic distinction is so confused that even the House of the Seven Gables is misplaced (94).

While the witch trials did make Salem the epicenter and focus of tourism, it’s not accurate to repeatedly say Salem has “embraced its history.” The city is known for its maritime trade, its literary scene, its unique and Far East-inspired architecture, its influence on education, and so much more, but it’s the dark shadow of the witch trials that not all the Salemites “embrace.” Of course, Salem has a plethora of witch shops and witch-related attractions, which some locals like and others hate—especially in October.

Of English traditions

In the 17th century, Massachusetts Bay Colonists were not exactly “European immigrants.” As an English colony, most people came from England. Plus, English witch hunts were much different from European ones. In Europe, witchcraft was considered heresy, which is why the Catholic Church and the pope-appointed Inquisitors rooted out witches and punished those found guilty by burning them to death. During Queen Mary Tudor’s reign, 1553-1558, English Protestants and other nonconformists who opposed her Catholic rule were charged with heresy and burned to death. However, English witchcraft accusations percolated up from the people to the courts and was a capital offense, punished by hanging (10-29).

Witchcraft and folk magic were very much a part of everyday life (6, 34). Puritans—from Harvard graduates and ministers to farmers, merchants, and sailors—believed in witches. Some were skeptical about the accusations, but notables like Puritan minister Cotton Mather and Judge William Stoughton believed witches were making pacts with the Devil to destroy their communities and take down their churches. Using occult magic (tarot cards, palmistry, dowsing, astrology, predicting the future, etc.) was fraternizing with the Devil to gain goods or knowledge that only God should have, while maleficent witchcraft (like cursing, casting spells, giving the evil eye) used the Devil to harm individuals, animals, crops, and cause other devastations.

Being a Puritan

All Massachusetts Bay people were required to attend church and could be punished if they did not. But only members were allowed to receive communion, baptize their children, and hold positions in the church (and in the government before the 1692 charter). Church membership required evidence of a personal conversion experience that confirmed to themselves that they were “elect” in the eyes of God, followed by the men sharing their conversion experience in front of the congregation, and a vote by members on whether they believed that person was qualified to join the ranks of members. (Women sometimes had church leaders speak for them.)

Each household was required to pay their share of the minister’s annual salary whether they were members or not, Puritan or not (9). Salem Village had three ministers within 16 years, a high turnover rate caused by village conflicts that meant members could not afford to be too picky when ministerial applicants interviewed. That’s why they accepted Samuel Parris, who never finished his Harvard education, had little ministering experience, and lacked the training to unify people. He had the upper hand, driving a hard bargain as far as his salary and demanding that the congregation ordain him as a minister (42).

Individual details

Tituba was a Native American and is referred to as an “Indian” and “servant” throughout the trial records. During the 19th century, revisionists turned her into an African American who practiced voodoo and lured young girls with stories of island life and magic. This unlikely circle of girls didn’t hang out in the Parris kitchen; they had plenty of chores to keep them occupied. Tituba most likely lived in Barbados before coming to Massachusetts, but her testimony is full of English demons and witches, not native beliefs and superstitions (38, 42, 43, 44, 57).

Tituba—and everyone else who falsely confessed to witchcraft—avoided execution not from confessing but because the trials started to wind down before they were tried (45). Judge Stoughton was ready to hang all the confessors. As the accused witches from Andover learned, people who had confessed were still in jail while some who cried innocence were dead. They may have been counting on the advantage of time to reprieve them. Tituba remained in jail because she confessed and was considered guilty. She, and everyone else who was not released on bail, stayed in prison until the general gaol (jail) delivery in spring 1693—which required them to pay their jail fees before being released (51).

Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne were not “condemned … when they refused to confess” (38). The court used spectral evidence, the afflicteds’ reactions to the accused, and the statements of others to convict. Osborne died in jail before her trial, so there was no verdict to execute her.

Sarah Good’s baby girl was born in December 1691, before her incarceration (38). Her 4- or 5-year-old daughter Dorothy Good was charged (not “convicted”) with witchcraft and jailed to await her trial. Her name was not “Dorcas”—a mistake made once and corrected in the trial records—which is not a nickname for Dorothy (46).

Philip and Mary English of Salem were arrested and jailed on charges of witchcraft. After weeks of being in the Boston jail, they escaped (52).

Salem witch trials
Gov. William Phips

Sir William Phips did not know of the witch-hunt crisis before coming to Massachusetts. He arrived to start a new government based on the new charter by William & Mary that curtailed some of the activities that the colonists previously enjoyed. In October 1692, Phips allowed some of the prisoners in jail, mostly children, to be let out on bail, to be recalled at a future date for trial. Prisoners who had been jailed based on spectral evidence still needed to wait for their trials to be held before being judged innocent. Only people whose verdicts were guilty and were sentenced to hang needed to be pardoned by Governor Phips (47, 51).

Ministers were on both sides of the witch trials debate. It was only Judge Nathaniel Saltonstall who “express[ed] doubts about the process” and resigned from the Court of Oyer and Terminer in June 1692. A change of heart did not happen when the new court handled the witch trials cases in January 1693; instead, the judges were told they must disregard all spectral evidence. Besides Judge Samuel Sewall (in 1697), no other judges publicly apologized, though 12 jury members during the witch trials asked pardon of God, of “the living sufferers,” and of “all whom we have justly offended” in Salem (51, 55).

Ann Putnam Jr., one of the major afflicted accusers, sought church membership in 1706 in the Salem Village church, now Danvers (55). She was received into full communion, with the support and guidance of Rev. Joseph Green.

Only the victims and their families who petitioned received financial reparations (55). Most did not. Businessman Philip English, whose goods and fortune were stolen by Sheriff George Corwin, received very little money for all that he lost (55).

Hundreds (maybe even thousands) of writers, “historians, psychologists, and scientists” have spent years trying to understand why the witch hunts happened (57).

History matters

Politicians today misuse the term “witch hunt” not because they are innocent victims but to flip the blame on those who expose the politician’s wrongdoings. Taking a broad look at this political trend is interesting, especially when you have Life photographs to fill the pages. Producing a full-color magazine to grab that short sale at the checkout line seems disingenuous.

Salem is a weighty subject, with layers of inaccurate details that accumulated over the centuries. Even though Salem has the best collection of witch trial records available, it’s hard to separate fact from what we learned in school, The Crucible, TV and film productions, tourist attractions, and modern witchcraft. These details trip up unwary writers and editors who have not spent years studying the witch trials.

Note: I am not pointing out every error I found, nor did I read the accompanying articles (modern witchcraft, The Crucible) in the magazine. This post follows up on an article in the Salem News, “Historians critical of magazine on Salem witch trials” (4 Nov. 2018) for which I was interviewed, along with historian and public speaker Margo Burns and Kelly Daniell, curator for the Peabody Historical Society and Museum.

If you’re looking for one of the most up-to-date and historically accurate read on the Salem witch trials, the best book currently on the market is Emerson W. Baker’s A Storm of Witchcraft (2015).

Note: This article was published in November 2018 and refers to the magazine issue that came out in 2018. I’ve seen the same magazine cover on bookstore shelves since then and I do not know if the latest version has been updated since 2018.