1690: Charity Mallard, Salem
I write to you with trembling hand, and scarce can bring my thoughts into order. What hath befallen this once godly settlement of Salem is beyond the conceit of any sane mind. Were you to walk our streets now, you would think them possessed: a cloud of confusion hangs upon every roof, and the very air whispers mischief. I know not what term to give it—madness, witchcraft, judgment—and yet it gathers strength daily, as a storm before the lightning breaks.
When first I came hither with my husband, we thought to shape a sober life in this wilderness, far from the vanities of England. The place was stern but innocent, a little commonwealth upon the hill. Now I see only corruption working under every threshold. The men, once diligent, are grown covetous and cunning. They quarrel over land boundaries and glimmering veins of supposed gold ore found in the soil; their neighbours, once brethren in the Lord, they now accuse of theft and deceit. The women, driven long by repression and solitude, murmur strange talk of dreams, and some steal into the woods at night, saying they go to gather herbs, though none can tell for what purpose.
Most fearful of all are the children. They are restless, wild, and full of invention—singing odd snatches of words they claim to have heard from invisible companions. Two nights past, one little girl was found in a trance, her eyes open and unseeing, her hands clutching at the snow as at some apparition. The ministers call it sickness of fancy; I believe it is worse. There are whispers now of secret meetings, not in the meeting‑house but in the dark forest itself, where candles are lit though no service is there. I cannot utter what else is said, it is too dreadful for the page.
The magistrates profess to maintain order, yet they are themselves ensnared by vanity and rivalry, so that justice turns upon itself. The poorer sort, once submissive, now band together in insolence, clamouring against those of worth and learning. They say God’s hand favours the fittest, not the richest, and this new doctrine stinks of rebellion. Sabbath observance grows thin; one hears laughter on the Lord’s Day, and even the psalms sound forced, as though Heaven no longer listened.
My husband tells me I imagine phantoms where there are none, yet I hear the servants whispering of hexes and charms hidden beneath door‑stones. Last eve I found a scrap of poppet‑cloth in the ashes of our hearth; who placed it there, I dare not ask. There is gold missing too—some of our household plate, and that of others. The hunger for wealth spreads like contagion, and those who cannot grasp with hand seem to conjure by tongue. It is all one fever, cousin to another that afflicts the soul.
You in England may find this account fantastic, yet I tell you the colony totters at the edge of some fearful revelation. I have seen goodwives who yesterday wept in prayer now staring quietly at one another, as if measuring who shall live and who shall burn. The preachers cry repentance, yet their own zeal hath turned to fury; they speak less of salvation than of hidden enemies. In such frenzy I perceive the image of Sodom’s end.
I entreat you, sister, pray for us—pray that some calm reason return before all is undone. If the Devil seeks another dominion, I fear he shall find one here. For in our striving to be God’s own nation, we have bred a darkness that neither scripture nor sword can govern.
I write no more; the wind howls about the house and the candles gutter as though blown by unseen breath. I am weary, but not at peace.
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