American History Tellers - Salem Witch Trials | A Great Delusion | 4

Episode Date: October 11, 2023

By September 1692, the witch panic in Salem, Massachusetts had sent 11 women and men to the gallows. Dozens more languished in jail awaiting trial.But that fall, growing public doubt began to cast a shadow over the proceedings. Several elite Puritans raised questions about the Court’s reliance on so-called “spectral evidence” – claims that witches had sent forth their spirits to torment their victims. With the death toll climbing and the stability of the colony at stake, pressure mounted on Governor William Phips to act.Listen ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App. https://wondery.app.link/historytellersSupport us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's late in the day in September 1692, and you're approaching the gate of the prison in Ipswich, about 25 miles north of Boston. The iron bars cast long shadows over the dusty jail yard as you look for your friend Giles Corey. A few days ago, his wife Martha was convicted of witchcraft and sentenced to die. Giles was indicted for witchcraft too, but when the judge asked him whether he would agree to a jury trial, he refused to answer. The move was unusual, and it meant his trial could not legally proceed. But now he could face a worse fate. Peering through the bars, you spot Giles walking alone with his head down. Giles! Giles looks up and

walks toward the gate, the chains around his wrists clinking. You really didn't need to come all this way. Of course I did. One of my oldest friends. How's Martha holding up? How do you think? You shake your head in sympathy. Giles, I heard what you did. Refusing to answer the judge's question. I'm sure you think you're clever avoiding trial on a technicality, but refusing to cooperate, it's suicidal. You know what they'll do to punish you. It's barbaric.

Giles smiles bitterly. Why should I cooperate? If I'm tried, I will face the same accusers who condemned Martha. I'll be convicted and sentenced to die, just like she was. If you stand trial, you still have a chance. If you stay silent, you will surely die. Be realistic. I don't have a chance.

This court is a sham. You grip the iron bars in frustration. You are the most obstinate man I have ever known. But this is a bridge too far. For once, can you put your principles aside and think about saving your life? It's not just principle motivating me. If convicted, the court could very well seize my farm. I want to make sure that my sons-in-law inherit it once I'm gone.

If I don't stand trial, they can't take my land away from my family. Your shoulders slump in defeat. Please, Giles. You're like a brother to me. I don't want to lose you. Is there truly no other way? Giles' steely gaze briefly wavers, but the moment passes, and he looks at you with a hardened resolve.

I'm grateful for your visit. But my mind is made up. I won't stand trial and risk conviction. There's too much at stake. Giles turns around and walks back toward the prison. You clutch the iron bars of the gate tighter, feeling powerless. You're furious at your friend's stubbornness, but beneath your anger, you're terrified about his fate. Hey, this is Nick. And this is Jack. And we just launched a brand new podcast called

The Best Idea Yet. You may have heard of it. It's all about the untold origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The best idea yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery comes a new series about a lawyer who broke all the rules. Need to launder some money? Broker a deal with a drug cartel? Take out a witness? Paul can do it. I'm your host, Brandon Jinks Jenkins. Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American Salem, Massachusetts, indicted an 81-year-old farmer named Giles Corey for practicing witchcraft. But Corey refused to stand trial.

As a punishment for his refusal, he would be subjected to a rarely used form of torture known as pressing, in which heavy stones would be stacked upon his chest. By then, seven months had passed since witch-hunting hysteria first gripped Salem. Fear and suspicion consumed the region, turning neighbors, friends, and family against one another. So far, authorities had hanged 11 women and men, and many more suspects languished in jail awaiting trial. But a rush of new convictions and executions that September caused many to suspect that the trials had gone too far. This is Episode 4, A Great Delusion The late summer of 1692 saw a surge in new witchcraft accusations in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. Another 40 suspects were formally charged with witchcraft in August and September,

and not just in Salem, but in neighboring towns as well. More than ever before, men and women faced increasing pressure from authorities to confess to practicing black magic. The scale of the alleged witchcraft conspiracy had exploded. Earlier in the summer, accusers had described witnessing gatherings of two dozen witches. By the end of August, three people confessed to attending devil's sacrament ceremonies alongside 200 witches. Rumors spread that as many as 300 witches were active in the region. But even as this relentless pace of accusations persisted, new criticism of the witch trials surfaced in the town of Salisbury, roughly 20

miles north of Salem. In August, Salisbury's leading magistrate, Major Robert Pike, wrote to one of the judges of the emergency court that was handling the witch trials, called the Court of Oyer and Terminer. Pike was concerned about an accusation against a neighbor he had known for decades. He carefully explained his concerns about the court's reliance on spectral evidence, or witness testimony concerning apparitions and visions. With spectral evidence, an accuser could tell the court that a person's spirit had harmed them, and that could be enough for conviction or even a death sentence. Pike argued that spectral evidence was unreliable because the devil could take the shape of innocent people. He affirmed that diabolical visions, apparitions, or representations were

more commonly false than real, and it cannot be known whether they are real but by the devil's report, and then they cannot be believed because he is the father of lies. Pike insisted that the court should let a guilty person live till further discovery rather than put an innocent person to death. But the court's chief justice, William Stoughton, was unmoved. Despite mounting criticism, Stoughton stuck to his hardline stance of admitting spectral evidence into his courtroom. And that continued on September 6th, when the court convened for its fourth session. Fifteen defendants would be tried over the next two weeks, and spectral evidence would play a key role. One of the women to face the court

was Martha Corey, who had been arrested for witchcraft in March. Corey was in her 70s, and she was a full member of the exclusive Salem Village Puritan Church, a mark of high social status. During her trial, two prominent male church members gave detailed and convincing descriptions of how Corey Spector tormented village girls. Corey was convicted and sentenced to die, largely on the basis of this spectral evidence. The next day, Mary Eastie stood trial. Eastie was the wife of a wealthy farmer in the nearby town of Topsfield and the sister of Rebecca Nurse, who had been hanged in July.

The prosecution built a strong case against her, too. Eight men laid out the suffering her specter had inflicted on a teenage servant. But Eastie fought hard to defend herself. She submitted statements from her jailers attesting to her good behavior and called on various members of her church to serve as character witnesses. She also submitted her own petition, imploring the judges to disregard spectral evidence. She declared that such evidence should not be considered definitive against a woman who for many years lived under the unblemished reputation of Christianity. But the jury disregarded her plea and sentenced her to hang.

That same day, the court tried yet another woman of high social rank. Mary Bradbury was the elderly wife of the most prominent citizen in the town of Salisbury. She submitted a petition signed by more than 100 friends and neighbors attesting to her good character and strong religious faith. Her minister affirmed that she had lived according to the rules of the gospel and practiced a life full of works of charity and mercy to the sick and poor. But Bradbury's careful preparations were no match for the testimony of five witnesses who each described how Bradbury's specter had harmed them during her July examination.

One man swore that he had seen Bradbury turn herself into a blue boar that attacked his horses. Bradbury declared, I am wholly innocent of any such wickedness. I am the servant of Jesus Christ and have given myself up to him as my only Lord and Savior. But she was nevertheless convicted and also sentenced to die, joining five other suspects convicted that week. For some, the convictions of elite women like Corey, Eastie, and Bradbury were proof that the court was running amok, but others were still stalwart in their belief that witchcraft was plaguing the Massachusetts Bay. While the court took a brief hiatus over the weekend, on Sunday, September 11,

Reverend Samuel Parris stood before his congregation in the Salem Village Church. Parris's own daughter had been the first person to report being afflicted by witchcraft, and since then the Reverend had fanned the flames of the hysteria. This Sunday sermon was no different. Paris' voice thundered through the meeting house as he delivered a fiery sermon on the six most recent convictions, including that of Martha Corey, a member of his church. He warned, The devil and his instruments will be making war against Christ and his followers. He compared those who opposed the court to the mutinous and murmuring

Israelites who rebelled against Moses, declaring everyone is on one side or the other. After finishing his sermon, Parris raised the question of Martha Corey's membership to the church, and the congregation voted to excommunicate her, prohibiting her from attending church services, taking communion, and achieving salvation after death. Soon after, Reverend Parris visited Corey in prison to break the news. Imagine it's mid-September 1692. For six months, you've been locked up in the Salem Town Jail since you were arrested for witchcraft. You're lying on the stone floor of your dark, cramped cell, staring blankly at the wall. Your wrists are blistered and sore from your manacles,

your hair is infested with lice, and you have a cough you can't shake. You roll over to see your pastor, Samuel Parris, approach your cell. The church deacons follow in his wake, and a bitter taste fills your mouth as your eyes meet Paris's through the heavy iron bars. Come to gloat, Reverend? With effort, you pull yourself into a seated position. Paris sighs, a solemn expression on his face. This is a painful time for all of us. Is that so, Reverend? Is it painful for you to see a church-going woman thrown in jail and treated like a common criminal? You stare down at the floor, stifling a cough.

As a loyal member of the Salem Village Church, you would have considered Paris an esteemed visitor just six months ago. Now he's the last person you want to see. You do not know the weight of my burden. It is a grave duty to be the shepherd of a flock threatened by the devil and his servants. Reverend, I am not a witch. I serve no one but God in heaven above. If you don't believe me, you may as well leave. Paris clutches the bars of your cell, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. I come bearing a message and to offer guidance and prayer. Prayer? Will prayer undo the lies that put me here? Will prayer lift a cloud of suspicion that hangs over my head? Paris's expression turns ice cold. You are truly an ungrateful woman. I once thought you to be among

the most devout members of my church. I can see now that I was wrong. I will not apologize when I have done nothing wrong. Just go, Reverend. But you must understand the severity of your circumstances. The congregation took a vote yesterday. You have been excommunicated. His words land a heavy blow, and your breath catches in your throat. How could you? You are now cut off from all church privileges.

You can expect your soul to be delivered to Satan, if it hasn't been already. Just leave, Reverend. Paris beckons the deacons to follow him out. Alone once more, you turn to face the wall. Despite your bravado, you're devastated to be shut out from your church, and you can't help but fear for your soul. When Reverend Parris visited Martha Corey in jail, he found her to be bitter and unrepentant. He reflected, she was very obdurate, justifying herself and condemning all that had done anything

to her. The visit was brief, because according to Paris, her imperiousness would not suffer much. Martha would soon face execution, excommunicated from her church and without the comfort of guaranteed salvation after death. But the unrelenting pace of new convictions would assure she would not be the last one. On September 13th, the court resumed its fourth session. The judges heard nine cases, all of which resulted in convictions and death sentences. And at the end of that week, the court carried out an unprecedented punishment. Martha Corey's husband, Giles, had been accused of witchcraft himself. Giles was 81 years old, and he had a reputation for being stubborn and argumentative. When the grand jury indicted him had been accused of witchcraft himself. Giles was 81 years old,

and he had a reputation for being stubborn and argumentative. When the grand jury indicted him earlier in the month, he refused to answer the judge's customary question of whether he was willing to be tried by a jury. Corey believed that any attempt to defend himself would be futile. He also knew that if he was tried and convicted, authorities could seize his land, leaving his son's-in-law without an inheritance. Hoping to keep his property within his family,

Corey stayed silent, and without his answer, a trial could not legally proceed. But authorities did not take to his refusal lightly. The traditional but rarely used penalty for refusing to stand trial was called peine forte adieuure, or strong and hard punishment in French legal terminology. It was also known as pressing. On September 17th, authorities carted Corey to an open field near the Salem jail. They stripped him naked and laid him down between two wooden boards. Next, they began piling heavy stones on top of him, trying to press out an answer.

Over the next two days, officers of the court placed progressively heavier rocks on Corey, but still he refused to agree to stand trial. He simply gasped, more weight. After two days, he was finally crushed to death. It was the first and only time this method of torture was used in colonial New England. Corey had lost his life, but he had preserved his family's inheritance. But still, the executions continued. Three days later, authorities hanged eight more convicted witches,

including Martha Corey, Giles' wife, and Mary Eastie. Eastie's goodbye to her family drew tears from the spectators. But not all were moved. A minister in the crowd reflected, what a sad thing it is to see eight firebrands of hell hanging there. Shortly before her execution, Eastie had written a moving plea to Massachusetts Governor William Phipps and the judges of the court. She knew that her execution was all but certain. Still, she begged that no more innocent lives be taken.

She declared, The Lord knows my innocence. I petition your honors not for my own life, for I know I must die and my appointed time is set, but that no more innocent blood be shed. Eastie's petition gave voice to a growing sense of unease in Salem. Since the trials began in June, 19 people have been hanged and one man had been tortured to death. Nearly half of that number had been executed in the previous week alone. As the death toll climbed, the tide of public opinion finally began to turn. Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now, the show where aspiring entrepreneurs get the opportunity of a lifetime.

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Nintendo never fires anyone, ever. Follow The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to The Best Idea Yet early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. By October of 1692, a growing number of Puritan elites were raising questions about the Salem Witch Trials, especially the heavy reliance on spectral evidence. When the trials first began, the prominent Puritan minister Cotton Mather offered the court of Oyer and Terminer his support. He condoned the use of spectral evidence, and the of Oyer and Terminer his support. He condoned the

use of spectral evidence, and the trials had done little to change his opinion. In August, he declared, a very great use is to be made of the spectral impressions upon the sufferers. Cotton was the son of another leading minister, Increase Mather, who was also the president of Harvard College. Increase had not yet offered an opinion on the witch trials. But on October 3rd, he broke with his son by publishing a book entitled Cases of Conscience Concerning Evil Spirits Personating Men. In it, he urged the court to exclude spectral evidence,

writing, It would be better that ten suspected witches should escape than one innocent person should be condemned. Fourteen other ministers signed the book in support. Several of them read parts of the manuscript from their pulpits. Increase also sent a copy of the manuscript to an important member of his church, the royal colonial governor, William Phipps. And other prominent elites published their own criticisms. One respected minister named Samuel Willard argued that

spectral evidence could not be trusted and that convictions should only be based on either free and voluntary confession or the testimony of two credible witnesses to an act of black magic, as opposed to invisible evidence only victims could see. He also argued that confessions naming other witches were unreliable, declaring, If people have by their own account given themselves up to the devil, the father of lies, what credit is to be given to their testimony against the lies of others? On October 8th, Thomas Brattle,

a distinguished mathematician and treasurer of Harvard College, sent his own letter to various Boston officials. Brattle accused the court of threatening the civil liberties that New Englanders treasured. He wrote, If the devil will be heard against us, and his testimony taken, to the seizing and apprehending of us, our liberty vanishes, and we are fools if we boast of our liberty. He also questioned the reliability of the testimony of the young female accusers,

calling them blind, nonsensical girls. These critiques reflected a broader change in public opinion. In just two weeks in September, the court had convicted all 15 people it had tried, and the convictions were based on increasingly weak evidence. Though most people still believed in the existence of witches, they began to question whether the court had rushed to judgment and if it was possible that innocent people had been sent to their deaths. But meanwhile, new accusations continued to surface across Massachusetts, and in early October, the crisis became personal for

Governor Phipps. His own wife, Mary, was accused of witchcraft. She was in a vulnerable position because she was related to a woman who had been accused of witchcraft over 30 years earlier, and in the current climate, almost anything could cast suspicion. Twenty people were dead. More than 50 sat in jail awaiting trial. Accusations of all sorts were growing, and now Phipps' own wife was targeted. William Phipps had only served as governor for five months, having arrived in Boston in May 1692 with a royal charter to establish a new government in Massachusetts. That government and its court system were still being formed. In the interim, Phipps had created the Court of Oyer and Terminer and given it emergency powers to try cases of witchcraft.

Now, with public opinion shifting, Phipps had a decision to make. The stability of the colony, the new royal charter, and his own position as governor were at stake. Phipps decided to suspend the trials and prohibit further witchcraft arrests. On October 12th, he wrote to his superiors in England, for the first time informing them about the witchcraft crisis by briefly summarizing the events that had transpired over the past few months. But he shifted most of the blame onto Deputy Governor and Chief Justice William Stoughton. Phipps falsely claimed that he had been absent during most of the trials, away in Maine leading the ongoing war against France and their Native American allies.

He wrote, As soon as I came from fighting against their Majesty's enemies and understood what danger some of their innocent subjects might be exposed to, I put a stop to the proceedings of the court. The letter suggested that Phipps came home and was shocked by the chaos that unfolded in his absence. In reality, not only had he created the court, but he was also in Boston during every court meeting except the September session, even if he was not present at the trials themselves. He also reported to his superiors in England that he was banning any further publications on the matter, arguing that continued debate would only breed more conflict. He declared,

I saw a likelihood of kindling an inextinguishable flame. Having changed the direction of his policy, on October 29th, Phipps permanently dissolved the Court of Oyer and Terminer. Less than a month later, on November 25th, the Massachusetts Colonial Legislature finally created its new court system. The highest court in the colony would be known as the Superior Court of Judicature. William Stoughton, the aggressive head of the Court of Oyer and Terminer, was appointed chief justice. That winter, Stoughton and four other judges on the court started hearing the cases of 52 witchcraft suspects that still remain in jail. On January 3, 1693, the new Superior Court convened in Salem Town. But this time, most of the judges gave

spectral evidence little weight in response to the growing consensus that the devil could take the shape of an innocent person. Chief Justice Stoughton was furious with the change, but he was outnumbered. The court moved quickly in dismissing charges against 30 of the 52 suspects. Then, over the next few weeks, the court tried the other 22 defendants, but it convicted only three, all of whom had confessed to witchcraft. Stoughton signed warrants for their execution, along with five women whose executions had been delayed while they were pregnant. Once again, a group of alleged witches prepared to face the gallows. Imagine it's February 1st, 1693, in Charlestown, Massachusetts, just outside Boston.

You're the governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and you're walking down a hallway in the Superior Court building. The cold winter air is seeping through the windows, and you pull your coat around yourself tighter as you approach the chambers of your lieutenant governor, Justice William Stoughton. As you walk into the small office, you find Stoughton seated behind his desk, writing a letter. Judge Stoughton. Ah, governor. Your timing is excellent. Just finished signing the last of the eight outstanding death warrants.

Soon, we will finally clear this colony of the devil's influence. That's why I've come. I have decided to issue reprieves for the last eight individuals who were convicted. Stoughton drops his pen. His brows knit together, his expression darkening. Reprieves? Have you lost your senses, Governor? Three of these people confessed.

They willingly admitted to acts of black magic. You take a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. The King and Queen's Attorney General wrote to me expressing his concern. I believe it is best that we not be hasty, at least until their majesties have the opportunity to weigh in. Governor, these individuals were found guilty, and now you are attempting to obstruct the administration of justice? You must see that the evidence that convicted these people was flimsy at best.

This hysteria has already claimed too many lives. I cannot in good conscience allow any more people to die at the hands of this court. Stoughton abruptly stands from his desk, his fists clenched. Those people were condemned by their own deeds. You undermine my authority, Governor. If you continue down this path, you will leave me no choice but to resign my position on the court. Come now, there's no need for that. But I will remind you that you undermine my authority by arguing with me.

I cannot be part of such a miscarriage of justice. The only miscarriage of justice would be to stand by and let more innocent people die. Stoughton's eyes blaze with anger. You are being reckless, and this colony will pay for it. You leave me no choice but to remove myself. Stoughton marches toward the door. You make no effort to stop him. As he takes the handle, he pauses and looks over his shoulder to meet your gaze.

This land is Satan's kingdom now. May the Lord have mercy on us all. As Stoughton storms out of the chambers, his ominous words hang in the air. You know the road ahead is uncertain, but this is your best chance to preserve order in this colony and keep your job. You hope that your mercy may help you achieve some measure of redemption for your role in this crisis. In early February 1693, Governor Phipps issued eight reprieves after receiving advice from the Crown's Attorney General. Stoughton was so outraged that he walked off the bench. Once again, Phipps blamed Stoughton for the damage caused by the trials. On February 21st, he wrote to an official

in England declaring, Stoughton was enraged and filled with passionate anger and refused to sit upon the bench, and indeed has from the beginning hurried on these matters and caused the estates, goods, and chattel of the executed to be seized and disposed of without my knowledge or consent. But despite the acquittal, several people remained in jail that spring because they were unable to pay their prison fees. In 17th century Massachusetts, prisoners were required to pay their jailers for room and board, despite the crude conditions. A 79-year-old grandmother, who was acquitted in early February, died in jail in mid-March before her family could come up with the money for her jail fees.

And one of the other women still languishing in jail that spring was Tituba, the enslaved woman owned by Reverend Samuel Parris. In March 1692, Tituba had been the first person to be accused of witchcraft. She was jailed after falsely confessing to bewitching Parris's daughter and niece, but she was one of the last suspects to face the Superior Court. On May 9th, a grand jury rejected her confession and refused to indict her. But her owner, Reverend Paris, declined to pay her jail fees. Instead, he sold her to another, who eventually paid for her release. After more than a year of paranoia and panic, the Salem witch trials seemed to be over. In a letter to authorities in England, Phipps happily reported,

The stop to the proceedings has dissipated the black cloud that threatened this province with destruction. But the damage caused by the trials would not be so easily erased. Nineteen people had been hanged, one man was tortured to death, and several had died while in jail. The fallout from this witch hunt would continue to haunt Massachusetts for decades to come. Richard Bandler revolutionized the world of self-help all thanks to an approach he developed called neurolinguistic programming. Even though NLP worked for some, its methods have been criticized for being dangerous in the wrong hands. Throw in Richard's dark past as a cocaine addict and murder suspect, and you can't help but wonder what his true intentions were. I'm Sachi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the hosts of Scamfluencers,

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how would you spend your last few minutes on Earth? You can binge Incoming exclusively and ad-free on Wondery+. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. Ending the witch trials helped William Phipps hang on to his position as Massachusetts governor, but he didn't keep it for long.

In the fall of 1694, his superiors recalled him to England to answer to an array of misconduct charges, ranging from corruption to physical assault. Soon after, he contracted a fever and died. His deputy, William Stoughton, replaced him as governor. Despite serving as Chief Justice of the Court of Oyer and Terminer and having signed 19 death warrants, Stoughton emerged from the crisis unscathed. He never wavered from his belief that he had saved the colony from witchcraft. But Salem had to reckon with the tragedy of the witch trials for years.

Lives were ruined. Several residents lost property to court-sanctioned seizures. And while some victims of the trials and their families fought to repair their reputations, others simply moved away. Reverend Samuel Parris faced consequences too. Residents criticized him for encouraging the accusers and uncritically accepting spectral evidence. Earlier disputes over his salary and his ultra-conservative religious outlook resurfaced, and Parris found himself with fewer allies in his puritan congregation than ever. But despite waning public approval, he refused to step down. In November 1694, Paris made a last-ditch attempt to salvage his reputation. Imagine it's November 18th, 1694 in Salem Village.

You're sitting in your usual pew in the village meeting house, and Reverend Parris stands behind the pulpit. For the last several minutes, he's been apologizing for his involvement in the witch panic. The congregation is listening with rapt attention. I admit that Satan deluded me. I now know that the devil can take the shape of the innocent and pious. I humbly ask for God's pardon for my mistakes and trespasses.

And I beg the forgiveness of this congregation for whatever errors and offenses you believe that I have made. Let us put away all bitterness and anger and forgive one another as God has forgiven us all. Amen. Paris bows his head, and a tense silence fills the room.

You exchange a glance with your wife Sarah, who sits to your right. Her grief-stricken expression compels you to speak out. Reverend, your apology is long overdue. Paris looks up from his notes. His gaze bores into you. Reverend, your apology is long overdue. I cannot change the past. I regret any pain my actions may have caused. I thought I was guided by duty, but I now see my weakness and ignorance. Perhaps if you had said these words two years ago, my mother-in-law, Rebecca Nurse, would still be alive. Sarah shifts in her seat at the mention of her mother.

Paris grips his pulpit, his jaw tight. Beware. Do not let your hatred fester. If you do not put aside your anger and accept my apology, you will only be serving Satan, the enemy of all that is merciful and good. You feel your anger rising. You dare threaten me? You dare suggest I serve Satan by opposing you? Your apology is hollow. Mark my words, reverend. Your days here are numbered.

Hera's face contorts in rage. Need I remind you that this is a house of God? These walls are sacred. You smile bitterly. Ah, the walls you tarnished two years ago, sowing discord and fear from that very pulpit. As murmurs ripple through the congregation, you take Sarah's hand and squeeze it. You're in no mood to forgive and forget. You know this community will never have peace until Paris is gone for good, and you're determined to do whatever you can to drive him out of the village once and for all.

In November 1694, Reverend Paris finally apologized for his role in the witch trials. But for many, his effort to make amends was too little too late. John Tarble, the son-in-law of the executed villager Rebecca Nurse, told Parris, if half so much had been said formerly, it would have never come to this. Tarble then helped lead a campaign to oust Parris, working alongside other family members of the accused. The embattled minister stubbornly clung on to his role for another year and a half, but in April 1696, he finally delivered his last sermon and resigned. But it would be another year before he agreed to leave the village parsonage. After that, he was hired to preach in the remote community of Stowe,

where he soon became embroiled in yet another salary dispute. But Reverend Parris wasn't the only one who owed an apology. On January 14, 1697, the Massachusetts Superior Court ordered a day of fasting and soul-searching for the events that transpired in 1692. Judge Samuel Sewell issued a public apology of his own for serving on the court of Oyer and Terminer, declaring that he wished to take the blame and shame of it. Soon after, twelve jurors also came forward and apologized. They wrote, We offer our deep sense of sorrows for our errors in acting on such weak evidence, and do hereby declare that we justly fear that we were sadly deluded and mistaken. Then, in 1702, the colonial government declared that the entirety of the trials had been unlawful. And the following year, the legislature passed a law forbidding the use of spectral evidence.

While most New Englanders continued to believe in witches, no American court would ever again execute a person accused of witchcraft. After Reverend Parris finally moved away, Salem Village replaced him with Reverend Joseph Green, a 22-year-old minister fresh out of Harvard. Green was far more tolerant than his predecessor, and he devoted himself to healing the torn community. He preached forgiveness in his sermons and changed the seating arrangements in the church pews, forcing rivals to sit beside one another in hopes of fostering reconciliation. In 1703, he asked the congregation to formally reverse the 1692 excommunication of Martha Corey, the last woman to be executed. The majority agreed to do so,

with only six votes in opposition. This measure restored Corey's reputation and reassured her family that she was not damned to hell. Three years later, Green encouraged one of the original young accusers to apologize for her actions, too. In 1706, Ann Putnam, now 26 years old, applied to join the village church as a full member. Membership in the Puritan church required a confession of past sins, and Reverend Green helped Anne compose a public apology for her role in instigating the witch panic. On August 25, 1706, Anne stood before the congregation as Green read her statement. He quoted, It was a great delusion of Satan that deceived me in that sad time, whereby I justly fear I have been instrumental in the shedding of innocent blood. He added that Anne especially wished to lie

in the dust and be humbled for her accusation of Rebecca Nurse and her two sisters, which caused so sad a calamity to them and their families. The church approved Anne's application for full church membership, confirming that she belonged to the elect, the select few believed to be chosen by God for salvation. A long road to reconciliation reached its end in 1711, nearly two decades after the crisis began. In response to a petition campaign orchestrated by victims and their families, the colonial legislature passed a bill overturning 22 convictions. The same body also granted a total of 600 pounds in restitution to the victims' heirs

to help compensate for property seizures. But nothing could undo the profound loss of life caused by the trials. Questions about the Salem Witch Trials would linger for centuries, with no definitive answers. The crisis has often been described as a case of mass hysteria. Explanations for the strange behavior of the afflicted have included mental illness, deliberate fakery, and even a hallucinogenic fungus that grows on rye. Whatever the cause, a complex mix of religious extremism, gender bias, individual ambition, and personal conflict made the events in Salem more widespread and lethal than any previous witch panic in America. When the Puritans first sailed to Massachusetts, their leader proclaimed, We shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all people are upon us.

The Puritans dreamed of creating a model community for the rest of the world, one blessed by God and built on the ideals of hard work, charity, and unity. They sought to escape the persecution of the past, but in their moment of crisis, they ultimately staged one of the most notorious episodes of persecution in American history. A tragic lesson on the danger of intolerance, the fragility of justice, and the destructive power of fear. From Wondery, this is Episode 4 of our four-part series, The Salem Witch Trials, from American History Tellers. In our next episode,

I speak with Margo Burns, Associate Editor of Records of the Salem Witch Hunt, the first comprehensive collection of legal documents involving the Salem Witch Trials. Her ancestor, Rebecca Nurse, was executed for witchcraft in 1692. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga.

Sound design by Molly Bach. Music by Lindsey Graham. Voice acting by Joe Hernandez-Kolsky and Cat Peoples. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton. Edited by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alita Rozanski. Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock. Managing producer, Matt Gant.

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