Re-writing and Reimaging Early Modern Witchcraft Through Creative Practice

One of the most enduring images of early modern culture across Europe and North America is the “witch trial.” To (very) briefly summarize a deeply complex and tragic early modern phenomenon, it is estimated that between the beginning of the 15th century through the middle of the eighteenth, over 100,000 people (mainly in Europe) were accused of witchcraft, with anti-witchcraft hysteria peaking during the Reformation and Counter-Reformation.¹

The witches of Huntingdon, John Davenport, 1646. Call number: 185- 733q. This sensational pamphlet describes several examinations from a witch trial led by England’s self-proclaimed “Witchfinder General,” Matthew Hopkins (1620-1647). Hopkins and his compatriot John Stearne were likely responsible for around 200 executions for witchcraft, pocketing a fee for their “captures” and other expenses. ²

As many visitors to the Folger know, the popular obsession with witchcraft and magic is threaded throughout Shakespeare’s plays, epitomized in the iconic and mysterious trio of witches in Macbeth. It is no wonder that writers like Shakespeare found creative inspiration from tales of diabolic deeds: there were plenty of tales to choose from, both at home and abroad. Estimates of the number of people executed for witchcraft in Europe throughout the late medieval to early modern period vary, but most historians agree that between 40,000 to 60,000 people were killed.³ In England, the vast majority of those killed (perhaps as high as 90%) were women.⁴

For scholars of this time period, the sad fact is that much of what we know of the lives of those accused or executed for witchcraft comes from sensationalized pamphlets or sermons, or—if we’re lucky—court transcripts. But court transcripts, while incredible resources for the early modernist looking to find the voices of “everyday people,” are often highly mediated texts, produced by the state at the expense of the vulnerable.

Late memorable providences relating to witchcrafts and possessions, Cotton Mather, 1691. Call number: 178- 918q. Cotton Mather (1663-1728) was a prolific puritan clergyman and vociferous defender of the legal proceedings in Salem. In this piece of writing, he lays out his firm belief not only in the existence of witchcraft, but in its power to maim and kill.

During my Artistic Research Fellowship at the Folger, I am working on a new play that I hope might offer a kind of counter-narrative to the common “witch trial” stories we are familiar with. Set shortly after the location of the execution site was positively identified in 2016, More Weight, or I Saw Goody Proctor at the Gift Shop tells the story of contemporary citizens in Salem who find themselves haunted (metaphorically, and perhaps literally) by the many ghosts of their town. In the play, a local café owner and long-time resident meets and clashes with a well-meaning but often misguided millennial couple hoping to open a witch-themed cocktail bar next door to her café that she increasingly finds in poor taste. Throughout, the women executed in Salem in 1692-1693 serve almost as a Greek chorus, weaving in and out of the Salem of their past and our present, attempting to reclaim the story of their lives—and finding that perhaps it is too late.

As a playwright, my work has always been concerned with history: who writes it, why they did, and whom they choose to feature in the story. Historical writing, after all, is storytelling—though historians can strive for neutrality, as many do, the writing of history has always been in some sense a creative act, guided by the writer’s own biases, perceptions, and hopes for the future. As a scholar of early modern performance culture and women’s history, particularly the experiences of non-elite women and girls, I have spent many hours poring over archives, seeking remnants of voices that have historically received far less critical or popular attention than their elite and/or male counterparts. In both my creative and scholarly work, I hope to promote lesser-known histories, disrupting popular conceptions of the past.

At the Folger, I’ve been looking at primary and secondary source materials concerning witchcraft and magical practices (particularly as they intersect with gender roles and expectations for early modern women) and researching the sociocultural and religious beliefs that dominated the forcibly settled lands that made up early modern America. Apart from these sources, a good deal of my time has been spent drawing upon Folger’s impressive and exciting collection of medicinal, household, and cookery books in order to accurately and sensitively portray the depth and breadth of knowledge held by early modern women and the domestic culture of the period.

Cookbook of Elizabeth Fowler, 1684. Call number: V.a.468. Women did not solely use recipe books for recipes; sometimes we can gain insight into women’s interests, family history, and tastes. The owner of this book, Elizabeth Fowler, used pages to record lines of poetry she enjoyed (and that perhaps she wrote?).

Such medical and cookery books generated by early modern women at home and often passed down from mother to daughter can afford an extraordinary glimpse into the everyday lives and popular culture of the early modern past. Historically, such domestic archives have frequently been neglected due to their association with feminine labor and knowledge production: my goal is to read these archives “against the grain,” searching for traces of women’s voices, interests, and histories contained between the lines.

Cookery and medicinal recipes of the Granville family, ca. 1640-ca. 1750. Call number: V.a.430. The inscription is faint, but upon reading it tells us about how the book was passed between women and gives a hint to the writer’s sense of humor: “Mrs. Ann Granvills Book which I hope shee will make a better use of then her mother.”

In witchcraft trial records or popular literature, we often see the women accused of witchcraft at the lowest, most traumatic point of their lives. The accusations against them are given the utmost weight while their own words are often discarded, reported second-hand, or absent entirely. By looking at women’s writing–even if it is “domestic” writing, associated with underappreciated (typically) feminine labor like cooking, healing, crafting, and childrearing–I can create characters that draw upon the complex and individual lived experiences of early modern women from various walks of life.

Medical and cookery recipes, Mary Lyford, ca. 1665. Call number: V.a.675. Some recipe books offer exciting glimpses into their owners’ personal lives and concerns when they might leave few other (if any) archival traces. Mary Lyford, for example, used her recipe book to record the date of her birth and marriage as well as to practice writing her alphabet (front inside cover). Remarkably, she also dedicated a whole page to listing “what peopl dyed of the plague in the several weekes in the year of the Lord: 1665” (leaf 1 verso).

However, I also aim to highlight that these women, although undeniably victimized by the patriarchal and socioeconomic hierarchies of their time, are not simply helpless victims. Every settler in early colonial America had their role to play in immense violence (both ideological and literal) towards Indigenous Americans and enslaved people that were being brought against their will to what would eventually become the American colonies. The Salem story is a complicated tapestry of misogyny, puritan fundamentalism, racism, and classism that one play can not hope to completely untie–it is my hope that my work can at least pick at the threads.