A Monster and A Martyr in Puritan Boston

The English writer John Josselyn visited New England for fifteen months in the 1630s. In September of 1639, while he was staying on one of the Boston harbor islands, the following occurred:

… The next day a grave and sober person described the Monster to me, that was born at Boston of one Mrs. Dyer a great Sectarie (sectarian), the nine and twentieth of June, it was (it should seem) without a head, but having horns like a Beast, and ears, scales on a rough skin like a fish called a Thornback, legs and claw like a Hawke, and in other respects as a Woman-Child (An Account of Two Voyages to New England, 1674). 

Josselyn is often called a credulous writer because his books are full of tall-tales, folklore, and monsters. But in this case, he was writing about one of the most famous monsters of 17th century New England. But was the monster real? Perhaps, although he had its birthday wrong...

The story begins with Mary Dyer, a devout Puritan who came to Boston from England with her husband William (a hat-maker) in 1635. For a while things went well for the Dyers in their new homeland, but they soon found themselves embroiled in a religious controversy.

The controversy initially focused on two groups of Boston ministers who had different theological ideas about God's relationship to men. The more conservative ministers felt that God established certain laws and would grant salvation only to people who followed those laws. This viewpoint is sometimes called the "covenant of works." The more radical ministers believed that God would save anyone who had faith in Christ, a viewpoint called the "covenant of grace." This controversy was called the Antinomian Controversy, from a Greek work meaning "opposed to laws."

Theology is kind of a dry subject, so I think it's hard for modern New Englanders to understand how divisive this controversy was to 17th century Boston. But think about it this way: Boston was a theocratic society founded by fundamentalist religious radicals who had fled England. The Antinomian Controversy pitted one group of fundamentalists against other fundamentalists who were even more radical than they were.

Ann Hutchinson's house stood at this spot on the corner of School and Washington streets in Boston.

The controversy nearly split Boston apart. Aside from the various ministers, one of the leading figures of the "covenant of grace" group was Anne Hutchinson, a wealthy and successful midwife. She was quite influential among the colony's women, and would often share her theological insights with dozens of women (and their husbands) in her large Boston house.

Mary and William Dyer were among those who attended the older, wealthier Hutchinson's talks and Mary soon became one of her most ardent supporters.

The controversy ended abruptly in 1637 when John Winthrop became the colony's new governor. The previous governor, who was more lenient, went back to England. One of the radical ministers was banished from Massachusetts, and several of his supporters lost their political positions. A new, less tolerant tone was set in Boston. Things didn't look good for Hutchinson and her friends.

It was in this political atmosphere that Mary Dyer gave birth on October 11, 1637. Anne Hutchinson and one other midwife were in attendance. Unfortunately the baby was stillborn and deformed. Unusual births among humans and animals were called "prodigies" at that time, and were seen as omens and warnings from God. Hutchinson and Dyer both understood their enemies would use the dead infant's strange appearance as a weapon against them and quickly buried it.

For several months Dyer's baby remained a secret from the authorities. In the spring of 1638 Governor Winthrop exiled Ann Hutchinson from Boston, and at the same time he learned about the Dyer's child. Along with a large group of ministers and magistrates Winthrop exhumed the infant's corpse. He described it in the following language:

...it had a face, but no head, and the ears stood upon the shoulders and were like an ape's; it had no forehead, but over the eyes four horns, hard and sharp; two of them were above one inch long, the other two shorter … all over the breast and back full of sharp pricks and scales, like a thornback … behind, between the shoulders, it had two mouths, and in each of them a piece of red flesh sticking out; it had arms and legs as other children; but, instead of toes, it had on each foot three claws, like a young fowl, with sharp talons.

Winthrop is essentially describing a demon. European manuscripts of the time were full of illustrations of demons, who were usually depicted as a hideous mix of the human and animal. Winthrop's message was clear: God punishes religious dissenters by making them give birth to monsters.

An illustration of a demon.

Before I bring this story to its unpleasant conclusion, let me just say that while I love stories about monsters and scary creatures, Mary Dyer's story isn't really about a monster. It's about politics, religion, and the role of women in society. While Dyer's baby was indeed sadly deformed, historians agree that Winthrop exaggerated the nature of those deformities to make a political point. The authorities in Boston felt threatened by the Antinomians, and they felt threatened by women like Anne Hutchinson and Mary Dyer, who believed they were as qualified to talk about theology as any man. It's disturbing to look back and see how Governor Winthrop used the Dyer's tragedy as a tool in a political struggle.

Mary and William Dyer followed Ann Hutchinson into exile and eventually helped found Newport, Rhode Island. But Mary Dyer didn't give up the fight. It seems like Winthrop's abuse of her tragedy just fueled her fervor. She became even more religiously radical, converting to Quakerism, whose tenets include the beliefs that anyone can hear God's voice and that men and women are equals in the church. Quakers were the most heretical sect in New England at the time and their presence was forbidden in Boston.

In 1657 Mary Dyer came back to Boston. The authorities imprisoned her as a Quaker and then sent her back to Rhode Island. She didn't give up. Determined that the authorities should repeal the law against Quakers she came back to Boston twice more. The second time she was sentenced to be hanged, but a last-minute reprieve was issued as she stood at the gallows. She was exiled again, with a threat that if she ever returned to Boston she would be executed.

Dyer came back to Boston again in 1660, the following year. She was quickly arrested and sentenced to hang on Boston Neck (now Washington Street in the South End*). On June 1 she was hanged. On the gallows a minister asked if she wanted the church elders to pray for her. Dyer replied "I never knew an elder here."

Dyer died as a martyr, and her death had the effect that she wanted. Many people who witnessed her execution were quite moved, and news of her death spread through the colonies. Dyer's story eventually reached the king of England, who issued an edict banning the execution of Quaker's.

Times have certainly changed. The Puritans are long gone. Massachusetts has a female senator in Washington. There's now a Quaker meeting house on Beacon Hill, and a statue of Mary Dyer sits in front of the Massachusetts State House. And no one calls stillborn babies monsters anymore.

 *A popular restaurant ironically called The Gallows is located there.

Ghosts of the Great Elm and The Witching Elm

Many years ago, a great elm tree used to dominate the landscape of Boston Common. It was so large is was just referred to as the Great Elm.

According to Wikipedia, at its height the tree was nearly sixty-five feet high and the canopy of its branches spread out over eighty feet. It was so big that it had a hollow a child could climb into. That's a really big tree!

The tree eventually fell in a winter storm in 1876, but it was estimated to be over 250 years old at its demise. Even in the 1830s the tree was surrounded by a fence to protect it, and a plaque nearby proclaimed that the tree had been in existence since before the English settlers arrived. I don't know if that can be proven, but I like the idea of one last piece of the older, wilder world surviving into the Industrial era.

A 19th century photo of the Great Elm (from Wikipedia)

A lot of stories and legends gathered around this "vegetable patriarch," as it is called it the 1838 book The Boston Common, or Rural Walks in Cities. For example, Samuel Barber claims that Benjamin Franklin used to play under the tree while tending his family's cattle on the Common. Quaint and patriotic!

Not all the legends are quite so charming. The Common wasn't just used for cattle-grazing; it was also used for executions. Executions were a public affair in the Colonial era, and large crowds would turn out to watch. This was the era before television, and executions were often festive (if gruesome) sources of entertainment. For the common people they were a chance to take a break from work, while the government regarded public executions as a good deterrent to future law-breakers.

Murderers and other criminals were executed on the Common, but the definition of "criminal" three hundred years ago was much broader than it is today. Dozens of rebellious Indians were publicly executed, as were four witches and several religious dissenters like Quakers. On some occasions gallows were constructed to do the dirty deed, but in other cases large sturdy trees were used. We do know that Mary Dyer, the famous religious dissident, was hanged from a tree on the Common in 1660 after her final return to Boston from exile.

We don't know exactly which of the many trees on the Common were used for hangings, but tradition assigns the grim role to the Great Elm. It certainly was big enough.

A plaque on Boston Common commemorates the spot where the Great Elm once stood, but ghosts of those unlucky people hanged on its branches may still linger. According to my friend Sam Baltrusis's book Ghosts of Boston: Haunts of the Hub (2012), tenants in a nearby commercial building reported hearing clanking chains in their empty basement. Perhaps they were psychic echoes of the shackles used to restrain doomed criminals as they were led to their deaths? More significantly, the ghost of a woman in Puritan attire has been sighted near the Great Elm site. The ghost weeps and wails before disappearing. Baltrusis speculates that it might be the ghost of the Irish witch Goody Glover, who was hanged on the Common, but there unfortunately are many other possible candidates.

Now to shift gears, from ghost stories to young adult fiction. The Great Elm, or something very much like it, reappears in C.N. Crawford's new young adult novel The Witching Elm. The book's young hero, Tobias Corvin, lives in an alternate universe's version of Boston. The city is called Maremount, and it was founded by Algonquian and English magicians.

In our world's history Maremount, or Merrymount, was a free-loving, multicultural settlement destroyed by the Pilgrims in the early 1600s. In The Witching Elm Maremount is a place where magic is real, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have its problems. Only the upper classes are allowed to practice magic, and as the novel begins Maremount's forces of oppression, led by the mysterious Rawhead, are cleansing the city of illegal magicians and witches. Tobias's family is under suspicion, and for safety Tobias is transformed into a raven and sent to an even stranger city in another dimension: modern-day Boston, Massachusetts.

After regaining his human form Tobias takes shelter at Mather Academy, a prestigious old boarding school located near Boston Common. But things at the school are not quite what they seem. Why are students turning into withered corpses? What's the connection between the Academy, the Salem witches, and Nathaniel Hawthorne? What's up with the weird jewelry some students wear?

After Rawhead's minions appear in Boston to find Tobias, a new tree mysteriously grows at the site of the Great Elm. And then the executions begin...

I really enjoyed reading The Witching Elm, which was sent to me by the authors. (C.N. Crawford is really two people, Christine and Nick Crawford.)  I appreciated the way elements of New England folklore were woven into the book to make a compelling mystery. It's sort of like Harry Potter meets The House of Seven Gables meets this blog. If you like any of those things, or are just a fan of well-written YA fantasy, I'd recommend you purchase a copy. Don't read it too late at night, though, because things do get a little gruesome for the students and faculty at Mather Academy...