When Charles Stevens arrived in Salem, instead of finding the dread superstition a thing of the past, to be forgotten or remembered only with a sense of shuddering shame, he found that the flame had been fanned to a conflagration. Mr. Parris and Mr. Noyes contrived to preach from their pulpits sermons on protean devils and monsters of the air, until the more credulous of their congregations were almost driven to insanity. One evening, as Parris was passing the home of Goody Vance, she met him at the door, and, with a face blanched with fear and annoyance, said:
"Mr. Parris, I am grievously annoyed with a witch in my churn."
"What does she do?" he asked.
"She prevents the butter from forming, and I have churned until my arms seem as if they would drop off."
The parson's face grew grave, and, going to a certain tree, he broke some switches from it and entered the house.
"Take the milk from the churn," he said. "Pour it into a skillet and place the skillet on the coals before the fire."
This was done, and the astounded housewife, with her numerous children, stood gazing at the pastor, who, with his white, cadaverous face, thin lips and hooked nose, looked as if he might have power over the spirits of darkness. He drew a chair up before the fire and, seating himself, began whipping the milk, saying:
"I do this in the name of the Lord," which he repeated with every stroke.
At every stroke he repeated, "I do this in the name of the Lord."