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The Endicott Pear Tree, Still Alive in Massachusetts After Nearly 400 Years

Sometime around 1630, John Endecott planted a pear tree with the hope it would live for generations. He got his wish with the Endicott Pear Tree, believed the oldest living cultivated fruit tree in North America.

The tree survived harsh winters, hurricanes, earthquakes, grazing by cows, suburban sprawl and vandals. It was declared a national landmark in 2011. Clones from the Endicott Pear Tree have been planted in at least 17 states.

The Endicott Pear Tree was featured in a 1919 biography of trees called The Historic Trees of Massachusetts. Author James Raymond Simmons called it ‘one of the most quaint and strangely impressive of all the historic trees.’

John Endecott

John Endecott

Endecott (the name was changed later) scouted the New World with about 70 others who sailed aboard the Abigail in 1628, during the Great Migration of Puritans. He established a small settlement and called it ‘Salem,’ the Hebrew word for peace.

On July 3, 1632, the General Court of Massachusetts Bay granted Endecott 300 acres of land on “a necke of land lying about three miles from Salem” now known as Danversport, a section of Danvers.

The tree was planted sometime between 1630 and 1649. Endecott may have planted it first on his farm in Salem and then moved it to Danvers. He began cultivating a farm, with a cow barn, house and outbuildings. Endecott also owned the first sundial in America and introduced the ox-eye daisy to the colonies.

He also served as the first governor of Massachusetts until his death in 1665. A descendant, Endicott ‘Chub” Peabody, also served as governor of Massachusetts in 1963. People sometimes called the tree The Governor’s Tree.

The Endicott Pear Tree

William Endicott with the Endicott Pear Tree, 1925

John Endecott planted the tree in the presence of his children and workers and said, “I hope the tree will love the soil of the old world and no doubt when we have gone the tree will still be alive,” according to Danvers historian Harriet Tapley.

In 1809, Salem diarist William Bentley sent pears from the Endicott Pear Tree to former President John Adams. Adams planted the seeds and wrote, “I have several young Endicotts … in my garden. They are very flourishing and if I can guard them from accident I hope they will be an ornament to this farm and a comfort to some good citizens 200 years hence.”

In 1904, the Boston Globe reported the tree bore fruit during the last season, although the pears were had ‘not of too pleasant flavor.’

A Worthy Shoot

Lucy Larcom wrote a poem to commemorate the Endicott Pear Tree for Arbor Day in 1890:

Who would not be proud to say
Of the deed he does to-day,
If it be a worthy shoot
From an honorable root,
That, when centuries had passed,
Bloom an fruitage still would last,–
Still a growing, breathing thing–
Autumn, with the heart of spring.

In 1964, vandals ripped off the limbs and jumped up and down on them, leaving two trunks five to six feet high. Several weeks later, shoots appeared and the tree grew again. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire was erected to protect the tree. Later, a more attractive fence was built.

The Endicott Pear Tree, 1920

The farm passed down through generations of Endicotts. William Endicott posed in the 1925 photo above with the tree. Ultimately Osram Sylvania bought the farm, and today the land belongs to Massachusetts General Hospital/North Shore Center for Outpatient Care.

To learn about acquiring an Endicott Pear Tree, click here. This story was updated in 2022.

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The 1762 Drought Troubles George Washington

The 1762 drought, one of the worst in New England history, stretched all the way to Virginia. It even prompted complaints from Mount Vernon.

The drought hit Eastern Massachusetts hardest, according to Sidney Perley, in his classic 1891 book Historic Storms of New England: Its Gales, Hurricanes, Tornadoes, Showers With Thunder and Lightning.

George Washington, in a letter dated June 20, 1762, worried he wouldn’t harvest an ounce of tobacco.

We have had one of the most severe Droughts in these parts that ever was known and without a speedy Interposition of Providence (in sending us moderate and refreshing Rains to Molifie and soften the Earth) we shall not make one oz of Tobacco this year. Our Plants in spite of all our efforts to the contrary are just destroyed, and our grain is absolutely perishing, how it may be in other parts of the Country I can not postively [sic] say, yet I have heard much complaining.

The 1762 Drought

In New England, the weather didn’t warm up until late, and it barely rained at all. The wells went dry, the grass dried up, vegetation scorched.

On July 7, Falmouth (now Portland) held a fast and prayer meeting on account of the drought. But hardly anyone went because they had to put out the fires that broke out.

Throughout the region, farmers prayed to God to avert the dreadful evil. On July 24, a cloudburst with thunder and lightning brought relief to Dorchester, Mass. But only Dorchester (now part of Boston) got wet. The fires continued, the earth got drier and the vegetation died. By late July, farmers thought the crops would fail completely.

And then at the end of July, wrote Perley, “A bounteous rain gladdened the earth.” It rained again on August 13 and August 16. Three days later, a great rain fell on New England/ And from that time on people had no reason to complain about the drought.

The crops were skimpy, however, and hay was so scarce it sold for four times its normal price the next winter. Grain and hay had to be imported from England. Many farmers slaughtered their cows because they couldn’t afford the price of hay.

The Dry Year

Farmers’ diaries tell the story of the terrible summer when the earth turned to dust.

Jeremiah Weare of York, Maine, called it the “dry year.” He noted hay was very scarce and dear, about $16 to $20 a ton.

Thomas Smith, a farmer in Portland, Maine, described the drought as a “melancholy dry time.” ”All are now looking for an absolute famine,” he wrote.

For the next 19 days, Smith simply recorded the weather as fair. After the bounteous rain on August 19, he no longer lamented the “sore and amazing” drought.

In Danvers, Mass., it didn’t rain until September 22.

This story last updated in 2022.

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Israel Putnam Shows the British How to Settle a Fight – Connecticut Yankee Style

Israel Putnam stories abound, but one of the most entertaining dates back to his days in the French and Indian Wars.

Known as ‘Old Put,’ Israel was one of the most interesting and vigorous characters of the American Revolution. One of Connecticut’s Sons of Liberty, he was a reckless fighter who survived a shipwreck in Cuba, galloped down a rocky cliff to escape the British and risked his life to save a burning powder magazine.

Putnam was born on Jan. 7, 1718 in what is now Danvers, Mass., and moved to Pomfret, Conn., when he was 22. During the French and Indian War (1754-1763) he served with Rogers’ Rangers. Mohawk Indians captured him and came close to burning him alive until it rained and a French officer intervened.

Gen. Israel Putnam escapes British dragoons

During the French and Indian Wars, Rogers’ Rangers was attached to a British Army unit. There was a good deal of friction between the British and the Americans. The British, better trained and disciplined, felt superior to their American allies. Meanwhile, the Americans – right up to and including George Washington – felt disrespected for their second-class status. The sense of indignation would fuel the dislike many Americans felt for the British Army in the period leading to the Revolution.

On one occasion, the story goes, a British major felt slighted by Putnam and he sent him a message complaining. Putnam, then a captain, invited the major to visit him in his tent, where he found Putnam seated on a small keg smoking his pipe.

The major confronted him and Putnam noted that a duel with pistols would give the major an unfair advantage. He proposed an alternative:

“Here are two powder kegs; I have bored a hole, and inserted a slow match in each! If you will be so good as to seat yourself there, I will light the matches, and he who dares to sit the longest without squirming, shall be called the bravest fellow.”

The tent was full of officers and men, who goaded the major into taking up the challenge.

At Putnam’s signal, the matches were lit and Putnam continued smoking quite indifferently, without watching at all the progressive diminution of the matches—but the British officer, though a brave fellow, could not help casting longing and lingering looks downwards, and his terrors increased as the length of the matches diminished.

The spectators withdrew, one by one, to get out of the way of the expected explosion. As the fire drew dangerously close to the kegs, the Major could take no more and jumped up.

Drawing out the match, he shouted, “Putnam, this is willful murder; I yield.”

“My dear fellow,” cried Putnam, “don’t be in such a hurry, they’re nothing but kegs of onions.” At that, the major stepped outside, the fight resolved.

Hat Tip to: The Rural Repository. This story was updated from the 2015 version.

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Elizabeth Whitman – The Mysterious Coquette of 1788

Elizabeth Whitman arrived at the Bell Tavern in Danvers, Mass., in the late spring of 1788. Refined, pleasant and beautiful, she was also pregnant. Whitman checked into the tavern under the name of Walker.

Elizabeth Whitman, as depicted in The Coquette.

She came from Connecticut, she told the innkeeper, and said her husband would join her. On July 25, she died in childbirth. She and her stillborn baby were buried.

Her true identity was only discovered when an acquaintance read of her mysterious death in the Salem Mercury. He then came forward to untangle the mystery of her passing.

Her father, Elnathan Whitman, preached as a minister at the Second Church in Hartford until his death in 1777. She had one brother. Sympathetic friends had probably helped her travel to Danvers via Watertown, Mass.

Did the 36-year-old expectant mother expect to be joined there by the father of her child? Poems that she left behind suggest she was waiting for someone. But who?

Elizabeth Whitman, Coquette

Outside of a few nervous households in Connecticut, the story dropped out of sight. But Whitman’s cousin decided not to let it lie. In 1797, Hannah Webster Foster published The Coquette or, The History of Eliza Wharton. Many recognized the personalities involved, as the novel only thinly disguised the death of Elizabeth Whitman. The book, a bestseller, went through multiple printings. But not until 1864, well after her death, did Foster’s name appear as the author.

The book tells the tale of Eliza Wharton. Engaged to a young minister, Eliza becomes infatuated with a rakish womanizer called Major Sanford. Sanford also feels an attraction to Wharton. He decides to marry a wealthier girl, but continues showing attention to Eliza.

Eliza’s fiancé breaks off the engagement, and leaves her with a warning about her lover: “Banish him from your society if you wish to preserve your virtue unsullied, your character unsuspicious. It already begins to depreciate. Snatch it from the envenomed tongue of slander before it receive an incurable wound.”

The book follows the true story as far as Eliza goes. The girl dies pregnant, much mourned by her friends. Major Sanford, meanwhile, is left by his wife and slinks off to some place where his name is not known. His final word: “Let it warn you, my friend, to shun the dangerous paths which I have trodden.”

The wildly popular book, the first American novel written by a woman, was seen as a powerful lesson against the loose morals that led Eliza and Sanford to ruin.

The Real Story

Portrait of Pierpont Edwards

The real life story ended quite differently from the book, however. While Elizabeth Whitman did in fact break her engagement to a minister, and died much mourned, the fate of Major Sanford took a very different course from the book.

Who was Sanford in real life? Pierpont Edwards, son of the firebrand preacher Jonathan Edwards. Pierpont Edwards was second cousin to Elizabeth Whitman and undoubtedly charming. He married long before the events of the story took place, but he had a reputation for loose morality.

While theologian Jonathan Edwards helped instigate the Great Awakening of 1735, preaching and practicing morality, his offspring sowed plenty of wild oats.

Some have questioned whether the younger Edwards actually fathered Elizabeth Whitman’s child. Connecticut state librarian Charles Hoadley theorized the father was U.S. Sen. James Watson, president of the New England Society in the City of New York. Others suggested Aaron Burr, grandson of Jonathan Edwards, who had other illegitimate children.

Pierpont Edwards

But The Coquette‘s introduction naming Edwards as the father seems very much in character. Edwards’ escapades were well documented. He had two illegitimate children with his sister-in-law. He apparently started the affair with his wife’s sister while the girl hadn’t gotten out of her teens.

The matter seemed not to trouble the family much, except when the man who Edwards hired to raise one child began to extort him. He threatened to return the child if Edwards didn’t pay him.

Edwards turned to Burr and Timothy Dwight, future president of Yale, to help with the cover-up and to find a new home for the child.

Nevertheless, neither the shame of that incident nor the death of Elizabeth Whitman hindered his career. Pierpont attained great success as a member of the Continental Congress and U.S. Senate. Among other achievements, Thomas Jefferson appointed him to a seat on the U.S. District Court.

Tourists for many years visited the grave of Elizabeth Whitman in the Old South Cemetery in what is now Peabody, Mass. They chipped away so much of the stone that a new tombstone was erected next to it, and now belongs to the Literacy Trail of Massachusetts.

This story about Elizabeth Whitman was updated in 2022.

Image of the Bell Tavern from The Elizabeth Whitman mystery at the old Bell tavern in Danvers by Charles Knowles Bolton via the Internet Archive.

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The Legend of the Israel Putnam Wolf Den

Gen. Israel Putnam famously left his plow in the ground when he heard about the Battles of Lexington and Concord and immediately rode the 100 miles from his farm in Brooklyn, Conn., to Cambridge. That plow became something of a local attraction. Years earlier, he created another local attraction, one still around today: The Israel Putnam Wolf Den.

Israel Putnam

Known as Old Put, he was one of the most interesting and vigorous characters of the American Revolution. A reckless fighter, he survived a shipwreck in Cuba, galloped down a rocky cliff to escape the British and risked his life to save a burning powder magazine. During the French and Indian War he served as a Rogers’ Ranger. Mohawk Indians captured him and came close to burning him alive until it rained and a French officer intervened.

The Israel Putnam Wolf Den

Israel Putnam was born on Jan. 7, 1718 in what is now Danvers, Mass. His birthplace still stands, now owned by his descendants.

Israel Putnam birthplace

At 22, he then moved to Pomfret, Conn., attracted by the town’s cheap land for sale.

According to legend, Israel Putnam killed Connecticut’s last wolf in Pomfret two years after he arrived.

Putnam had a substantial home by then, cleared fields and a flock of sheep. But a she-wolf kept attacking his and his neighbors’ flocks. Finally, Putnam and his neighbors got together and decided to pursue the wolf until she was dead.

They spotted her one winter night and followed her to a stream six miles away. Then she turned and entered a cave. The men set up a guard, gathered a crowd of men and boys with guns and dogs and lit a fire at the mouth of the cave.

Hours passed and the wolf remained inside. Finally, Israel Putnam persuaded his neighbors to let him go into the cave with a torch. They tied a rope around his ankle and prepared to pull him out when he kicked.

Israel Putnam Wolf Den

Dead Wolf, Live Farmer

The den’s narrow passageway sloped down fifteen feet, then ran horizontally about 10 feet more and rose gradually 16 feet. Putnam crawled into the cave – you couldn’t stand up in it — and saw the she-wolf’s eyeballs three yards away from him. He kicked the rope, and was dragged out so quickly he lost his shirt.

Putnam then crawled back into the cave with a gun and shot the wolf. His neighbors dragged him out again, nearly overcome by smoke. He revived and crawled back into the cave a third time, where he found the dead wolf, seized her by the ears and kicked the rope. The dead wolf and the live young farmer were dragged out together.

The story was told many times during Putnam’s military career.

Gen. Israel Putnam escapes British dragoons, another of his famous exploits

Putnam’s Wolf Den is on the National Register of Historic Places, and can be found in Mashamoquet Brook State Park.

At the turn of the 20^th century, author Clifton Johnson visited Old Put’s old stomping grounds in Pomfret. In his 1915 book Highways & Byways of New England, Johnson tells of visiting the Wolf Den and of meeting an old New Englander.

“We had that plough of Putnam’s on exhibition here once,” said the old man. “And by gosh! When I saw it I didn’t blame Putnam for leaving it in the field. It was nothing but a crooked stick shod with iron, and I’ll be darned if I’d put it in the barn if it was mine.”

Images: Israel Putnam Wolf den By Ehkastning – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=35801371. Cartoon image of wolf https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/.

This story last updated in 2023.

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Witch Trial Records Produced Hysteria of Their Own

Whether you’re a Pawn Stars fan or Antiques Roadshow is more your speed, the story is the same. Money-hungry owner of a rare ‘authentic’ bit of American history has his object appraised and comes face-to-face with the cold hard truth: The colonial desk has drawers made of pressboard, that 1472 on the bottom of the vase is really 1972, the Vermeer handed down through generations is really a paint-by-number made by a kid at summer camp.

Judge William Stoughton signed Bridget Bishop’s death warrant during her witch trial.

And so you sniff with satisfaction and click off the television. ‘Never happen to me,’ you say. But are you so sure?

Suppose you ran into a stranger, a military veteran down on his luck. And he explained he needed money to travel home because his wife just died. He knew that the rare document he possessed was worth more than he was asking, maybe even a lot more. But he was looking for quick cash and was offering you a win-win proposition. Would you help this poor fellow, or turn your back?

Now look at the two photos below. Two death warrants signed for witches from the witch trial records of the Salem witch hysteria – Bridget Bishop and Martha Corey. Look closely at the witch trial death warrant on the right. The paper seems incredibly bright and clean, the wax stamp is bright red. Almost too perfect, isn’t it?

And the witch trial death warrant on the left, tattered and barely readable. The stamp destroyed. You can’t even tell what it says. Who could authenticate such a document? But isn’t that what a missing sheriff’s order from 1692 would most likely look like?

You decide. Because one witch trial death warrant is undoubtedly worthless and one witch trial death warrant is worth, who knows?

Not so simple now, is it? It wasn’t so simple for investigative reporter A.B. Macdonald of Kansas City, either.

Witch Trial Hysteria

In 1692 and 1693, the courts of Massachusetts did indeed order the deaths of 20 people for witchcraft. Two hundred (perhaps a few more) were charged in what historians now believe was a massive case of petty jealousies and score settling. One scientist, though, has posited that it was a case of fungus-induced hysteria.

Killing witches was nothing new, but the the Salem trials stood out for their sheer insanity and corruption. In the aftermath, the court papers were stored away and an 1875 review found the death warrants for the 20 murdered witches were, for the most part, gone from the files.

Bridget Bishop’s death warrant

Pilfered for profit? Removed as souvenirs? Purged because of the shame now associated with the trials? Simply lost? It’s not clear. But only one witch trial death warrant remained with the original records. The others were missing, and a great mystery to the collector community.

$20 Death Warrant

Forged death warrant

This was roughly the state of play in 1932 when “Captain E. Newman Bradley” knocked on the door of A.B. MacDonald, a writer for the Kansas City Star. Though somewhat knowledgeable about historic documents, MacDonald bought Bradley’s story that he needed money to travel because he had been notified his wife was dead.

MacDonald’s main reservation about paying $20 for the witch trial death warrant was that he was taking advantage of Bradley’s misfortune. He would pay more, he offered, if the man could wait until morning for a check. But Bradley was clearly a bird-in-the-hand man, and fled with a wave of his hand.

Of course, researchers now suspect Bradley had more than one death warrant in his collection, and he was probably off to his next mark.

Though the witch trials actually took place in what is now Danvers, Mass., much of the action, including the executions, took place in modern-day Salem. Thus Salem has forever been the hub for the history and hysteria surrounding the witch trials. So it was Salem where MacDonald’s document ultimately wound up for review.

With visions of scoring $10,000 for the document, a Vermont antiques dealer presented it to Howard Corning, secretary of the Essex Institute, now the Peabody Essex Museum. Priceless or worthless?

Corning delivered the bad news. The document was not only a forgery, it was a bad one, Corning said. And he pointed the dealer to the authentic warrant – the bright clean one for Bridgett Bishop – to demonstrate what they should look like.

More Forgeries Surface

But MacDonald was not the only one fooled. A slew of phony death warrants were floating around, bought by eager collectors. As more and more people began plaguing Corning about their ‘authentic’ warrants, he began speaking out about them. Harvard historian Steven Biel produced a terrific article about the forgeries for Common-Place in 2005.

Today the forgeries are lodged in collections and attics around the country, and the ways they are uncovered make for interesting reading. MacDonald wrote of his experience for the Kansas City Star.

In 1939, another death warrant emerged for five of the accused witches. It is in the Boston Public Library collections. Others, however, remain missing. None of this means that the ‘death warrant’ you find mixed in with the family photos in the attic or stashed in a box at the yard sale isn’t real. But you probably want to have it checked out before planning your retirement.

You can view the witch trial records, collected at various libraries and museums, at the Salem Witch Trials Documentary Archive.

This story was updated in 2022.

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