Samuel Paris was not a bad man. He was merely a young minister driven by circumstances to come to Salem.
He hoped to bring a different kind of spiritual enlightenment to the village. During sermons, he tried to slip in his own opinions and would ramble endlessly about certain matters. This often left him feeling powerless, because the congregation beneath the pulpit showed no reaction whatsoever to his speeches.
What the villagers truly wanted from their minister was comfort, something the elderly ministers before him had often provided but which they rarely received from Paris.
Paris was not someone who easily admitted defeat, and this was also his stubborn side. Yet his persistence brought no improvement. His salary was withheld, and a campaign to dismiss him was brewing.
Just as he had felt the first time he saw Salem, he would be buried alive in this place. Worse still, before he suffocated to death, he would freeze first. Firewood remained scarce, and he and his family could only shiver through the snow and howling winds.
The winter of 1691 to 1692 was bitterly cold. The bread on the communion plate and the ink in pens froze solid. Icy winds blew down the chimney, and when Paris preached, waves of coughing and violent sneezing sometimes rose from the congregation. Some even dragged their feet because of frostbite.
To make everyone more comfortable, he shortened his sermons. Aside from arguing with the villagers, Paris had other work to do. One moment he might be studying theology; the next, he would be grooming his mare. If the villagers had truly loved and respected him, someone should have done these things for him.
He had no choice but to do everything himself, including repairing the fence around the garden. Yet to preside over a