Scepticism and belief in English witchcraft drama, 1538–1681

Acknowledgements

No project of this length can be completed without a great deal of help, and I wish to express my heartfelt gratitude to the many people who have provided advice, support and feedback. The book was written while I was at Lund University, where the higher seminar in English Literature provided a great deal of support, guidance and encouragement, and played a major part in shaping the book. Thanks to all those members of the seminar, past and present, who have commented on my work: Professor Marianne Thormählen, Professor Cian Duffy, Dr Birgitta Berglund, Dr Kiki Lindell, Dr Sara Håkansson, Dr Cecilia Wadsö Lecaros, Dr Ellen Turner, Dr Annika J. Lindskog, Dr Claes Lindskog, Dr Anna Lindhé, Dr Mette Hildeman Sjölin, Associate Professor Alexander Bareis, Professor Jane Mattisson Ekstam, Dr Sanna Melin Schyllert, Katie Anderson Ahlstedt, Charlotte Hansson Webb, and Lisa-Marie Teubler.

Outside of Lund, this book owes a great deal to a number of scholars with particular expertise on witchcraft who have contributed to it in a variety of ways. Special mention must be made of Dr Roy Booth of Royal Holloway for his advice on the project: he provided expert knowledge, a critical eye, and an endless supply of good humour. I had the privilege of discussing a draft version of the book at some length with Professor Marion Gibson of the University of Exeter, and I am immensely grateful to her for everything I learned in the course of our conversation. Thanks are also due to both of the peer-reviewers engaged by Lund University Press for their generous and very helpful comments, which improved the book considerably.

Several institutions have also been generous in supporting my work. Olof Sagers stipendiefond made it possible for me to spend half a year in London, with access to the British Library's resources. This time made a major contribution to the book and was spent very happily, as well as very productively. A grant from Stiftelsen Fil. Dr Uno Otterstedts fond allowed me to attend a conference on Demonology at UiT in Tromsö, which was extremely helpful to me, and I would also like to thank the organisers, Professors Liv Helene Willumsen and Rita Voltmer, and all of the participants. In addition, I am particularly grateful to the Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities for honouring this book with the 2019 Warburg Prize for an outstanding work of literary history published in Sweden.

Last but certainly not least, I would like to thank my family for keeping my feet on the ground and for dragging me out of the early modern period and into the present from time to time. Thanks to my parents, Steve and Linda, and my parents-in-law, Chris and Björn, for all the support, free babysitting, and practical help. Most thanks of all to Charlotte, my wonderful wife and most steadfast supporter; and to Jake and Gabriel, the best sons in the world, for drawing me all those pictures and being so interested in everything.

A note on references and abbreviations

All references to the Bible are to the King James Version unless otherwise stated.

References to all books printed during the early modern period are to electronic copies accessed via the Early English Books Online database.

All references to laws (appearing in the format V Elizabeth c. 13) are from The Statutes of the Realm.

The following abbreviations have been used:

Introduction

Witchcraft is often thought of, wrongly, as a thing of the past. In fact, it continues to be taken seriously by people all over the world. But because the subject of this study is, specifically, early modern witchcraft and its dramatic representation, it will be necessary to clarify what the term ‘witch’ meant within this specific context. As several early modern authors on witchcraft argued, the meaning of the word has changed over time. The senses in which ancient Latin or Greek authors used the terms that are typically translated as ‘witch’ are distinct from the senses in which sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English people used those terms, as well as from the senses in which the word might be understood in the present. The situation is further complicated by the variety of different understandings of what defined witchcraft in early modern England. Accusations of witchcraft tended to focus on the issue of maleficium – the harm it caused – while theoretical writings on witchcraft were usually more interested in the witches’ supposed pact with the devil. Magical power might be conceived of as inherent in the witch herself, in the objects or words she used, in the spirit with which she bargained, or as merely illusory. Disagreement over these and other issues continued throughout the period during which witchcraft was a criminal offence.¹

One assumption of this study – widely but not universally shared today – is that magic operating outside the laws of nature and bargains with the devil are not and never were possible, and that people, both past and present, who believed these things to be possible were, and are, mistaken. Consequently, there can be no definitive description of what a witch was, only a description of what a given person or group of people imagined a witch to be. Assuming that witches did not exist in the sense that they were often believed to, it is hardly surprising that early modern society did not reach a consensus on what witchcraft was; the subject was debated for centuries and eventually faded from public discourse without ever having been resolved. No work on early modern witchcraft, therefore, can ignore the fact that there was a wide range of opinion on the matter. Furthermore, it would be misleading simply to rely on an exhaustive list of the various opinions (even assuming all of these were documented). Many early modern people appear to have been quite flexible in what they were prepared to believe, and ideas about witchcraft were often fluid rather than fixed points of reference against which real-life situations might be judged. Many people were open to persuasion and argument, evidence was often open to interpretation, and whether a given proposition about an alleged witch was accepted or not might depend on a variety of local factors.

Nonetheless, some broad generalisations are possible. One important point is that the late medieval and early modern period in Europe saw the emergence of a specifically Christian conception of witchcraft. Witchcraft belief, and laws against witchcraft, had existed long before this. But from the fifteenth century onwards, important people within the late medieval Church began to accept the idea that witches were evil and genuinely powerful servants of the devil, and could therefore be punished as a species of heretic. Perhaps the most important texts here are the Malleus Maleficarum (1486) of Institoris and Sprenger and the decree made by Innocent VIII, which lent papal authority to the subsequent witch-hunts in Germany.² Always controversial, always contested, this idea nevertheless spread through Europe and led to a period of intense witchcraft persecution, peaking in the late sixteenth century. This conception of witchcraft is described in a variety of theological, medical, and philosophical writings and constitutes an important part of the body of work known as demonology. Demonological views of witchcraft frequently form the intellectual context of this study.

A second important point to make about witchcraft belief is that it was to a considerable extent based on fiction, and not merely in the sense that stories about witches were not true. These stories were also frequently drawn from literary sources. Characters who could be described as witches feature in some of the best-known works of classical literature, including the Odyssey, the Metamorphoses of Apuleius and Ovid and Lucan's Pharsalia. Stories derived from classical sources found their way into demonological literature, which routinely refers to Circe, for example, as if she had been a historical person. Other stories told about witches had less exalted origins. One frequently recurring story, which appears in several slightly different versions, concerns the witch's transformation into the shape of an animal. The witch is injured while in animal form, and can be identified and captured because she displays the same injuries when she has turned back into human form. This type of story, according to George Lyman Kittredge, can be found in English sources of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and is probably of folkloric origin.³ A particular version of it is incorporated into the Malleus, a text whose authors seem to have been willing, as Walter Stephens points out, to use virtually anything to back up their argument.⁴ Probably taken from this purportedly factual source, it made its way into a play in the seventeenth century, The Late Lancashire Witches (1634).⁵

At a later date, another version of the story turns up as evidence provided by eyewitnesses in a criminal trial presided over by Sir Matthew Hale in the 1660s.⁶ Even more striking is the case of the 1592 witchcraft pamphlet mentioned by Marion Gibson, which ‘plagiarized a long extract from a play, Robert Greene's Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, inserting incidents from it into the story of a Middlesex farmhand’.⁷ Stories about witchcraft move easily between fiction and reality at this time, and in some cases the status of a given text (as either fictional or purportedly true) is unclear.

Historians have recognised that the pamphlets which constitute the richest source of information about contemporary beliefs about, and attitudes towards, witchcraft are not only frequently unreliable as factual records of events; they are also very often literary, or at least rhetorical, in character. Pamphlets, which only exist for a small and probably unrepresentative minority of cases of alleged witchcraft, tended to be published at least partly in order to justify the condemned witch's conviction and punishment. They both depended on and perpetuated what Gibson has described as ‘a narrational stereotype’ of the witch: an old, impoverished, and vindictive woman – usually a widow – seeking revenge on her neighbours.⁸ There is at least one individual case in which this stereotype, used in a pamphlet account to describe a convicted witch, sits uncomfortably with independent evidence of the accused witch's character.⁹ Any relationship that the pamphlets bear to historical reality is tenuous at best, and caution should be exercised before accepting anything in them – including elements that are, on the face of it, entirely plausible – as historically accurate.

These considerations point to witchcraft as a historical phenomenon especially open to literary analysis, and one in which, as Gareth Roberts pointed out, some of the theoretical premises of New Historicism acquire concrete support.¹⁰ This is a field in which it can be difficult to distinguish between text and history, fiction and reality, literary work and historical document. The history of witchcraft is one in which literary and quasi-literary texts, from ancient myth to cheap news pamphlet, influenced real events just as much as events influenced the texts. Literature – not least in the form of the supposedly factual witchcraft pamphlets’ formulaic plots and characters – was employed in an attempt to influence opinion, while real events – or the literary representation of those events – were used to inspire new, and more explicitly fictional, works of literature. Literature or, more broadly, the literary impulse – the urge to tell stories – is therefore far from innocent in the history of witchcraft.

Theatre and witchcraft have a good deal in common, as a number of eminent literary critics have observed.¹¹ The stress laid on the deceptive nature of witchcraft and the frequent use of magic as a metaphor for stagecraft in early modern drama suggest a degree of sympathy for witchcraft (if not for actual witches) on the part of the theatre. Several scholars of witchcraft drama have suggested that seeing witches on stage may have helped to produce scepticism about witchcraft. These suggestions have sometimes been made in relation to specific plays.¹² While the storytelling impulse was certainly implicated in perpetuating and spreading witchcraft belief, the stage representation of witchcraft, according to many critics, may have undermined that belief by its very artificiality.

The phenomenon of witchcraft therefore highlights both the need to believe in stories and the capacity to see through them. This study explores the role played by the theatre in both reflecting and generating belief and scepticism about witchcraft, but it will also reveal that scepticism and credulity are ideas inseparable from the idea of witchcraft, and the idea of a witch, in early modern Europe. The first step in understanding the role played by these opposing impulses is to look at the developing notion of scepticism itself in the Renaissance. Scepticism re-emerged at this time as a powerful driver of intellectual and cultural change, and the debate about witchcraft needs to be set in this broader context. Doing so leads to an understanding that the categories of scepticism and belief are a good deal more complex than might at first be assumed, and that these attitudes are not static and inflexible positions, but are amenable to being utilised for various argumentative purposes. Controlled scepticism can be used to generate belief, while even the most radical scepticism tends to conceal an underlying and unquestioned set of beliefs. Within the debate that took place during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries about the nature of witchcraft, belief, and scepticism were employed by all writers on the subject. They also found their way into dramatic representations of the subject to an increasing degree as the seventeenth century progressed.

In view of the centrality and complexity of the issue of scepticism and credulity, the first chapter is devoted to examining Renaissance scepticism, both in general and in relation to witchcraft specifically, and to the earliest plays to feature witches, which date back to before the Elizabethan criminalisation of witchcraft. Chapters 2 and 3 deal with the Elizabethan and the Jacobean representation of witches on stage. The conventional division of the period according to the reigning monarch is appropriate in this case, as the witch dramas are noticeably different after 1603, and the identity of the monarch is a relevant factor in explaining this difference. Chapters 4 and 5 are devoted to a play each: The Witch of Edmonton and The Late Lancashire Witches. These plays have been given a prominent place in the study owing to their close connection to the historical cases of witchcraft which inspired them.

Chapter 6 moves past the Civil War and Interregnum period, during which the theatres were closed, dealing instead with the Restoration witchcraft debate and its connection to the theatre of the time. This period has often been neglected by scholars of witchcraft theatre, which is unfortunate since witches and witchcraft, along with other supernatural phenomena, are particularly well represented in the theatre of the second half of the seventeenth century. The final chapter focuses on Thomas Shadwell's play The Lancashire Witches in detail. While this play is not based on a recent case of witchcraft, as were The Witch of Edmonton and The Late Lancashire Witches, it is certainly a play with great topical relevance. It is also a play which engages with witch-hunting in the broader sense, as well as with witchcraft.

Previous book-length studies of witchcraft in English drama have often touched on the question of scepticism towards the phenomenon. The folklorist Katherine Briggs's ground-breaking study, Pale Hecate’s Team (1962), frequently draws inferences about popular belief, using dramatic literature partly as evidence of it. Briggs's very wide scope and range of interests limits the depth of her study somewhat, although the extensive reading behind it makes it very useful. In a fairly similar vein is Anthony Harris's Night’s Black Agents (1980), although his book is focused specifically on drama. Harris discusses many of the plays he covers in terms of their belief in or scepticism towards the phenomenon of witchcraft, but again this is largely on the level of drawing inferences about whether the plays encourage or discourage belief in witchcraft. Harris tends to regard the earlier plays, in particular, as credulously reinforcing witchcraft belief.

Feminist and gender-related perspectives have, for obvious reasons, been important in studies of the literature of witchcraft. Diane Purkiss's The Witch in History (1996) seeks to recapture women's perspectives on witchcraft and, in the process, produces a more nuanced argument than that of Harris. Purkiss recognises the close and complex relationship between literature and reality in the case of witchcraft and poses both historical and literary questions. In terms of drama, she tends to regard the effect of the plays, and perhaps of the institution of the theatre itself, as increasing the scepticism of the watching audience and of society in general. Deborah Willis's Malevolent Nurture (1995), another cross-disciplinary work, also pays close attention to the gendered aspects of witchcraft, exploring the idea of witches as perverted ‘mothers’ to their spirit familiars. Like Purkiss, Willis tries to approach the concerns of ordinary women at the level of village accusations of witchcraft, and she also utilises theatre as part of her argument. Willis suggests that comic representations of witches may have generated scepticism about witchcraft, but avoids drawing more general conclusions in favour of focusing exclusively on Shakespeare's plays. Willis's interpretations of Shakespearean witchcraft draw on psychoanalytic concepts and highlight the witch characters’ disruption of accepted gender norms.

Heidi Breuer's Crafting the Witch (2009) is another gender-focused study covering a longer time period, moving from the early Arthurian literature of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, where Breuer finds witches to be peripheral figures, through to later medieval romances and the sixteenth-century continuation of the romance tradition in Malory and Spenser. Breuer goes on to consider Shakespeare's dramatic representations of magic and witchcraft, before looking at the persistence of witchcraft imagery in present-day culture. Like Willis, Breuer regards witches as being ‘anti-mothers’,¹³ although she also finds more sympathetic representations of witchcraft emerging in recent years. Frances Dolan's Dangerous Familiars (1994), a study covering a range of ‘domestic’ crimes including witchcraft, finds an inverse relation between the centrality of witch characters in plays and the seriousness with which they are taken: in other words, witches that are genuinely powerful are kept in the margins of the action, while witches that are present throughout a play are trivialised. As noted above, Dolan also finds that the theatre ‘participated in the cultural process that gradually marginalised and discredited belief in witchcraft’.¹⁴

Scepticism plays a more prominent role in Ryan Curtis Friesen's study of Supernatural Fiction in Early Modern Drama and Culture.¹⁵ This monograph, as the title suggests, covers more than just witchcraft, and sets out to deal with writings not normally considered fictional – such as the occult writings of Giordano Bruno, Heinrich Agrippa, and John Dee – alongside the theatre of Marlowe, Shakespeare, Jonson, and Middleton. Friesen studies a range of such texts for evidence of scepticism or duplicity on the parts of the authors, but while his readings of the dramatic texts are focused on magic and witchcraft, they do not specifically address the questions of scepticism and belief. A shorter work which is also concerned with scepticism and belief, and the theatre's role in it, is Stephen Greenblatt's important essay on Macbeth, ‘Shakespeare Bewitched’. Greenblatt points to the imaginative sympathy between witchcraft and the theatre, both of which are concerned with illusion, as well as recognising that narrative strategies were employed by those who sought to encourage or perpetuate witchcraft belief. Like many other critics, Greenblatt finds Shakespeare not guilty of collusion in the persecution of witches.

While the question of scepticism and belief in relation to witchcraft always surfaces at some point in discussions of literary witchcraft, none of the studies described above has made this question its organising principle, nor have many of them focused on the issues of scepticism and belief as they are presented within the plays themselves. In much of the work described here, there has been a tendency to treat drama as a type of historical evidence which casts light on the sceptical or credulous attitudes of playwrights or audiences. This is one important aspect of the issue, and one which this study does not neglect; but it is also important to recognise that scepticism and belief are often of central concern within the plays themselves, albeit in widely differing ways. This book traces the development of the stage representation of witchcraft and its connections with the society and the theoretical writings about witchcraft of the time. The relationship between the two is complex, but the issues of scepticism and belief are central to both the theatre and culture more generally, not only in relation to witchcraft but also in relation to wider questions of an epistemological and theological nature. In witchcraft drama, scepticism and belief are constantly recurring, constantly conjoined, and constantly shifting themes; they are never absent, but their significance is rarely as straightforward as it seems.

1 Jonathan Barry, Witchcraft and Demonology in South-West England, 1640–1789 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012) summarises the key issues (p. 5).

2 As Diarmaid MacCulloch points out, the Malleus was taken seriously by Protestants as well as Catholics throughout Europe: A History of Christianity (London: Penguin, 2010), p. 686.

3 George Lyman Kittredge, Witchcraft in Old and New England (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1929), p. 41.

4 Walter Stephens, Demon Lovers (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), p. 304.

5 Another possible source of this incident is discussed in Brett D. Hirsch, ‘Werewolves and Severed Hands: Webster's The Duchess of Malfi and Heywood and Brome's The Witches of Lancashire’, Notes and Queries 53:1 (March 2006), 92–94; see also Chapter 5 on The Late Lancashire Witches.

6 Anon., A Tryal of Witches Held at the Assizes at Bury St. Edmonds (London, 1682), pp. 6–7. See also John Stearne, A Confirmation and Discovery of Witchcraft (London, 1648), p. 19 (these and other examples are briefly discussed in Kittredge, pp. 176–79).

7 Marion Gibson, ‘Understanding Witchcraft? Accusers’ Stories in Print in Early Modern England’, in Languages of Witchcraft, edited by Stuart Clark (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2001), pp. 41–54 (p. 43). For more detail, see Gibson, Reading Witchcraft (London: Routledge, 1999), pp. 153–56.

8 Gibson, ‘Understanding Witchcraft?’, p. 46.

9 The case in question is that of Joan Cariden of Faversham in Kent, discussed by Malcolm Gaskill, ‘Witchcraft in Early Modern Kent: Stereotypes and the Background to Accusations’, in New Perspectives on Witchcraft, Magic, and Demonology, vol. 3, edited by Brian Levack (New York: Routledge, 2001), pp. 173–203 (pp. 182–85).

10 Gareth Roberts, ‘The Descendants of Circe: Witches and Renaissance Fictions’, in Witchcraft in Early Modern Europe: Studies in Culture and Belief, edited by Jonathan Barry, Marianne Hester, and Gareth Roberts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 183–206 (p. 186).

11 See, for example, Stephen Greenblatt, ‘Shakespeare Bewitched’ in New Historical Literary Study, edited by Jeffrey N. Cox and Larry J. Reynolds (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), p. 127; Diane Purkiss, The Witch in History (London: Routledge, 1996), pp. 182–83.

12 Diane Purkiss writes that the stage ‘certainly contributes to the growth of the kind of scepticism that eventually ensures the end of the successful prosecution of the witch’ (The Witch in History, p. 283). Frances Dolan, Dangerous Familiars (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994), suggests that plays ‘might ultimately have helped to spare women's lives’ (p. 217). Lisa Hopkins, The Female Hero in English Renaissance Tragedy (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), makes the case for The Witch of Edmonton specifically (p. 98), while Greenblatt makes similar claims for Macbeth.

13 Heidi Breuer, Crafting the Witch (New York: Routledge, 2009), p. 11.

14 Dolan, p. 217.

15 Ryan Curtis Friesen, Supernatural Fiction in Early Modern Drama and Culture (Brighton: Sussex Academic, 2010).

1

Scepticism in the Renaissance

Scepticism has long been acknowledged to be a vital feature of Renaissance thought, and one which has been said to distinguish the period from the Middle Ages. Conventionally, Renaissance scepticism has been seen as part of what puts the ‘modern’ into ‘early modern’: the questioning of old certainties which ultimately helped to usher in the Enlightenment. This view understates the importance of sceptical attitudes within the medieval period; as early as the fifth or sixth century, Pseudo-Dionysius was emphasising the unknowability of God and the severe limitations of human reason, a sceptical tradition brought into Western Europe in the ninth century by John Scottus Eriugena.¹ William of Ockham and other nominalist thinkers provide further evidence of sceptical thought within medieval theology.² Nonetheless, the rediscovery of a wide range of ancient thought during the Renaissance, including the sceptical writings of Cicero but especially those of the Greek Pyrrhonist Sextus Empiricus, was part of what brought about the ‘sceptical crisis’ of the period.³ Philosophical scepticism played a significant role in undermining the certainties offered by the philosophy of the later medieval period, which was dominated by Aristotelian scholasticism (Aristotle's dominance was such that he was frequently known simply as ‘the philosopher’). In doing so, scepticism left a mark on the work of many of the period's most famous thinkers, eventually making a significant contribution to the development of scientific method, as Richard Popkin's history of the phenomenon shows. Even those who did not embrace scepticism were forced to take account of these ideas.

The most obvious role for this newly sceptical mentality in relation to witchcraft would seemingly be to encourage people to deny the possibility of such a thing. Modern assumptions about witchcraft tend to treat it as the product of blind credulity, so a modicum of scepticism would seem to be fatal to witchcraft belief – and this appears to have been the dominant view of most historians of witchcraft in the early twentieth century. Support for such a view is not entirely lacking: the Aristotelian natural philosophy that was gradually eroded by sceptical thought has frequently been linked to witchcraft belief,⁴ and Thomas Aquinas was a vital authority for later witchcraft theorists.⁵ Furthermore, some writers on witchcraft explicitly rejected epistemological scepticism as part of their argument in favour of witchcraft persecution, among them Jean Bodin and John Cotta.⁶ But despite its intuitive appeal and some superficial support, a straightforward correlation between philosophical scepticism and scepticism about witchcraft does not hold up.

The most obvious problem is one of chronology. During the blindly credulous medieval period of popular caricature, witches were not persecuted in great numbers. Orthodox opinion, as represented in the ecclesiastical law recorded in the Canon Episcopi, held that the stories told by self-proclaimed witches were delusions, and that believing them to be true was heretical.⁷ Meanwhile, in the sceptical and questioning Renaissance, witchcraft was widely proclaimed to be real, and executions for it reached levels never seen before, or since, anywhere in the world. The rise of witchcraft belief, therefore, seems to have coincided with the rise of scepticism, rather than being ended by it. Nor does this appear to be a coincidence. As Stephens points out, one of the earliest sceptics was also a persecutor of witches:

Gianfrancesco Pico della Mirandola (d. 1533) was the first modern philosopher to quote the arguments of the ancient Pyrrhonian sceptic Sextus Empiricus (d. CE 210) extensively. At the same time, Pico was a major theorist of witchcraft, and vehemently defended the prosecution of witches. This apparent paradox, the exploitation of radically sceptical arguments in order to defend the reality of witchcraft rather than to attack it, is essential to understanding the context and complexities of scepticism about witchcraft.⁸

Clearly, the impact of scepticism was not a straightforward matter. Part of the reason for this was that scepticism in early modern argument was frequently used not for its own sake but in a rhetorical manner. In other words, scepticism was frequently used in order to argue not for the suspension of judgement, but in support of a particular conclusion.

To illustrate this point, it is worth briefly considering the role played by scepticism in related areas of early modern intellectual life – perhaps the most fundamental being that of religious controversy. One of the reasons identified by Popkin for the rise in importance of sceptical ideas during this period was the Protestant Reformation. Scepticism was used by both sides in the debates between Catholics and Protestants. The Protestant reformers challenged the authority of popes and councils, which the Catholic Church insisted was beyond question. Catholic writers responded by pointing out that reliance on personal revelation or an individual interpretation of scripture required relying on one's own, necessarily fallible, reasoning and intuition. Any such reliance on individual conscience, it was argued, led inevitably to relativism and, therefore, complete uncertainty. As a result, ‘it became a stock claim of the Counter-Reformers to assert that the Reformers were just sceptics in disguise’.⁹ But while they depicted Protestants (unflatteringly) as sceptics, these anti-Protestant arguments themselves incorporated scepticism, as they were founded upon an insistence on human fallibility. If, in the absence of certain knowledge, one should rely on faith and trust in the established church rather than trying to reach a truth that is inaccessible to human beings, then that faith is based on highly sceptical intellectual premises.

A sceptical argument can therefore be used to provide certainty, or at least a semblance of certainty. The most illustrious example of the philosophical use of scepticism is found in the work of René Descartes. In his Meditations on First Philosophy (1641), Descartes doubted all the evidence of his senses, stripping away all knowledge that could conceivably be doubted in an attempt to arrive at indubitable knowledge.¹⁰ This project resulted in the famous proposition cogito ergo sum: I think, therefore I am. Descartes’ use of scepticism does not treat it as an end point; instead, Descartes is actually in quest of certainty. Cogito ergo sum is the first step in that it establishes the outer limit of doubt, but by itself it is not very helpful, since nothing else directly follows from it. Descartes could only move beyond the cogito by proving the existence of God, which he proceeded to do in more or less the same way as Thomas Aquinas had before him. Descartes is not a doubter but a striver after certainty, much like the scholastic philosophers with whom he is usually contrasted. His use of scepticism is never more than a thought experiment; his doubts are put forward in order that they can be defeated. The cases of Cartesian method and the arguments of the Reformation show that scepticism is in practice more flexible than a ‘pure’ sceptic might wish it to be. The apparent paradox of scepticism used to reinforce belief in witchcraft dissolves when it becomes clear that scepticism is frequently used in this way.

The notion that scepticism, rather than merely opposing belief, could actually support and even form an important part of it, has as its corollary the idea that excessive credulity ultimately undermines belief. The alleged tendency of ‘simple people’ to believe virtually anything about witches could lead to dangerous incredulity in others, according to the seventeenth-century scholar Meric Casaubon.¹¹ And while credulity could lead to incredulity, Casaubon held that the reverse was also true. Part of what made the divine mystery so powerful and compelling was precisely the fact that it was difficult to believe:

the more we are apprehensive of Gods Greatness and Omnipotency, which makes other miracles, probable; doth make this, or seem to make it, the more improbable, and incredible. To say therefore the more credible, because incredible; and that such things become God best; that may seem most incredible to men.¹²

Casaubon claims that God's existence is the greatest of miracles, and its incredible nature makes other miracles (which include everything in nature, he argues, since everything proceeds from God) seem probable by comparison. But, he continues, God's existence is credible precisely because it is so incredible, so remarkable: the sheer vastness of the idea is what convinces people of the existence of a vast creator.¹³ A properly controlled sense of incredulity – one that only makes itself felt occasionally, and without seriously threatening Christian faith – is in fact an essential part of that faith, and Casaubon writes that he ‘shall not much applaud’ the faith of those who do not have moments of incredulity, or doubt.¹⁴ With the complexity of the relationship between scepticism and belief in mind, I now turn back to the importance of these concepts within the debate on witchcraft.

Sceptics and believers

[I]f I heard any body speake, either of ghosts walking, of foretelling future things, of enchantments, of witchcrafts, or any other thing reported, which I could not well conceive, or that was beyond my reach … I could not but feele a kinde of compassion to see the poore and seely people abused with such follies. And now I perceive, that I was as much to be moaned myselfe: Not that experience has since made me to dicerne any thing beyond my former opinions … but reason hath taught me, that so resolutely to condemne a thing for false, and impossible, is to assume unto himselfe the advantage, to have the bounds and limits of Gods will, and of the power of our common mother Nature tied to his sleeve … Let us consider through what clouds, and how blinde-fold we are led to the knowledge of most things, that passe our hands: verily we shall finde, it is rather custome, than science that removeth the strangenesse of them from us.¹⁵

In this passage Michel de Montaigne, dubbed by Popkin the most important sceptical thinker of the sixteenth century,¹⁶ describes his transition from an impious incredulity to a humble and Christian scepticism. Having reached what he later perceives to be an overconfident and unjustified conclusion, Montaigne realises his mistake and suspends his judgement entirely. True scepticism, in this case, precludes scepticism about witchcraft in the sense of the word which is ordinarily used. The young Montaigne is, properly speaking, a witchcraft denier (the negative connotations of this word notwithstanding), while the older is a witchcraft sceptic.

However, the word ‘sceptic’ is much more commonly used to denote a denier, certainly in relation to witchcraft. Histories of English witchcraft written in the early twentieth century tended to categorise authors on witchcraft as either sceptics or believers, celebrating the former, in particular Reginald Scot, while condemning or apologising for the latter.¹⁷ More recently, however, the validity of a clear distinction between authors in terms of scepticism and belief has been called into question by historians of witchcraft, notably Peter Elmer and Stuart Clark.¹⁸ Using the examples of Henry Boguet and Johannes Weyer, Clark makes the important point that texts written by authors traditionally characterised as ‘believers’ often contain much that is sceptical, while authors regarded as sceptical often concede a great deal to the believers.¹⁹

Nonetheless, it is important to recognise a fundamental dividing line in the motivations of different authors in the period up until the Restoration: some write in order to encourage witchcraft persecution, while others write in order to discourage it. (In the second half of the seventeenth century, as prosecutions became much rarer, what was at stake in the debate on witchcraft changed considerably, as discussed in Chapter 6.) The views of ‘sceptics’ and ‘believers’ about what is and is not possible can be much closer than is sometimes recognised, but the more practical question of what they wish to recommend does separate them. To take two examples from England, George Gifford and William Perkins are very close indeed in terms of their theoretical and theological positions, but they are almost diametrically opposed in terms of their tone and recommendations. Gifford writes in order to discourage witchcraft persecution in the strongest possible terms, while Perkins advocates increased zeal in hunting witches. The demonological beliefs of the two authors are similar, but their prescriptions as to what evidence should be required for the conviction of a witch are very different: Gifford's demands would have made it almost impossible for any witch to be convicted.²⁰ It is hard to read Gifford's works without coming to the conclusion that he would, in spite of his declared beliefs, have been very much opposed to any accusation of maleficent witchcraft.

Why should this difference exist between two Protestant clergymen with much in common in other respects? One way to answer this question is to consider the specific circumstances under which individual authors wrote. Gifford had personal experience of witchcraft accusations as minister for the parish of Maldon in Essex, a county which underwent a much higher level of witchcraft persecution than the rest of the Home Counties, and his works suggest that he was horrified by what he saw.²¹ Perkins's book on witchcraft was published posthumously in 1608, at a time when witchcraft prosecutions seem to have begun to decline. There is no suggestion of any personal involvement in witchcraft accusations or trials in Perkins's treatise on the subject, although he was rumoured to have been involved in astrology as a student, which, it has been suggested, might account for a later hostility towards magic.²²

Paying attention to the immediate context in which writers operated, as well as the broader intellectual context, is important because it helps to provide some indication of what shaped their thinking, and what the concerns might have been that drove them to write. The rhetorical purpose of the author, where this is possible to infer, is particularly important in the case of witchcraft because a variety of aims and objectives are consistent with broadly similar theoretical positions. Classifying an author like Gifford as a ‘believer’ in witchcraft, while basically accurate in terms of his declared beliefs, fails to acknowledge his self-evident commitment to arguing against the persecution of actual witches. Richard Bernard, likewise, would normally be classified as a ‘believer’; but by his own admission, he wrote in order to counter potentially damaging accusations of scepticism about witchcraft.²³ Furthermore, despite his stated purpose of proving his belief in witchcraft, Bernard devotes the entirety of the first section of his book to discouraging witchcraft accusations on grounds very similar to those of Gifford. Bernard even cites Scot, from whose views he distances himself in his preface, as an authority. Belief in witchcraft and support for the persecution of witches are entirely distinct in principle, and often also in practice: as well as ‘sceptical believers’ like Gifford and Bernard, there are cases of witchcraft sceptics who nonetheless supported the continued existence and enforcement of the laws against witchcraft.²⁴

While the dividing line between believer and sceptic cannot be drawn in a simplistic manner, there is good reason to retain the ideas of scepticism and credulity themselves, since these ideas appear so often in early modern writings on witchcraft. Believers in witchcraft often present themselves as sceptical, and accuse their opponents of credulity. Gifford, for example, arguing against Scot, writes ‘Alacke, alacke, I see that those which take upon them to be wiser than all men, are soonest deceived by the divell.’²⁵ Scot's scepticism, according to Gifford, is in fact credulity; he reveals himself to have been duped. Early modern writers, like early twentieth-century historians, frequently prize scepticism and pour scorn on credulity. Scepticism was the mark of a discerning judgement, while credulity was frequently ascribed by learned authors to the ignorant masses.

At the same time, however, incredulity was also frequently presented as reprehensible – the error of the fool of Psalm 14 who ‘hath said in his heart, There is no God’.²⁶ Meric Casaubon's book on the subject certainly treats incredulity as more problematic than credulity. Writing about incredulity in relation to witchcraft, Casaubon almost identifies it with witchcraft itself, and states in no uncertain terms that disbelief in witchcraft, while not necessarily equivalent to witchcraft itself, certainly derives from ‘the same cause, or agent, as ordinary witchcraft doth’. The word ‘agent’, in this context, leaves the reader in little doubt that Casaubon thinks incredulity is inspired by the devil.²⁷ James I, in his work on witchcraft, is even more forthright, accusing Johannes Weyer of witchcraft simply for having written a sceptical book on the subject.²⁸

For most early modern Christians, the importance of pure belief, humility, and trust in God rather than in one's own corrupt and earthly wisdom could hardly be overstated. From this point of view, scepticism could be presented as false wisdom, and a sceptic who, like Scot, mocked belief in witchcraft or other supernatural phenomena might resemble the ‘natural man’ of I Corinthians 2:14, who ‘receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God: for they are foolishness unto him’. For obvious reasons, it was easier for those authors writing to persuade others of the real existence of witches to accuse their opponents of lacking faith. However, sceptics about witchcraft were also able to employ the charge of incredulity in the related sense of infidelity to God. Reginald Scot, for example, argues that those who credit witches with the power to raise storms are, in effect, denying that power to God, and are therefore guilty of the sin of idolatry.²⁹ Scot also accuses the believers of secret scepticism, arguing that ‘some of these crimes … are so absurd, supernaturall, and impossible, that they are derided almost of all men, and as false, fond, and fabulous reports condemned: insomuch as the very witchmoongers themselves are ashamed to heare of them’.³⁰ He even presents himself, implausibly, as a believer when he claims in his epistle to the reader that he does not deny the existence of witches – only impious opinion concerning them. Belief and scepticism, when closely examined, are best understood not as fixed positions within the witchcraft debate, but as rhetorical tools used by all of the contributors to that debate. Every author on witchcraft needed to find a way to utilise both belief and scepticism, and to strike a balance between them, whatever the exact nature of the argument.

Evidence, authority, and ridicule

[T]he sheer fact that something is written down gives it special authority. It is not altogether easy to realize that what is