The Enemy Within (33 page)

 
He lived on for more than three decades. (He died in 1728.) His ministry continued, as did his writing and involvement in public affairs. But he never again returned to a front-line position in the battle against witchcraft. He would attempt no more exorcism of “the miserable” victims; give no further advice on such matters to magistrates and other officials; offer little, if any, preaching about them from his pulpit. His leading modern biographers agree that the apex of his life—his greatest influence and widest acclaim—came just
before
his direct participation in witch-hunting. Calef's viewpoint—“that there are witches . . . but what this witchcraft is, or wherein it does consist, is the whole question”—would, with the passage of time, become the dominant one. And Mather's rather different view would, for generations, cast a shadow on his public standing.

But what, finally,
was
Mather's view? And how should we summarize his career as a witch-hunter? All in all, it made something of a zigzag; depending on the circumstances, he could be a force for restraint—or for unsparing attack. His aim to “prevent the excessive credit of spectral evidence” lest “any one good person . . . suffer the least ill report on this occasion” was real, was principled, was consistently maintained, was put into action. Yet he unwaveringly believed that actual witches—and undeniable witchcraft—posed the deepest possible threat to “the people of God,” especially those in New England. His language, which always tended toward hyperbole, reached new heights in discussing these dangers. Thus: the Salem witches aimed at nothing less than “rooting out the Christian religion in this country, and setting up instead of it perhaps a more gross diabolism than ever the world saw before.” And: “I believe there never was a poor plantation more pursued by the wrath of the Devil than our poor New England.” And: “This people . . . [must] make a right use of the stupendous and prodigious things that are happening among us . . . [and] the amazing dispensations now upon us.”
Ever saw, never was; stupendous, prodigious, amazing:
he could scarcely find a sufficient standard of comparison. Given such extremities, the response must be total, with “all due steps taken for the utter extinction of witchcraft.”

There was, finally, an additional source for his vigilance—something more personal, more practical, yet no less urgent. To credit the activity of witches, and of the Devil alongside them, was to acknowledge the immanence and power of the entire “invisible world.” Conversely, to discount such things was to call that world into question. God and Satan, angels and demons, divine miracles and diabolic witchcraft belonged to opposite halves of the same package; remove one, and the other would disintegrate. Ironically, then, faith in God
depended
(at least in part) on belief in witchcraft. “Go tell Mankind that there are devils and witches,” Mather had urged after finishing his work with Martha Goodwin. For him, and for many others too, this blunt affirmation was a barrier and bulwark against a different kind of specter—the awesome, awful, deeply undermining possibility of religious doubt.

 
Will he, in later years, reflect on—perhaps even reconsider—his role in the Salem witch-hunt?

PART FOUR

After the 17th century, the history of American witch-hunting becomes harder to follow. At that point trials and other officially recorded proceedings against witches came virtually to a stop. However, the central beliefs continued in at least attenuated form. And so, too, did the emotional basis continue—the projection of fear, hatred, contempt. This, in turn, was sufficient to fuel
in
formal,
un
official actions against witchcraft, lasting through the 18th century and beyond.

 
Meanwhile, there began a series of events with characteristics strikingly similar to witch-hunts; hence the term itself has survived, as a way to describe these (figuratively) even now. Chapter X offers a close-up account of one such episode, an angry struggle to suppress the Order of Freemasons in the early 19th century. Though ostensibly a political and social movement, anti-Masonry's moral tone and countersubversive theme strongly evoked the Salem “hysteria” of the early 1690s and the long, bitter “craze” years in Europe.

 
Chapter XI traces the same theme—what some have called, from a different perspective, a “paranoid” strain in American public life—across a broad historical canvas from the Revolutionary era to the present. Six public “scares” are singled out for special consideration. In the last of these, Satan himself (if not quite witchcraft in the old sense) makes a startling reappearance.

Chapter XII, another close-up, treats matters so recent as to be within the memory of both author and a good many readers. Here, indeed, is as clear a viewpoint on witch-hunting as any of us personally will ever come to.

CHAPTER X

At year's end Morgan's pamphlet,
Illustrations of Free Masonry,
is printed and offered for sale. Its “revelations” are relatively tame—most concern initiation procedure—and fail to arouse widespread interest. Morgan's disappearance, however, is another matter; by now this has become a sensation in its own right. Citizens' committees form throughout the region to protest the “outrage” of abduction—and of an apparent cover-up. Local authorities, many of them longtime Masons, are suspected of shielding the perpetrators and suppressing evidence.

 
The roots of organized Freemasonry lie deep in Europe's medieval past. Clearly, there was some long-range tie to traditional guilds of stonemasons and cathedral builders. With the passage of centuries, as their work diminished, these evolved from an “operative” to a “speculative” (and social) mode. By the start of the 18th century, especially in Britain but also across many parts of the European continent, an elaborate web of “lodges” had formed around essentially fraternal aims. An early account of Masonry described it as “a peculiar system of morality, veiled in allegory and illustrated by symbols.”

In about 1730, the movement jumped the ocean with the founding in Philadelphia of the first lodge on American soil and entered a period of remarkable growth. On the eve of the American Revolution, roughly 100 lodges lay dotted across the 13 colonies; their members included George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and others among the founding generation. By 1800, the total of Masons nationwide had reached at least 16,000. To be sure, the order was not universally appreciated. Critics focused especially on its code of secrecy, its seemingly “aristocratic” spirit, and its somewhat ambiguous relation to religion. In the 1790s, amid rising alarm over the radical tendencies of the French Revolution, Masons were occasionally accused of nurturing a “Jacobin” conspiracy.

But in the opening years of the 19th century, Masonry expanded faster than ever and achieved a new public prominence. Its recruitment drew heavily on local leadership groups: young professionals, businessmen, aspiring politicians, and others touched by the “go-ahead” spirit of the age. Its avowed goal was mental and moral “improvement”; in that respect it conformed to Enlightenment values. But its appeal was based, most of all, on “comradely feeling.” Moreover, it served to provide a place of retreat from “the cares of the world”—plus, one can be sure, the practical advantages of ready-made networking. Its membership standards, and its not inconsiderable dues, fostered a sense of social elevation, while its commitment to secrecy proved an effective means of bonding. Its allegiance to Christianity was broadly ecumenical; Masons came, to a disproportionate extent, from the more “liberal” churches—Unitarians, Universalists, Episcopalians—but all denominations were at least somewhat represented. (Indeed, even Jews and Muslims could be accepted; only atheists were officially barred.) Its elaborate ritual enactments, the focus of Morgan's exposé, added a special touch of aesthetic and emotional reward.

By the mid-1820s, Masonry had reached a pinnacle within the rapidly growing galaxy of American “associations.” Lodges were found in more than 1,000 cities and towns, while the sum total of members had climbed well past 100,000. In 1825 one particularly enthusiastic spokesman asked the rhetorical question, “What is Masonry now?”—and then gave his own answer: “It is POWERFUL. It comprises men of rank, wealth, office, and talent . . . in almost every place where power is of importance . . . so as to have the force of concert throughout the civilized world.”

 
“Power,” “force,” and “concert”: these are, from the first, animating issues in the Morgan affair. The power to seize, and destroy, a self-proclaimed opponent. The force to turn back a criminal investigation. The concert of control over jurymen, judges, and the legal system in general. The means, even, to shape the flow of public information. (Newspapers owned and edited by men who are Masons seem suspiciously reluctant to report key events in the unfolding sequence.) Masonic power looms everywhere—or so large numbers of ordinary folk are ready to believe.