famous imposter 17

famous imposter 17

The general feeling was much the same as that in our own time which in

sporting circles calls for the destruction of vermin.

 

It will thus be seen that the profession of witchcraft, if occasionally

lucrative, was nevertheless always accompanied with danger and

execration. This was natural enough since the belief which made

witchcraft dangerous was based on fear. It is not too much to say that

in every case, professed witchcraft was an __EXPRESSION__ of fraudulent

intent. Such pity, therefore, as the subject allows of must be confined

to the guiltless victims who, despite blameless life, were tried by

passion, judged by frenzy, and executed by remorseless desperation.

There could be no such thing as quantitative analysis of guilt with

regard to the practice of witchcraft: any kind of playing with the

subject was a proof of _some_ kind of wrongful intent, and was to be

judged with Draconian severity. Doubtless it was a very simple way

of dealing with evils, much resembling the medical philosophy of the

Chinese. The whole logic of it can be reduced to a sorites. Any change

from the normal is the work of the devil--or _a_ devil as the case

may be. Find out the normal residence of that especial devil--which

is in some human being. Destroy the devil’s dwelling. You get rid of

the devil. It is pure savagery of the most primitive kind. And it

is capable of expansion, for logic is a fertile plant, and when its

premises are wrong it has the fecundity of a weed. Before even a savage

can have time to breathe, his logic is piling so fast on him that he

is smothered. If a human being is a devil then the club which destroys

him or her is an incarnation of good, and so a god to be worshipped in

some form--or at any rate to be regarded with esteem, like a sword,

or a legal wig, or a stethoscope, or a paint-brush, or a shovel,

or a compass, or a drinking-vessel, or a pen. If all the necessary

conditions of life and sanity and comfort were on so primitive a base,

what an easy world it would be to live in!

 

One benefit there was in witchcraft, though it was not recognised

officially as such at the time. It created a new industry--a whole

crop of industries. It is of the nature of belief that it encourages

belief--not always of exactly the same kind--but of some form which

intelligence can turn into profit. We cannot find any good in the new

industry--grapes do not grow on thorns nor figs on thistles. The sum

of human happiness was in no sense augmented; but at least a good deal

of money or money’s worth changed hands; which, after all, is as much

as most of the great financiers can point to as the result of long and

strenuous success. In the organisation of this form of crime there were

many classes, of varying risks and of benefits in inverse ratio to

them. For the ordinary rule of finance holds even here: large interest

means bad security. First there were the adventurers themselves who

took the great risks of life and its collaterals--esteem, happiness,

&c. The money obtained by this class was usually secured by fraudulent

sales of worthless goods or by the simple old financial device of

blackmail. Then there were those who were in reality merely parasites

on the pleasing calling--those timorous souls who let “‘I dare not’

wait upon ‘I would’ like the poor cat i’ the adage.” These were

altogether in a poorer way of trade than their bolder brothers and

sisters. They lacked courage, and sometimes even sufficient malice

for the proper doing of their work; with the result that success

seldom attended them at all, and never heartily. But at any rate they

could not complain of inadequate punishment; whenever religious zeal

flamed up they were generally prominent victims. They can in reality

only be regarded as specimens of parasitic growth. Then there came

the class known in French criminal circles as _agents provocateurs_,

whose business was not only to further ostensible crime but to work

up the opposition against it. Either branch of their art would

probably be inadequate; but by linking their services they managed to

eke out a livelihood. Lastly there was the lowest grade of all, the

Witch-finder--a loathly calling, comparable only to the class or guild

of “paraskistae” or “rippers” in the ritual of the Mummy industry of

ancient Egypt.

 

Of these classes we may I think consider some choice specimens--so

far as we may fittingly investigate the _personnel_ of a by-gone

industry. Of the main body, that of Wizards and Witches or those

pretending to the cult, let us take Doctor Dee and Madame Voisin, and

Sir Edward Kelley and Mother Damnable--thus representing the method of

the procession of the unclean animals from the Ark. Of the class of

Witchfinders one example will probably be as much as we can stand, and

we will naturally take the one who obtained fame in his calling--namely

Matthew Hopkins, who stands forth like Satan, “by merit raised to that

bad eminence.”

 

 

 

 

B. DOCTOR DEE

 

 

Even a brief survey of the life of the celebrated “Doctor Dee,” the

so-called “Wizard” of the sixteenth century, will leave any honest

reader under the impression that in the perspective of history he was

a much maligned man. If it had not been that now and again he was led

into crooked bye-paths of alleged occultism, his record might have

stood out as that of one of the most accomplished and sincere of the

scientists of his time. He was in truth, whatever were his faults,

more sinned against than sinning. If the English language is not so

elastic as some others in the matter of meaning of phrases, the same

or a greater effect can be obtained by a careful use of the various

dialects of the British Empire. In the present case we may, if English

lacks, well call on some of the varieties of Scotch terminology.

The intellectual status of the prime wizard, as he is held to be in

general opinion, can be well indicated by any of the following words

or phrases “wanting,” “crank,” “a tile off,” “a wee bit saft,” “a bee

in his bonnet.” Each of these is indicative of some form of monomania,

generally harmless. If John Dee had not had some great qualities, such

negative weaknesses would have prevented his reputation ever achieving

a permanent place in history of any kind. As it is his place was won by

many accomplished facts. The following is a broad outline of his life,

which was a long one lasting for over eighty years.

 

John Dee was born in 1527, and came of a Welsh race. A good many years

after his start in life he, after the harmless fashion of those (and

other) times, made out a family tree in which it was shewn that he was

descended from, among other royalties, Roderick the Great, Prince of

Wales. This little effort of vanity did not, however, change anything.

The world cared then about such things almost as little as it does

now; or, allowing for the weakness of human beings in the way of their

own self-importance, it might be better to say as it professes to do

now. John Dee was sent to the University of Cambridge when he was only

fifteen years old. The College chosen for him was St. John’s, and here

he showed extraordinary application in his chosen subject, mathematics.

He took his probationary degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1545, and was

made a Fellow in 1546. In his early years of College life his work was

regulated in a remarkable way. Out of the twenty-four hours, eighteen

were devoted to study, four to sleep, the remaining two being set

apart for meals and recreation. Lest this should seem incredible it

may be remembered that three hundred years later, the French Jesuits,

having made exhaustive experiments, arrived at the conclusion that for

mere purposes of health, without making any allowance for the joy or

happiness of life, and treating the body merely as a machine from which

the utmost amount of work mental and physical could be got without

injury, four hours of sleep per diem sufficed for health and sanity.

And it is only natural that a healthy and ambitious young man trying to

work his way to success would, or might have been, equally strenuous

and self-denying. His appointment as Fellow of St. John’s was one of

those made when the College was founded. That he was skilled in other

branches of learning was shown by the fact that in the University he

was appointed as Under Reader in Greek. He was daring in the practical

application of science, and during the representation of one of the

comedies of Aristophanes, created such a sensation by appearing to fly,

that he began to be credited by his companions with magical powers.

This was probably the beginning of the sinister reputation which seemed

to follow him all his life afterwards. When once an idea of the kind

has been started even the simplest facts of life and work seem to

gather round it and enlarge it indefinitely. So far as we can judge

after a lapse of over three hundred years, John Dee was an eager and

ardent seeker after knowledge; and all through his life he travelled

in the search wherever he was likely to gain his object. It is a main

difficulty of following such a record that we have only facts to

follow. We know little or nothing of motives except from results, and

as in the development of knowledge the measure of success can only

bear a small ratio to that of endeavour, it is manifest that we should

show a large and tolerant understanding of the motives which animate

the seeker for truth. In the course of his long life John Dee visited

many lands, sojourned in many centres of learning, had relations of

common interests as well as of friendship with many great scholars,

and made as thinker, mathematician, and astronomer, a reputation far

transcending any ephemeral and purely gaseous publicity arising from

the open-mouthed wonder of the silly folk who are not capable of even

trying to understand things beyond their immediate ken. Wherever he

went he seems to have been in touch with the learned and progressive

men of his time, and always a student. At various times he was in

the Low Countries, Louvain (from whose University he obtained the

degree of LL.D.), Paris, Wurtemberg, Antwerp, Presburg, Lorraine,

Frankfort-on-the-Oder, Bohemia, Cracow, Prague, and Hesse-Cassel. He

even went so far afield as St. Helena. He was engaged on some great

works of more than national importance. For instance, when in 1582,

Pope Gregory XIII instituted the reform of the Calendar which was

adopted by most of the great nations of the world, Dee approved and

worked out his own calculations to an almost similar conclusion,

though the then opposition to him cost England a delay of over one

hundred and seventy years. In 1572 he had proved his excellence as an

astronomer in his valuable work in relation to a newly discovered star

(Tycho Brahe’s) in Cassiopœia. In 1580 he made a complete geographical

and hydrographical map of the Queen’s possessions. He tried--but

unhappily in vain--to get Queen Mary to gather the vast collections

of manuscripts and old books which had been made in the Monasteries

(broken up by Henry VIII) of which the major part were then to be

obtained both easily and cheaply. He was a Doctor of Laws (which

by the way was his only claim to be called “Doctor” Dee, the title

generally accorded to him). He was made a rector in Worcestershire in

1553; and in 1556, Archbishop Parker gave him ten years’ use of the

livings of Upton and Long Leadenham. He was made Warden of Manchester

College in 1595, and was named by Queen Elizabeth as Chancellor of St.

Paul’s. In 1564, he was appointed Dean of Gloucester, though through

his own neglect of his own interest it was never carried out. The

Queen approved, the Archbishop sealed the deed; but Dee, unmindful,

overlooked the formality of acceptance and the gift eventually went

elsewhere. Queen Elizabeth, who consistently believed in and admired

him, wanted to make him a bishop, but he declined the responsibility.

For once the formality at consecration: “_Nolo Episcopari_” was spoken

with truthful lips. More than once he was despatched to foreign places

to make special report in the Queen’s service. That he did not--always,

at all events--put private interest before public duty is shown by his

refusal to accept two rectories offered to him by the Queen in 1576,

urging as an excuse that he was unable to find time for the necessary

duties, since he was too busily occupied in making calculations for

the reformation of the Calendar. He seems to have lived a most proper

life, and was twice married. After a long struggle with adversity in

which--last despair of a scholar--he had to sell his books, he died very poor, just as he was preparing to migrate.