Free The Enemy Within by John Demos Page B

struggle between the forces of Good and Evil. And among the “gentle,” a subgroup of the most literate and educated people, especially the clergy, placed the greatest emphasis on the diabolical; for them, maleficium was but a subordinate part of a much larger whole.
    In the small-scale witchcraft cases, as noted already, the usual starting point was an accusation by one villager or several against another. However, in order to reach the point of an actual trial, and then perhaps a conviction, it helped greatly if prominent local leaders decided to add the weight of their own influence. It was, in many instances, a combination of interest from different social levels that proved decisive against the accused. Or it could go another way: an accusatory process might shut down at a certain point because community leaders withheld their support. At least occasionally, magistrates would directly refuse to validate some particular charge; then a verdict might be set aside and a defendant released. Throughout these oft-repeated dramas one feels a certain tension between the viewpoints of “common” and “gentle” folk. Sometimes they were fully aligned; sometimes they were at odds; often enough they mixed, and jostled, and eventually found their way to a middle ground.
    Even among the ranks of the “common” there were finely graded distinctions between some who had a bit more and others with a bit less. A good many witchcraft accusations followed a pattern that some historians now refer to as “the refusal-guilt syndrome.” One villager, in a state of evident need, would approach another to request assistance: some food perhaps, or drink, or wood for the fire, or simply a chance to perform paid work. Then the request was refused, for whatever reason: We have not enough for ourselves; we’ve already promised someone else; we need to save for the future. And this led to personal recrimination, including—so the refuser might later claim—threats by the refused: I shall be even with you. As a further step, the refuser would experience some “loss” or difficulty of a seemingly mysterious nature. From all of which he would draw the inevitable conclusion: Witchcraft! She was angry, and spiteful, after I turned her away. And this is her revenge.
    In peasant communities across Europe an ethic of neighborly cooperation, and of charity toward those “in want,” had governed daily life for centuries. So the refusal at the heart of this little scene constituted a breach; the refuser was left feeling guilty, and vulnerable, and perhaps (at some level) anticipating punishment. In fact, versions of the same sequence might appear in all sorts of contentious exchange, whenever the reasons for a person-to-person rebuff seemed questionable. But the refusal-guilt element, in particular, suggests a close link to traditional neighborly values—at a moment in history when those values had begun to erode. Especially in a place like Britain, as the first serious stirrings of market capitalism became evident, “individualism” was a growing cultural presence. And witchcraft cases took shape on the cusp of that momentous development.
    The refusal-guilt pattern produced accusations that aimed down the ladder of social and economic status, from those a rung or two higher up toward others underneath. But there were also situations in which the aim went up. Perhaps a market-minded producer seemed overly self-regarding and “individualist”; he might then open himself, or members of his family, to charges of witchcraft “from below.” This reminds us that witchcraft accusation was an extremely flexible and adaptable weapon: useful in some contexts for defending established positions and in others for launching a tradition-subverting attack.

Religion. How did religious thought, religious commitment, and religious conflict intermix with witchcraft?
    Much of the energy