The Enemy Within (34 page)

In the long run, however, politics will prove the best and most efficacious line of response. Starting in New York, but spreading quickly to New England, governance is convulsed by anti-Masonic agitation. The goal is to purge public life of any and all influence by Masons. Masonic charters of incorporation must be voided, Masonic oaths outlawed, Masonic officeholders defeated at the polls. “We refuse to vote for a Mason because we believe their adherence to Masonic oaths disqualifies them from civic trusts”: thus the credo, a virtual counteroath, of the Antis.
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Political anti-Masonry makes a unique chapter in American history. Though relatively short-lived (scarcely more than a decade from first breath to last gasp), it was at its height a force to be reckoned with. Its timing—birth and early growth in the midst of a transitional period between the first party system (Federalists versus anti-Federalists) and the second (Democrats versus Whigs)—opened special forms of opportunity.

It was, at the outset, very much a grassroots movement, sprung from a host of local initiatives. These would soon coalesce, through the workings of Revolution-style “committees of correspondence,” to yield county- and state-wide gatherings, and, eventually, the first national party convention ever. Indeed, political conventions as we know them today—in contrast to the older “caucus” tradition—were largely a brainchild of the anti-Masons.

The movement's greatest impact was felt at the state level. In Vermont, anti-Masons became the dominant party, electing the governor four times running (1831-35) and controlling both legislative chambers. In Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, and New York, they were a powerful minority, in the legislatures as well as many local communities. This enabled them to exert direct influence on the day-to-day political process; for example, in several states they engineered official “investigations” of Masonry, with witnesses summoned under power of subpoena and subjected to decidedly hostile questioning. They also managed to gain passage of laws outlawing extrajudicial oaths, denying (some) Masonic lodges a civil charter and tax-exempt status, and imposing regular patterns of public oversight. Even in more remote areas such as Ohio and the Michigan Territory they made their mark. In general, they were most successful wherever mainstream party organization was weak, in the Northeast rather than the South and West, and in rural or small-town communities more than in major urban centers.

They attracted, too, some notable political personalities. Former president John Quincy Adams joined the anti-Masons and ran unsuccessfully as their gubernatorial candidate in the Massachusetts election of 1833. Their New York leaders included William Henry Seward, future secretary of state in the Lincoln administration, and Thurlow Weed, who, like Seward, would be among the founders of the modern Republican Party. In Pennsylvania they were headed by Thaddeus Stevens, later to become a mainstay of the radical Republicans in the post-Civil War Senate. Indeed, a corps of rising young politicians passed through anti-Masonry enroute to prominence among the Whigs in the 1840s and the Republicans in the 1850s and '60s.

On the national level, 25 congressmen would at one time or another call themselves anti-Masons. But the party's single independent foray into presidential politics, in 1832, was a shattering disappointment. Its nominee, William Wirt, a leading Maryland lawyer and one-time attorney general of the United States, proved to be an utterly inept—in fact, unwilling—campaigner. The only state carried by the anti-Masonic ticket was Vermont (and that by only a bare plurality).

The movement was hampered, from start to finish, by deep divisions within its own ranks. On one side stood a firm band of purists, refusing any compromise of principle; on the other, a more loosely affiliated group of pragmatists sought to form strategic coalitions for the sake of electoral success. The so-called National Republican Party, precursor to the Whigs, seemed an especially likely partner, but “union” slates of candidates invariably provoked conflict among anti-Masons themselves.

For all that, they achieved striking success with their primary goal: to reduce Masonic presence and power. Lodges shrank, or disappeared entirely, all across the country, as individual members “seceded” by the thousands; by 1840, Freemasonry seemed but a shadow of its former self. And this, not surprisingly, was a chief cause for the concurrent decline of the anti-Masons.

 
Always and everywhere, for anti-Masons, Morgan's abduction is the starting point; words sufficient to describe it can hardly be found. As one leading
spokesman writes: “I challenge the Spanish Inquisition to exceed it. I boldly invite a search into the archives of that engine of ferocious despotism . . . to produce a case that goes beyond it. . . . The iron clamps that were probably prepared for the feet and hands of Morgan aptly compare with the chains in which the victim of the Inquisition was habited . . . whilst the pictures of devouring dogs and serpents that were hung round his neck completely prefigure the horrid gang of murdering conspirators who plunged their hands in the blood of Morgan.” Yet, when seen in the widest perspective, “the Morgan affair . . . [is] but a comparatively small thing”—whereas the pattern it reveals, a spreading conspiracy against fundamental American virtues and values, is of “terrific character.”

Did such rhetorical heat reflect a genuine threat? Or was it a kind of social paranoia?

In certain respects, Freemasonry was—as both sides contended—“powerful.” The reason anti-Masons could never penetrate the mainstream political parties was that most party leaders were Masons. (This was true from Washington right through to Andrew Jackson and Henry Clay.) Local politics, too, were frequently dominated by men who belonged to the order. But it would be hard to prove that Masons acted, in their political roles,
as Masons,
or sought to advance particular Masonic interests. And there is no good evidence whatsoever that they aimed to transform established patterns of governance, religious practice, or family life.

However, the feeling expressed by the anti-Masons seems genuine enough. And feeling did lead, at least occasionally, to action. Quite apart from the political movement (including the laws passed and the investigations carried out), anti-Masons would sometimes resort to informal, even extralegal action. The surviving evidence is anecdotal and has never been carefully assembled. But Masonic buildings were vandalized, Masonic gravestones were defaced, and individual Masons were threatened with harm. In some communities (according to a contemporaneous account), “Neighbor was set against neighbor, friends separated, families made enemies, and . . . peace and harmony . . . almost wholly destroyed.” The sum of this fell far short of witch-hunting in the older, more lethal sense; but its emotional basis was recognizably similar. Fear, anger, envy, “outrage”: these were the central, propulsive elements, bridging the Salem trials of the late 17th century and the anti-Masonic fervor of the early 19th. Another link across time was the fantasy of secret conspiracy, including sexual libertinism and a complete inversion of traditional social arrangements. Paranoia does not, after all, seem too strong a word here.

Political anti-Masonry was finished by 1840 or so. And “the Blessed Spirit” that had inspired it appeared also to evaporate (or perhaps was diverted into the several reform movements of midcentury, especially antislavery). Yet the story does not quite end there. Freemasonry made a strong comeback after the Civil War, albeit in a quieter, less conspicuous mode. And anti-Masonry came back, though it, too, was much toned down. Indeed, a certain tension has continued to swirl around the order virtually to the present day; some leading religious groups—the Roman Catholic and Mormon churches, for example—maintain an attitude of open antagonism.

Moreover, after nearly 200 years, the mystery of William Morgan's disappearance remains unresolved.

CHAPTER XI

The effects of the Salem affair were deep and lastingly traumatic. The terror of 1692 would echo in the attacks on the Freemasons and on numerous other groups for many years to come.

In the immediate aftermath of Salem, New Englanders of every rank and station came to think that appalling “errors” had been made and together bemoaned “the guilt of innocent blood.” They blamed the Devil for having “deluded” them. They blamed the difficult times. They even, in some cases, blamed themselves. And, whatever their preferred way of explaining the “tragedy,” they were determined that nothing like it should happen again. Few were inclined to doubt the existence of witchcraft; the difficulty lay in identifying specific practitioners. Always, there were likely suspects nearby. But how could one separate those who were bona fide witches from others whom Satan had wrongfully “represented” as such? A leading New England minister wrote in 1728, “Although I firmly believe [in] . . . the agency of Satan and his instruments in afflicting the children of men, yet I fear the world has been wretchedly imposed upon by relations of such matters. . . . Many things have been dubbed witchcraft, and called the works of the devil, which were nothing more than the contrivance of . . . men.” The problem of “proof” had troubled expert theorists of witchcraft long before 1692; now it came to seem virtually insuperable.