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A full page woodcut illustration showing a magistrate preparing to torture a prisoner who is bound, while other officials look on.
This image from Damhouder's 1554 Enchiridion rerum criminalium depicts a tribunal attempting to extract a confession from the accused by torture. Photo by Nathan Dorn.

Witchcraft and a Haunted Case of Torture in Joost de Damhouder’s Praxis Rerum Criminalium (1555)

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One of the perplexing aspects of the surge in witch trials that took place in Europe between the 15th and the 18th centuries is the question of how much the personal experiences of that era’s legal personnel influenced the practice of criminal justice throughout the period. In a previous post on this blog, we saw that the political philosopher and witchcraft theorist Jean Bodin cited the existence of a (mostly) invisible guiding spirit that helped to steel his resolve against demonic foes. In this post, we will take a look at Joost de Damhouder, the author of an important 16th century handbook on criminal law, who described an anomalous experience involving an amulet that shaped his views on the use of torture, a story that seems actually to have taken place.

In the first half of the 16th century, the legal field underwent a process of professionalization throughout much of Western Europe. This was driven in part by the expansion of the use of the printing press, which gave legal practitioners access to a much wider body of legal texts and information than was possible before the age of printing. That change also triggered new demand for small-format general practice guides that could put immediate and practical knowledge in the hands of the lawyers, magistrates and lower officials that managed the daily business of the law in Renaissance Europe.

Within a couple decades, the market for subject-specific practice books and treatises began to expand as well. On the subject of criminal procedure, two important examples of this literature appeared in Venice, Italy to solid commercial success, Practica causarum criminalis of Hippolytus de Marsiliis [Venice, 1529] and Practica Nova Causarum Criminalium of Lodovico Carerio (Venice, 1546). These were joined by others in short order. For example, Joost de Damhouder (1507-1581), a lawyer from Bruges who had worked in criminal law and who was a member of the fiscal council of the Netherlands in Brussels (which is now in Belgium), seized the opportunity to capitalize on this trend. He published in 1554 a work that captured the current state of criminal practice law in his home region of Flanders. (Dauchy et. al., ch. , 3sect. 26.) That work was Praxis rerum criminalium (Criminal Matters Practice).

A full-page woodcut illustration depicting two men, each of whom is assaulting a man who is visibly his elder in an alley in a town. Both victims are supine and cowering. The image is meant to depict the crime of parricide
Damhouder’s book contains images of various categories of crime, one of which, depicted here in this full-page woodcut illustration from Damhouder’s 1554 Enchiridion rerum criminalium, is the crime of parricide. Photo by Nathan Dorn.

Damhouder first published Praxis rerum criminalium under the title Enchiridion rerum criminalium (Guidebook of Criminal Matters) in Leuven in 1554 and changed the title in subsequent editions. It went on to be printed many times and became over a handful of years perhaps the most influential short handbook on the subject of criminal law in Europe. (Dauchy et al., ch. 3, sect. 26.) In some respects, this was because of the qualities of the text, which presented succinct and clear statements on a number of areas within the subject of criminal law, including rules governing accusation, investigation of crime, torture, incarceration, and various categories of criminal activity. Some of these categories are very familiar: theft, fraud, assault and battery, murder, rape, arson, and more. Others sound antiquated: throwing waste out of a window, adultery, banditry, and grave robbery, for instance. (Dauchy et al., ch. 3, sect. 26.) Some belong to a world that is distinctly alien to most of the audience of this post: blasphemy, sacrilege, treason against God, and witchcraft. Categories along these lines sufficed, apparently, to make the book widely useful.

A large measure of its success, however, must also be due to the 57 wood engravings that Damhouder commissioned for the book’s publication. Unlike many books of that format and price point, Praxis rerum ciminialium was more-or-less festooned with images. These depicted crimes, tribunals, and penalties suffered by the convicted. Illustrations of this or any quality were more typically found in books that sold at luxury prices. This title, however, was both offered in a less expensive format and illustrated with fascinating images of the world of crime and punishment. (Dauchy et. al., ch. 3, sect. 26.)

A full-page woodcut illustration depicting a Renaissance city scape in which from two different second floor windows people throw mixed liquid and solid waste onto passersby. The crime of harming people through defenestrating waste is discussed in Damhouder's book.
This image from Damhouder’s 1554 Enchiridion rerum criminalium depicts the crime of harming passersby through carelessly hurling waste out of the windows of city houses. Photo by Nathan Dorn.

An interesting point about Damhouder’s book is that it is, almost in its entirety, a Latin translation of a pre-existing manuscript that was written by another author. The original that stands behind Praxis rerum criminalium, was a Flemish work by Philips Wielant (1441 or 1442-1520), a magistrate who served on the Council of Flanders. That book was called Corte instructie in materie criminele. (Dauchy et al., ch. 3, sect. 26.) Wielant prepared a first version of the text in 1510 and a second, augmented version, in 1515. A French version dating to 1519 also exists. (Monballyu, p. 293.) Wielant, who was a couple generations older than Damhouder, never had the book printed, and it did not appear in print until an edition of Wielant’s works was made from existing manuscripts in 1872. That publication led to the discovery that Damhouder’s book cannibalized Wielant’s text. (Dauchy et al., ch. 3, sect. 26.)

The originality of Damhouder’s work has to do first with its publication in the Latin language, which made it far more accessible to the overall European community than the Dutch original, and secondly with the images that he added, which had something like the same effect. But we do see a flash of independence in another area, in a place in which Damhouder deviates from Wielant’s text. That is regarding the crime of witchcraft. (Monballyu, p. 299 and following.)

A full-page woodcut illustration of men in a town square performing a variety of blasphemous and sacrilegious acts representing the crime of lese majeste divine.
Damhouder places witchcraft in the category of lèse-majesté divine, treason against God. This image from Damhouder’s 1554 Enchiridion rerum criminalium depicts blasphemous acts. Photo by Nathan Dorn.

Where Damhouder provides a bit of original material is in his chapters on torture. (Monballyu, p. 293.) Of interest to him is that people who practice magic sometimes use magical means to avoid suffering the pain of torture. And if the torture victim suffers no pain from the ordeal, then she will not be compelled to answer the investigator’s questions. This renders the magistrates helpless to produce a confession. If this is allowed to take place, many accused will escape punishment. To avoid this, Damhouder makes a particular plea that investigators should never neglect to shave the entire body of a person accused of witchcraft. The purpose of this surprising measure is simple: one must expose to sight any place on the body of the accused where she might hide a talisman or a charm, since magical objects were often used to nullify the pain that the investigators were trying to inflict. Damhouder is especially insistent that shame and embarrassment should not prevent investigators from shaving the accused entirely. (Monballyu, p. 293.) In the French version of the book, Pratique judiciaire des causes criminelles, published in Anvers in 1564, Damhouder relates an experience he claims to have had that convinced him of the need for this precaution. The story appears in chapter 37 of the 1564 work, from paragraph 19 onward (ff. 38v.-41r.).

A full page woodcut illustration showing a magistrate preparing to torture a prisoner who is bound, while other officials look on.
This image from Damhouder’s 1554 Enchiridion rerum criminalium depicts a tribunal attempting to extract a confession from the accused by torture. Photo by Nathan Dorn.

The story he tells took place when Damhouder resided in Bruges, a period between 1537 and 1550, during which time he was a city alderman. There was an old woman living in town who was said to be able to effect miraculous cures for people who had injuries or illnesses. In general, she was highly regarded by the public, which valued her healing skills and tended to think of her as a quite devout, even saintly, Christian, “an apostle of Christ,” in Damhouder’s telling. This reputation did not impress certain aldermen of Bruges who sought to have her investigated on grounds she might be using illicit magic to work her cures. In consequence of this, she was apprehended in the middle of the night and incarcerated with a view to questioning her. The interrogation was, at first, entirely useless, despite the investigators’ use of torture. The old woman insisted throughout that she was doing nothing at all out of line and that she was a devout Christian. In a strange episode, the mayor of Bruges, who was present, gasped several times on account of suffering a severe case of arthritis. When the woman commented on it, he offered her payment to cure him. She agreed, and when one of the men present asked what means she would use, she assured the mayor that he needed to do nothing but believe that she could heal him. These were fateful words. Upon hearing them, the men who were present warned the mayor that her answer revealed that she was not relying on God, but on some other power to effect her cures and that he should have nothing to do with it. Apostles of Christ, they said, always mention God’s name.

What followed was a series of fruitless interrogations assisted by torture. In the third session, Damhouder tells us, she mocked her captors and even fell asleep during the questioning. At length, it was noticed that while her hair was shaved in preparation for the fourth round of questioning, that the interrogators had neglected to shave all of her body hair before continuing. When they finally did so, they discovered, hidden on her person, a small parchment on which was written strange writing and the symbol of the cross. Once it was removed from her body, she was returned to be tortured again. During that session, she confessed to relying on the aid of the devil to perform her cures. In view of her age and gender, the authorities agreed to subject her to a brief public humiliation and then to banish her from the city rather than to execute her. In time, she was arrested again, this time by magistrates in Middlebourg, a town in Zeeland. There she was burned at the stake.

Some facts of this story can be verified. History scholar Jan Monballyu has identified a woman whose fate matches the fate of the woman in this story, both in the details of her detainment and questioning – and subsequent banishment – in Bruges. The person depicted in the account is likely Catherine Onbaerts, a widow of a laborer in Westkapelle named Boudin Baarnaert. She was banished from Bruges on August 26, 1538, and later sentenced by a tribunal of aldermen in Vlissingen to death by burning on January 20, 1541. (Monballyu, pp. 305-306.) Some details of the story – for example, the discovery of the amulet or the turnaround in the woman’s resistance to questioning – cannot be corroborated.

I repeat Damhouder’s tale here only in scant detail. Monballyu has paraphrased in modern French the entire story that Damhouder tells in his article cited below. The original French of the 1564 edition, however, is manageable for French readers. The story is remarkable, since Damhouder shares almost no other details about his life in any edition of this book. How to interpret it is an open question, but it does offer a window into how a person of those times who had active involvement in a particularly terrible chapter in European history, and whose book led many others to follow his example, tried to make sense of his own actions.

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