Before he was the ghostwriter of God, James Stuart was arguing with the Devil — in print. His book, Daemonologie, published in 1597, was the crown’s official stance on all things unseen: witchcraft, prophecy, necromancy, and the murky business of souls. He wrote it not as a madman, but as a scholar. And that’s what makes it frightening.
Daemonologie reads like a Socratic dialogue gone slightly unhinged. It opens calmly — two men, one skeptical and one devout, debating whether witches truly exist. But by page two, James’s mask of objectivity slips. His reasoning burns hotter with each paragraph until he arrives at a chilling certainty:
“The feareful aboundance at this time in this countrie, hath provoked me to discover the truth.” Translation: there are too many witches; time to clean house.
It’s not a hysterical book — it’s worse. It’s measured, logical, reasonable. The calm of a man explaining why the world must burn. James’s obsession began on that stormy sea voyage from Denmark — his new bride, Anne of Denmark, by his side, the waves so violent that sailors swore witchcraft was at play. When he returned home, he launched the North Berwick witch trials, personally interrogating those accused of raising storms to kill him. Dozens were tortured, many executed.
Out of that darkness came Daemonologie, his attempt to intellectualize fear — to wrap it in Latin grammar and royal decree. He wrote, “The divell teacheth them to renounce God and to do homage to himself.”
For James, witchcraft wasn’t superstition; it was rebellion against divine hierarchy — and by extension, against him. Every incantation, every accusation, became a reflection of his crown. Yet there’s an almost tragic brilliance to the text. It reveals a king desperate to understand the world’s chaos through reason. He wanted to prove the Devil existed because he needed evil to be orderly — something that could be debated, defined, and defeated.
In an age where science and superstition still shared a bed, James stood at the threshold, peering both ways. He gave us the language of faith and the logic of fear. He turned the invisible into evidence. And a decade later, he’d turn that same passion for divine order toward another project — the Bible that would bear his name.
The King who once debated the Devil would soon debate God’s editors.
Daemonologie is still in print today — scholars study it, occultists quote it, and history teachers shake their heads at it. But its echo is everywhere: every law written from fear, every argument made from certainty, every leader who mistakes control for salvation.
“The Divell is the author of all ill,” James wrote.
And one suspects he knew — perhaps too well — that hell begins in the mind that believes it must rule.
Read or download Daemonologie here. (this copy is not the best quality, but it is readable).
