In 1600, John Baxter warned his readers that "home-bred enemies" and "household foes" were "most hurtfull to the health of the Church." "Admirable and Notable Things of Note" (1642) cautions that "of our enemies, the civill enemy is the most dangerous, and as his practice hath the least suspition, so have they the most danger, by this means working his designes from all means of p[r] evention." Catholics depend on their very proximity to infiltrate and distract their opponents. Joseph Glanvill alerts his readers: "We look so intently at the danger that makes the loud Noise, that we little heed the Enemy behind the Bush, that is ready to shoot us off." The only protection is a vigilant scrutiny of those close at hand. A 1679 commentary on an Elizabethan act of Parliament "to preserve the Queens person, and Protestant Religion and Government, from the Attempts of the Papists" seizes the opportunity to recommend that readers watch out for "the restless attempts of... an Inveterate, Implacable Enemy within us" as well as "the present Threats, and great Preparations of a Successfull Potent Enemy without us." The purported scheme of the Gunpowder Plotters - to dig tunnels under the House of Parliament and blow it up from below, literally becoming "the secret Underminers of our Quiet," as "A Moderate Expedient for Preventing of Popery" (1680) described them - gave vividness and legitimacy to such anxious imaginings, and haunted anti-Catholic discourses throughout the century.
From a Protestant perspective, what was particularly objectionable about Catholics was that they directed their animosity against their own kind. (The same might be said, of course, for the very Protestant vituperations from which I will now quote, but their authors did not see it that way). Comparing the days of Purim to the Gunpowder Plot to the detriment of the latter, for instance, George Hakewill explained that the "powder treason" was worse because "there [Purim], Pagans and Infidels, Persians and Amalakites conspired against the Israelites: heere native English and professed Christians, (though in truth most unworthy of the name of either) conspired against their own Countreymen." Similarly, fifty years later Andrew Marvell explained that papists were worse than pagans, Jews, or Muslims, because "these were all, as I may say, of another Allegiance and if Enemys, yet not Traytors." Catholicism, in contrast, claimed to be a branch of Christianity yet flouted its principles; worse, the pope wanted to police the Christianity of others, labeling them heretics. In 1680, Henry Care complained in even more vivid terms about the way Catholics turned their animus against other Christians rather than against "infidels," assumed here to be an appropriate target of antagonism. "There are swarms of Catholick Bog-Trotters, desperate Monsieurs, roaring Bullies, and Atheistical Swaggerers in all Corners of the Town, that no doubt had rather be Riffling their Neighbours, and Cutting of Throats by Surprize here at home, than venturing their rotten Carkasses in the field against the dreadful Black Folks of the Land of Fez." On the one hand, Care associated murderous Catholics with foreigners, the Irish ("bog-trotters") and French ("monsieurs"). The difference and inferiority of the Irish, often associated with their Catholicism, was already sometimes understood as racial; that is, as a matter of blood. This racialization would gain momentum in the following centuries. On the other hand, the whole thrust of Care's passage is to censure Catholics for assaulting their neighbors "here at home," rather than killing "dreadful black folks" elsewhere, which, he assumed, was an acceptable, indeed laudable, activity. All of these texts presume that it is appropriate to turn against those who are unlike you but "unnatural" to turn against your own kind. Yet they also articulate their fear that Catholics are unnatural in just this way; they are natives, Christians, neighbors here at home as well as traitors and murderers.
The widespread interest in domestic insubordination and familial murder provided polemicists with a rich stock of images and terms for describing what I have called elsewhere the "dangerous familiar." Drawing on this stock, Protestant polemicists persistently constructed Catholics as domestic insubordinates: servants who served two masters, or treacherous wives, empowered by their intimacy with their intended victims. One vision of the apocalyptic consequences of the Gunpowder Plot, had it succeeded, prognosticates that "servants had ruled over us: and none could have delivered us, out of their hands: our inheritance had bene turned to the straungers, and our houses, to the Aliants." Even the pope, who usually stood for the strangers and aliens who would enter in once the unruly servants opened the doors, is cast as himself an insubordinate. In 1602, Andrew Willet related that "Professing himself a servant, [the pope] doth his own will and not his masters"; "The Araignement and Execution of the Late Traytors" (1606) concurred that "servus servorum saies hee that would be Dominus dominorum servant of servants, that would be maister of maisters." Such descriptions of the pope cast him as the insubordinate dependent who haunts so many English stories of domestic violence and disorder. Representations of the Catholic threat were thus simultaneously stories of national and of domestic betrayal, emphasizing undermining from within as much as invasion from without. Hakewill, for instance, fantasized that if the Gunpowder Plot had succeeded, "wee should neither have lyen quietly in our beds, nor have sate quietly at our tables, nor have walked quietly in our streets, nor have travelled quietly in our waies, much lesse have mett quietly in our temples but every place would have beene full of feare and danger and horror and bloud." The familiar is not always more frightening or contemptible than the strange, nor did early modern English culture inevitably locate threat in the known rather than the unknown. But in the particular situation of Catholics and Catholicism in early modern England, familiarity, similarity, and proximity were not a comfort.
Catholicism was also associated with the unfamiliar and foreign, as Care's reference to "bog-trotters" and "monsieurs" suggests. This association offered the reassurance that Catholicism was not a residual English belief and practice, at war with a newer arrival, but rather something that people believed elsewhere and tried feloniously to import into England. From this perspective, the threat lay not in local, known Catholics but in what Caroline Hibbard terms "the specter of international Catholicism, both monolithic and conspiratorial." This specter haunting the English Protestant imagination corresponded to the real power of Catholic countries, especially if they mobilized English Catholics as a potential fifth column, creating an alliance between "Rome's Rogues abroad, and Plotters here at home," to quote a 1679 broadside. The part of English Catholics that enabled them to conspire with foreigners could be understood as itself foreign; John Baxter, for instance, referred to the "Italianated" hearts of English Catholics. In some texts, all that was wrong with Catholicism could be summed up as "Roman"; in others, "the Spanish Inquisition" stood for all of the violence, injustice, and corruption associated with (and displaced onto) Catholicism.
The focus for xenophobia shifted from year to year, depending on both conflicts and potential alliances. The fear and hatred of Spain, for instance, was aroused as much by Mary Tudor's marriage to Philip II and the proposed "Spanish match" between the infanta and Prince Charles as by the Armada. The court under the Stuart kings became a focus for anxieties about this international Catholicism because, according to Miller, "the Catholicism of the court tended to be alien and cosmopolitan; the court was full of foreigners and Irish." Here, too, the privileged position of Catholics in relation to other nonconformists provoked more hostile antagonism because it made them seem more powerful. Viewed as participants in international (indeed, antinational) communities and conspiracies, Catholics could never be viewed as loyal and trustworthy members of the English nation. Thus their recourse to a constellation of leaders outside of England, which distinguished them from other religious nonconformists, also made them more suspect.
At the level of conduct, this desire to associate Catholicism with strangers made "unknown Catholics" more vulnerable to attack, more likely to be singled out in moments of crisis. According to Robin Clifton, for instance, "many alarms centred on Catholics who were strangers locally, often because they were refugees or vagrants. When a disturbance centred upon Catholics known to the locality they were almost invariably recusants living just beyond the town affected... Where the Catholics suspected of conspiracy fell into neither category, the reason for alarm was usually some striking and alarming departure from their customary behaviour." Perceiving Catholics as foreign and unfamiliar rendered volatile an intransigent yet dormant anti-Catholicism through the animating power of xenophobia.