Joshua! Oh my goodness, why have I never thought of this before? Look at all the crazy stories on that guy. GREAT material.

Complicated Allies: Some Closing Remarks

When I chose four months ago to spend the semester studying fairies, I received mixed reactions from those I told. Some agreed that if I had to do a term project, this was the way to go, and others could not imagine how I intended to occupy myself for weeks in pursuit of a subject that does not exist. To the latter, I can say proudly that there has been no shortage of material.

I have discovered, you see, that fairies do exist. Not in the way that I exist, or this computer, but in the way that a story exists even if its book is burned. Perhaps they are more like to hope and faith than to actual creatures, but are they the less powerful for that?

I chose fairies as the central theme of my supernatural study because they appealed to that residual wonder left over from a childhood when I would wrap myself in gauzy scarves and become a fairy myself for several hours at a time, but I have spent enough time in fantasy literature that I did not expect my study to deal with flitting folk with baby faces. However, even I was a bit taken aback to find myself sorting through books of witchcraft to find a recommended resource. Early modern fairies were made for grown-ups. They were devious, self-centered, and sinister, and though there was a draw in the element of creepiness, there was also a kind of disappointment. These scheming creatures were not the granters of childhood wishes. I called them relatable because they were the most humanoid of supernatural beings, but they represented those characterics of humanity most hope with the supernatural to escape.

At the beginning of this project, I found so much material emphasizing the break from medieval to Victorian fairies that the contrast made the former appear veritable villains. In time, however, I realized that this was not the case. The fairies popular into the early modern period grew out of the Dark Ages, but it was the age, not the creature, that was dark. If fairies could not be trusted, it was because they were wild, the original free spirits. They enjoyed the same luxuries as humans without the guilt imposed by the Church and other social restrictions, innocent hedonists.

And, as many rebels through the ages, fairies were champions of the misfits and downtrodden of society. One point recurring throughout my research was their closeness to the female world. The fairy culture was driven by feminine power and pursuits, offering a sense of purpose to women whose labors were scorned in the male-centered early modern world. Even queens of the supernatural realm were interested in human children and midwives, and hobgoblins were always willing to help poor maids with the housework. Fairies were also allies of the impoverished. Certain stories show them giving gold and marketable items to poor men trying to support families, with no suggestion of payment in return.

If fairies were frightening, it was because they were powerful and untethered; they had no need to conform to societal norms. But what made them frightening also welcomed them to those in need of their support - of what use is a weak ally? Primary source studies revealed an overall positive idea toward fairies in the early modern period. They were fascinating and helpful, and if many would not precisely admit to believing in them, no one was eager to see them leave.

I like to think that I have remained a friend of the fairies, if not a fool for them, throughout the duration of this project. I have tried to reflect in these entries some of their multidimensionality, that trait which makes them more humanesque and relatable than almost any other supernatural creature. They are needy, selfish, and conniving, but they are also lovers of life, good to those who need good, and bringers of wealth and healing. They appeal to that nonconformist part of human nature which believes that happiness should be enjoyed and good should be rewarded. Above all, they are a taste of something more in a world of sameness, and that is healing enough to many.


Bibliography:

1. Ashliman, D.L. Fairy Lore: A Handbook. Westwood, CT: Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc., 2006.

2. "Avalon." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 9 December 2008. 16 November 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avalon.

3. Howard, Skiles and Gail Kern Paster, eds. "Natural and Supernatural - Fairy Belief." A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 1999. 307-324.

4. "Morgan Le Fay." Arthurian Legend. Patrick Taylor, 2004-2007. 19 November 2008 http://www.arthurian-legend.com/more-about/more-about-arthur-8.php.

5. "Morgan le Fay." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 5 December 2008. 19 November 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morgan_Le_Fay.

6. "Pan (mythology)." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 10 December 2008. 2 December 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pan_(mythology).

7. Purkiss, Diane. At the Bottom of the Garden: A Dark History of Fairies, Hobgoblins, and Other Troublesome Things. Washington Square, NY: New York University Press, 2000.

8. "Robin Goodfellow." Answers.com. 2008. 2 December 2008 http://www.answers.com/topic/robin-goodfellow.

9. "Satyr." Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. 4 December 2008. 2 December 2008 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satyr.


Other recommended resources:

1. Briggs, K.M.. The Fairies In English Tradition and Literature. London: The University of Chicago Press, 1967.

2. Wilby, Emma. "The Witch's Familiar and the Fairy in Early Modern England and Scotland." BNET. October 2000. 12 December 2008 http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2386/is_2_111/ai_69202448.


Primary sources:
(in order of entry)

1. The Tempest. William Shakespeare. Dir. Kenneth Kay. Blowing Rock Stage Company, 2008.

2. Corbett, Richard. "A Proper New Ballad Entitled The Fairies Farewell: Or God-A-Mercy Will." 1620. A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Howard, Skiles and Gail Kern Paster, eds. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 1999. 314-316.

3. Aubrey, John. From The Remains of Gentilism and Judaism and The Wiltshire Fairies. 1688, 1686. A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Howard, Skiles and Gail Kern Paster, eds. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 1999. 310-313.

4. From Robin Goodfellow, His Mad Pranckes and Merry Jests. 1639. "Folklore." Shakespeare's Life and Times. Internet Shakespeare Editions, University of Victoria: Victoria, BC, 2001-2005. 2 December 2008 http://internetshakespeare.uvic.ca/Library/SLT/ideas/folklore.html.

5. Pitt, Moses. An account of one Ann Jefferies, now living in the county of Cornwall... 1696. Early English Books Online. Appalachian State University Library. 3 December 2008 http://eebo.chadwyck.com/search/full_rec?SOURCE=pgthumbs.cfg&ACTION=ByID&ID=11878742&FILE=../session/1228949127_5635&SEARCHSCREEN=CITATIONS&SEARCHCONFIG=var_spell.cfg&DISPLAY=AUTHOR.

The Wonderful Cures of One Ann Jefferies

So far I have covered the ideas of a literary genius, a nostalgic poet, an open-minded skeptic, and a propagandist. As I am nearing the end of this discussion, I would like to take the opportunity to explore the writing of one enthusiastic believer, a man I expect would clap his hands for Tinker Bell to this day. His name is Moses Pitt, and his story is An Account of One Ann Jefferies (1696), the tale of a woman of his household and her supposed communion with the fairies.

Pitt's account is unique compared to most of those I have read about in my research. Rather than condemn Ann as a witch, he supports her and encourages readers to do the same. In his four page introduction to the Reverend Dr. Edward Fowler, he emphasizes repeatedly the truthfulness of his incredible tale as well as his assurance that Ann's circumstances are proof of the wonderful works of God. He admonishes the reverend that though he will be tempted not to believe, it is through unbelief sin first crept into the world. For a moment, we may forget that fairies, not Christ, are the subject at hand.

All assertions aside, Pitt's credibility is questionable. His account, like Aubrey's, is based on the recollections of childhood. Ann was an apprentice to his wealthier family when he was young, and though she still lives, seventy years old, at the time of his writing, she will not aid him in the popularizing of her tale. (She does not wish to deal a second time with public opinion.) Further, all but one of the citizens who may have remembered her circumstances have since died. In short, the story belongs entirely to Moses Pitt.

He describes Ann as a bold girl who "would venture at those Difficulties and Dangers that no Boy would attempt." Yet she is also of a devoted nature, attending church during her ordeals as often as she has the strength. When she is nineteen years old, she is visited by six short-statured fairies wearing green. The details of this first encounter catch my interest. Again reminiscent of Aubrey's story, these are of the shrunken new breed of fae kind, but they wear the traditional green, a recurring detail in many accounts and probably significant of innate wildness. Also, Ann's visitors do not spring upon her within a human house, but while she is sewing in the garden. Perhaps it is her tomboyish streak, the not-quite-tame in her, that makes her a likely candidate for fairy visitors. The timing may not be random either. Ann is an unmarried woman on the verge of adulthood (she could leave her master's home at twenty-one), so the fairies' visit comes across even as a coming-of-age story.

Ann initially reacts with a convulsive fit. She then continues for weeks to have fits and physical sickness so great she cannot walk, and to cry out periodically of figures passing through her window. Pitt describes her as becoming "even as a Changeling." It is the sacrifice of a saint. For shortly thereafter, she begins to exhibit mysterious prescience and healing powers. The first instance of this occurs when Pitt's mother forces Ann to stay outside while she is away in order to keep her from falling into the fire or otherwise hurting herself in her distressed state. While she it out, the woman trips and hurts her foot, which the fairies inform Ann is because she forced her to do something against her will. Ann bears no grudge. Without the aid of salve or ointment, she heals the woman. The word spreads, and others begin to seek her out as if she were an apostle. During this period, she takes no food with others, but is fed by the fairies in her own room.

We have already seen that healing powers are a common theme in fairy stories. Ann's tale is distinct from that of most other English healers in that she seeks no material gain. She does not charge for her services, yet always has enough on which to get by.

Unfortunately, generosity is not enough. As Ann's popularity increases, word reaches nearby ministers, who visit her in order to persuade her that her consorts are demons. Ann, wishing no evil, is torn. Twice she ignores the call of her fairies (unheard by any but herself), but at the third cry she runs to them. Soon after they warn her that she will be arrested, and that she must not fear. Sure enough, when her jailers order her food withheld from her, she continues to thrive on the fairies' sustenance. She remains in jail for some time but is never brought to trail, and is eventually discharged on the condition that she not return to her former household. She moves in with Pitt's widowed aunt, continues to perform her strange cures, and eventually marries and lives to a ripe old age.

Pitt asserts that he has gives no personal reflection on any passage, but leaves the events to speak for themselves. In the opening letter, however, he makes it very clear what he thinks of Ann's gifts. His argument is legitimate: why would the devil heal? If her powers are real, they are good, and Pitt does not doubt the former. He cannot admit to ever having witnessed the fairies himself, but others have, and the powers are there, and that is enough for him. He is eager to swallow it all. Of course, we cannot discount the element of the propagandist here either. Pitt shows no concern for the fact that Ann does not want her story shared, and he uses the tale in much the same way that others use monstrous baby pamphlets, as a religious admonition.

The difference in this is that Ann's story really does appear "wonderful." Her works are kind and her motives are pure. She visits the chapel as well as the fairies. This has all the feel of a saint-making with none of the stuffiness. Her green-clad fairies are unseen and untamed, dancing with her outside, sending her into fits by their very presence, yet they are also healers and protectors. They feed her and help others by her hand. They are not safe, but they are good.

As an aside, this may be my favorite account I have read so far. It has everything a good story needs: danger, disease, an unconventional heroine, and rewarded goodness, all pulled together by the unifying spice of magic to make sense of something so strange as a happy ending.

Aspects of Robin Goodfellow

The picture above, taken from the title page of a pamphlet entitled Robin Good-fellow, His Mad Prankes and Merry Jests (1639), is one of the only early modern woodcuts that I have found pertaining to fairies, and it is everywhere. Where Puck is mentioned, at least in earlier contexts, it is bound to show up. However, it is not only for its popularity, but for its portrayal of early modern fairies' characteristics, that I find this piece worthy of closer inspection.

I do not think I have to belabor the proof that what we have here is a very pre-Victorian rendition of the fairy. Robin is not small, he is not winged, and he is certainly not childlike. He is large and imposing, towering over the tiny figures that dance around him. His goat-like horns, ears, and hindquarters suggest a number of other references. One is Pan, the Greek god of fields and groves, connected with fertility and the season of spring. Another is the Greek satyr. Satyrs have fierce physical appetites and are traditionally associated with male sexuality. As the figure shown here, the satyr is often portrayed in Greek vase art with an erect penis. Lastly, the cloven-hoofed motif is reminiscent of one common view of Satan. These combined associations give Robin an image of earthy power. He is intimately connected with the natural world without being restrained by it. His expression is appropriately merry, but he is a force to be reckoned with; he is not a tame creature.

Even so, a second look shows signs of his amiability. In his left hand he holds a broom, symbolic of his role as household helper to those who please him. Some sources actually list "Robin Goodfellow" as the domestic name of Puck, used by those who encountered him in this guise. In the figure's right hand is a candle. This may simply relate to the idea that he does his work at night, when none can see him. On the other hand, it may refer to one of his less friendly roles, that of will o' the wisp, the phantom light that misleads travelers lost in woods and bogs.

The image is, like Puck himself, highly ambiguous. It does not even relate to anything in the accompanying text, where Robin is described as the son of Oberon by a human girl. One source suggests that it may be an adapted illustration of a witches' sabbath, again pulling in pagan associations. However, I am not sure the comparison is so obscure as this would make it out to be. Could Robin's faun-like appearance relate to his reputation as a half-breed, for instance? Also included in the text is the typical brownie legend, that giving him a waistcoat instead of a bowl of fresh milk will cause him to leave one's house forever. It is as though, despite Puck's willing domesticity, he shuns any attempts to further civilize him, preferring instead a more natural, even animal, mode of life. His satyr's appearance is in perfect line with this notion. The tiny black figures may be witches or they may be only dancers. The animals could be familiars or only the woodland creatures over which Puck rules. All is open to interpretation.

A curious variance between this and other ambiguous works we have studied is that its ambiguity was probably not planned. This illustration does not open a great work of literature, but a penny pamphlet for commoners. Its artist's primary aim was likely to catch the attention of potential buyers through a tantalizing combination of the familiar and the controversial. Four hundred years later, the result is a telling example of what fairies meant to the lower class people of early modern England. They were powerful. They were sexual. They were not a far cry from demonic. But they could also be helpful and, perhaps more importantly, titillating, stimulating that thrill in the sensational and slightly dangerous.

(Picture courtesy of http://internetshakespeare.uvic.ca/Library/SLT/ideas/folklore.html.)

John Aubrey and Plausibility

Fairy beliefs were going through a definite transition period during the Renaissance. For the majority of this project, I have been focusing on fairy lore, a primarily oral tradition that may not have been fully believed even among those who popularized the legends. In higher circles, the existence of fairies was likely to be discounted entirely, for the expanding use of the scientific approach did not allow much credit to the figures of stories. On the other hand, fairies continued to permeate common thought. John Aubrey, an eccentric antiquarian and collector of obscurities, offers one open-minded attempt to reconcile reason with popular belief.

Here I would like to touch upon a couple of Aubrey's works, especially The Wiltshire Fairies, written in 1686, for a firsthand look at the conflicts faced by would-be believers in the early modern years. There is something charming about Aubrey. He prides himself on rationality and examines fairies from an informed perspective, but that does not change the fact that he is exploring a facet of lore few admit to believing. (We must recall here that all periods have considered fairies a thing of the past - backwards, as it were.) But Aubrey will no more quickly discount them than believe in them without proof. Scientifically speaking, they are innocent until proven guilty.

Aubrey attempts to separate the misunderstood from the truly unexplainable. In The Wiltshire Fairies, he describes a fairy encounter given him by his curate, one Mr. Hart, in Latin grammar school. I find it interesting that the storyteller is not one of Aubrey's fellow students, but a member of the clergy, and, presumably, a man of some education. It is possible that he hopes to impress the children or to frighten them into obedience, an idea fitting with current beliefs regarding the Catholic clergy's use of fairies, but there is no clear reason for his doing so. According to his tale, he was committing no worse sin than wandering over the downs when a group of "pigmies" (Paster 312) surrounded him, singing, dancing, and causing a general ruckus. He fell down in his amazement, and they "pinched him all over, and made a sort of quick humming noise all the time" (312). Then they left, and in the morning, he woke to find himself in the middle of a fairy ring (mushrooms, dead grass, or other natural material growing in a circular formation).

Because Aubrey is writing from memory, and because we do not have the context of the curate's tale, we can only guess at his reasons for it. Maybe he passed out drunk in a field and used the fairies to excuse his absence. Maybe he is cautioning the boys against traipsing around the moors at night. Maybe he merely enjoys a good story. At any rate, Aubrey is a skeptic. He and his roommate travel to the rings several nights later to investigate the matter for themselves, and they find nothing. But even in this, Aubrey retains his open mind, for "indeed it is said they seldom appear to any persons who go to seek for them" (312).

This is one of the great troubles in objectively studying fairy lore. In another of Aubrey's works, The Remains of Gentilism and Judaism (1688), he tells of a laboring man, Sir Bennet Hoskyns, who found a nine pence daily on his way to work. His wife noted the inexplicable addition to their finances and worried that he had acquired it dishonestly. He explained the situation to her, but he never found nine pence again. Aubrey also speaks of the scientist and antiquarian Elias Ashmole, who claimed that in a certain fairy mound, those preparing for weddings, etc., could find spits, crockery, and other things. They could use this on the condition that they returned it to the mound afterwards. So we see that fairies do not appear to those who search for them, that they will only help humans on the condition of secrecy, and that what they lend must not be kept. Let us humor the idea that fairies do exist. If these things were true, they would be extremely difficult to verify. It is a built-in safety for the plausibility of the legends. Though evidence may never be found, they cannot be entirely disproven.

Aubrey realizes this difficulty and confronts what he can. In the case of the fairy circles, he speculates that they are the result of underground gases which must force their way out of the narrow opening of a conical hollow, and, in their escape, form a second cone the inverse of the first. At the top of this second cone grows a mold which affects the grass above it. As a matter of fact, he is not far wrong, and his ideas show a desire to keep a rational perspective, though he is victim to his own wonder.

As an ending note to The Wiltshire Fairies, Aubrey also speaks of a tradition among his great uncles and his father's estate manager, old men at the time, of an unnaturally intuitive child during the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485. He cannot remember whether the boy was mentally retarded. At the time of the battle, the child began to play with two wheat sheaves, beating them together and crying, "Now for Henry!" or "Now for Richard!" from time to time. Supposedly at the very moment of the battle's end, he shouted, "Now for King Henry, Richard is slain!" hailing the first Tudor monarch without verifiable knowledge of his triumph (313). Aubrey toys with the idea that the boy could have been a changeling, and here the suggestion appears to be his own. In the end, his love of the extraordinary subtly steps in front of hard reason.

John Aubrey's studies give a snapshot of shifting fairy beliefs in a couple of ways. Not only does he display a personal inclination for separating the explainable from the unknown, but the studies themselves give insight into fairies' changing identity. In the older story of the psychic child, the subject matter is serious, almost morbid. The child's uncanny knowledge is of war, death, and a new monarchy. In the more recent account of Mr. Hart, Aubrey describes the fairies' antics as annoying and little more. The people that taunt Mr. Hart are also undersized, characteristic of a later breed of fairy, and tricksters rather than powerful spirits. Already, in the mid-1600s, the stories themselves were slipping from the fairies' hold.

(A Midsummer Night's Dream: Texts and Contexts. Ed. Gail Kern Paster and Skiles Howard. pp. 310-313)

(Picture courtesy of http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/45/John_Aubrey.jpg.)

Real and Becoming

When my boyfriend inquired into my reading earlier today, and I informed him that I was reading The Witch of Edmonton, the first thing he asked was, "So is it a real witch?" Good question. I had just begun Act II, and I could not tell him. A familiar included in the character list seems to imply "real" supernatural action, but at the beginning of the second act, Mother Sawyer appears to be no more than a weary old woman. If our studies this semester have taught me anything, it is that the line between being and seeming is questionable, and I could not pass judgment.

I know now that Elizabeth Sawyer is indeed a witch, but my hesitation in bestowing the title was well-founded: she was not at the time Clayton asked. In her first entrance, she bemoans her undeserved reputation, claiming that her fellow citizens "go about to teach" her how to be a witch by goading her to curses with their constant accusations. To be fair, she is not exactly the spirit of courtesy and longsuffering, but she may have been once; we enter her story too late to tell. At the point we meet her, she is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Years of distrust have made her untrustworthy.

We are given only a couple of pages in which to pity Mother Sawyer, but it is enough. She is unfairly judged, and dangerously so, for her time. It is her cursing that brings the devil upon her, but it is persecution that brings the cursing. "Tis all one To be a witch as to be counted one," as she puts it. People will believe what they want to believe. For a woman accused of witchcraft, however, those beliefs could be deadly. Endangered by her fellow people, it is small wonder Sawyer should turn to the devil for "protection."

This suggests an interesting third element to the being/seeming issue. We must also deal with "becoming." A thing which holds power in our minds holds power; it does not matter whether it warrants the power we give it. Part of the draw of the supernatural is that it does not have to be real to be kinetic. In Mother Sawyer's case, she becomes what she seems to be. That is, seeming leads to being. I find her occult powers to be as much a punishment on her accusers for their persecution as on herself for her cursing. A misplaced belief can be a dangerous thing. Now, more so than in earlier works we read, we glimpse something that is not fate, but a terrifying human power to create what it will.

A World of Her Own

Diane Purkiss brings up an interesting point, particularly in light of the literature we have been discussing this semester, regarding the gender specificity of fairy stories. In the Renaissance, as now, fairies were women's territory. The majority of fairy lore revolved around things like childbirth, children, and caring for the sick and the dead - feminine areas of expertise - so men had significantly less leeway into the fairy realm than did women. Nevertheless, to some men the female world of birth and death beckoned with the magic of the unfamiliar.

One position offering men a glimpse into this other world was that of the "cunning" man, a village "counselor, healer, and diviner" who combatted black and reclaimed lost magic (Purkiss 134). This man's implicit interaction with the ill and dying forced him to confront those facets of life normally sealed off to his sex, and, in turn, increased his chances for a fairy encounter. In most stories of men's dealing with fairies, however, there is an underlying current of unease, the sense that the man (more so than women in similar situations) enters territory that may be best left untouched. Often encounters with the fairy queen belittle masculinity; for the fairy realm, in contrast with the outer world, exists under the dominion of woman.

Some men, however, welcome their glimpse into this hidden kingdom. We can see one such example in the case of Andro Man, a Scottish cunning man and one of few men tried for witchcraft. He first encounters the fairy queen when she comes to deliver his mother of a baby when he is a child. At that time she promises him the knowledge to treat and cure all sorts of sickness. He continues to commune with her, and as he grows, she requires sex of him. This is typical of fairy stories - many are highly sexualized - but, of course, the human half of the relationship is usually female. Fairies throughout lore seem to be fascinated with human children (changelings are one example) and to want them for their own, so when a woman gives birth to a fairy's child, the fairy will often try to claim it though the woman does not want to let it go. Andro's case is simpler because he can give the queen babies without any parental attachment. His role is masculine, but his intimacy with the queen offers him special insight into a feminine realm. Not only does he gain the abilities to heal and counter enchantments, but he becomes known especially for his skills in treating women's diseases.

I have mentioned in at least a couple of other entries my fascination with the Renaissance portrayal of women as "other." This idea of a world where man is the outsider, where he must become more like woman in order to thrive, is an intriguing counter. I think I may be beginning to see a trend in the folks with whom fairies sympathize. They root for the underdogs - the weak, impoverished, and oppressed of society. Perhaps much of their reputation for darkness comes from the fact that their stories appear most often among those whose lives are dark to begin with. To those people, they may well have brought light. At a time when women hardly had a voice, the other world gave them power. Whether that world was a fantasy was irrelevant, so long as they believed in it.

Now I am curious. Did stories of fairyland spring up among quiet women whose unspoken desires wove their way into their tales? Or was fairyland's feminine reputation planted by men whose opinion of women mixed awe and disgust? Either way, it is clear that the original fairies were a thing of female empowerment.